Текст и перевод песни Alan Stivell - An Alarch - Live

An Alarch - Live

Eun alarc′h, eu alarc'h tramor,
War lein tour moal kastell armor

Dinn, dinn, daoñ! d′an emgann!
O! dinn, dinn, daoñ! d'an emgann ez an!

Neventi vat d'ar vretoned!
Ha mallozh ruz d′ar C′hallaoued!

Erru ul lestr e pleg ar mor,
E oueliuù gwenn gantañ digor

Digouet an aotrou Yann endro,
Digouet eo da ziwall e vro

D'hon diwall doc′h ar C'hallaoued,
A vac′hom war ar Vretoned.

Ken e laosker ur youc'adenn,
A ra d′an aod ur grenadenn;

Ken e son ar menezioù Laz;
Ha froen, ha trid ar gazeg c'hlas;

Ken e kan laouen ar c'hleier,
Kant lev tro-war-do, e pep kêr.

Deut eo an heol, deut eo an hañv;
Deut eo en-dro an aotrou Yann!

An aotrou yann a zo oaotr mat;
Ker prim e droad hag e lagad.

Laezh ur Vreizhadez a sunos,
Ul laezh ken yac′h evel gwin koez

Luc′h a daol e c'hoaf p′hen horell,
Ken e vrumenn an neb a sell.

Pa c'hoari kreñv e tarc′h,
Ken e taouhanter den ha marc'h.

Darc′h atav, dalc'h mat, Aotrou Dug
Dao warne! ai'ta! bug-o! bug!

Neb a droc′h ′vel e troc'htez-te,
N′en deus aotrou nemet Doue!

Dalc'homp, Bretoned, dalc′homp mat!
Arsav na truez! gwad oc'h gwad!

Itron Varia Vreizh, skoaz da vro!
Fest ′erbedenner, fest a vo!

Darev ar foenn, piv a falc'ho?
Darev an ed, piv a vedo?

Ar foenn, an ed, piv a fako?
Ar roue 'gav gantañ′raio.

Dont a ray a-benn ur gaouad,
Gant ur falc′h arc'hant da falc′hat

Gant ur falc'h arc′hant 'n hor bro-ni,
Ha gant ur falz aour da vediñ.

Mar plijje gant ar C′hallaoued
Daoust hag int mank ar Vretoned?

Mar plijje gant 'n aotroui roue,
Daoust hag-eñ eo den pe Zoue?

Skignañ 'ra bleizi Breizh-Izel,
O klevet embann ar brezel,

O klevet ar youc′h, e yudont:
Gant c′hwezh ar Challaoued e reont.

En heñchoù, e-berr e welour
O redek ar gwad evel dour.

Ken 'yey ruz-glaou brusk an houidi,
Hag ar gwasi gwenn o neuiñ.

Muioc′h a dammoù goaf, e skent,
Eget e karnelioù ar vro.

Paotred Bro-C'hall ′lec'h ma kouezhint,
Betek deiz ar varn e c′hourve'int;

Betek deiz ar varn hag ar feustl,
Gant an Trubard a ren ar reustl.

An diveradur eus ar gwez
'Ray dour benniget war e vez!

An Alarch - Live

My love, my overseas love,
On the grey stones of the castle of armor

Come on, come on, girls! to the battle!
Oh! come on, come on, girls! to the battle I'm going!

Long life to the Bretons!
And red death to the French!

A ship arrived on the shore,
With white sails unfurled

Sir John has returned again,
He has returned to defend his country

To defend us from the French,
Who are marching on the Bretons.

A gunshot is fired,
Which shakes the coast like a grenade;

The mountains of Laz tremble;
And the blue mists, and the hoarfrost;

The larks sing merrily,
A hundred times around, in each town.

The sun has come, the summer has come;
Sir John has come back!

Sir John is a good knight;
His foot and his eye are so quick.

He drinks the milk of a Breton woman,
A milk as healthy as old wine

He throws his spear into the sun,
So that it blinds those who look.

When he plays hard on his harp,
Men and horses are enchanted.

Strike always, hold fast, Lord Duke
At them! hit them! bug-o! bug!

Who cuts as you cut,
Has no master but God!

Hold on, Bretons, hold on fast!
No truce! blood for blood!

Our Lady of Brittany, help your country!
Pray hard, pray hard!

Who will reap the hay?
Who will reap the corn?

The hay, the corn, who will harvest it?
The king has it done by others.

He comes at the head of an army,
With a silver sickle to reap it

With a silver sickle in our country,
And with a golden sickle to harvest it.

If it pleases the French
Are they stronger than the Bretons?

If it pleases the lord king,
Is he a man or a God?

The wolves of Lower Brittany are howling,
Hearing the war declared,

Hearing the gunshot, they say:
We smell the French.

In the ditches, soon you will see
The blood running like water.

The chest-armor of the cuirassiers turns red,
And the white horses swim in it.

More pieces of spear-heads are scattered,
Than there are stones in the country.

The French soldiers where they fall,
Will rot until the day of judgment;

Until the day of judgment and the great feast,
With the Trumpeter who leads the revels.

The dew of heaven on their grave!
On their grave!