Oyfn veg shteyt a boym,
Shteyt er ayngeboygn,
Ale feygl funem boym
Zaynen zikh tsefloygn.
Dray keyn mayrev, dray keyn mizrekh,
Un der resht - keyn dorem,
Un dem boym gelozt aleyn
Hefker far dem shturem.
Zog ikh tsu der mamen: -her,
Zolst mir nor nit shtern,
Vel ikh, mame, eyns un tsvey
Bald a foygl vern.....
Ikh vel zitsn oyfn boym
Un vel im farvign
Ibern vinter mit a treyst
Mit a sheynem nign.
Zogt di mame: - nite, kind -
Un zi veynt mit trern -
Vest kholile oyfn boym
Mir far froyrn vern.
Zog ikh: -mame, s'iz a shod
Dayne sheyne oygn
Un eyder vos un eyder ven,
Bin ikh mir a foygl.
Veynt di mame: - ltsik, kroyn,
Ze, um gotes viln,
Nem zikh mit a shalikl,
Kenst zikh nokh farkiln.
Di kaloshn tu zikh on,
S'geyt a sharfer vinter
Un di kutshme nem oykh mit -
Vey iz mir un vind mir...
- Un dos vinter-laybl nem,
Tu es on, du shovte,
Oyb du vilst nit zayn keyn gast
Tsvishn ale toyte...
Kh'heyb di fligl, s'iz mir shver,
Tsu fil, tsu fil zakhn,
Hot di mame ongeton
Ir feygele, dem shvakhn.
Kuk ikh troyerik mir arayn
In mayn mames oygn,
S'hot ir libshaft nit gelozt
Vern mir a foygl...
Oyfn veg shteyt a boym,
Shteyt her ayngebogen,
Ale feygl funem boym
Zaynen zikh tsefloygn...
| By the wayside stands a bent tree;
All the birds have flown away,
And the tree stands deserted.
Turn toward the west, turn toward the east,
And the rest--turn toward the south,
And the tree is abandoned to the storm.
I say to momma--"Listen,
If you don't stand in my way,
Then, one--two,
I'll quickly become a bird.
I'll sit in the tree
And lull it during the winter and comfort it
With a lovely tune."
And momma says, "No, child,"
And weeps bitter tears.
"G-d forbid, you might freeze in the tree."
So I say, "Momma, it's a waste of your lovely eyes,
Because before you know it,
I'll be a bird."
And momma cries, and says "Itzik, my Crown,
As G-d would want, take a scarf with you,
Lest you catch cold.
"Put on your galoshes,
It will be a severe winter.
And take your fur hat, too.
Woe is me!
"And wear you warm underwear, foolish child,
Lest you become a guest of the dead."
I lift my wing, but it's hard...
Too many things, too many things
Has momma put on her weak little fledgling.
I look sadly into my momma's eyes;
Her love did not allow me to become a bird.
By the wayside stands a bent tree.
All the birds have flown away,
And the tree stands deserted.
| Clip Location: Not Available |
|
| Know more about this song?
Click here to edit this listing! |
|
Home
Generate a printable version of this song.
