Ei toli toli || Far, far away

Lithuanian folk song, originating from Lithuania Minor region. Performed by: Austėja Agnietė Čepulienė (kanklės) and Skomantas Čepulis (giga). Recorded by: Eglė Girskaitė, Recorded in: Merkinė, Lithuania, 2025 This project is partially funded by Lithuanian Council for Culture. --- Read more about Asutėja and Skomantas here:    • Post   --- This channel documents how Lithuanian folk songs are performed by contemporary singers today. Many of these songs were learned through oral tradition — passed down by family, local communities, or other singers. While some performances reflect traditional styles, others may include personal interpretation. This project does not aim to reconstruct historical authenticity, but to archive how these songs live and evolve now. --- LYRICS: Ei toli toli, Labai toli, Penki broleliai Šieną pjovė. O aš seselė Vienturtėlė, Nešiau broleliams Pusrytėlius. Vienoj rankelėj - Pusrytėliai, Antroj rankelėj - Abrūsėlis. O ir sutikau Lenkų ponus, Nelabai puikius Bajorėlius. Atėmė mano Pusrytėlius, Iš baltų rankų - Abrūsėlį. Susėdo ponai Pietų valgyt, Padavė manei Žirgus laikyt. Ne taip pailsau Belaikydama, Kaip aš pailsau Beverkdama. Aš tuos žirgelius Paleidusi, Pas brolužėlius Nubėgusi: Ei broliai, broliai, Brolyčiai mano, Meskit dalgužius Į šalelę! Meskit dalgužius Į šalelę, Imkit kardužius Į rankelę! Vykitės ponaičius, Lenkų ponus, Nelabai puikius Bajorėlius! Atėmė mano Pusrytėlius, Nuo baltų rankų - Abrūsėlį. Gerai, sesele, Išbėgusi, Jaunas dieneles Išnešusi. Būt jie nuėmę Vainikėlį, Būt jie pašėrę Žirgužėlius. Būt jie nuraitę Kaspinėlius, Būt pasisiūdę Kamanėles. Būt jie numaustę Žiedužėlius, Būt nusikaldę Pentinėlius. TRANSLATION: Far, far away, Very far away, Five dear brothers Were mowing hay. And I, their sister, The only daughter, Was bringing breakfast To my brothers. In one hand — Their morning meal, In other hand — A woven cloth. And then I met Some Polish lords, Not so noble, Just lords in name. They took away My breakfast fare, And from my white hands — The cloth so fair. The lords sat down To feast and dine, But told me to Hold their horses fine. Not so tired From holding reins, As from the tears And bitter pains. I let the horses Go their way, And to my brothers Ran that day: Oh brothers, brothers, My own dear brothers, Lay down your scythes Upon the ground! Lay down your scythes Upon the ground, Take up your swords Into your hands! Chase those lords, The Polish nobles, Not so noble, Just petty gentry! They took away My morning meal, And from my white hands — The woven cloth. Well done, dear sister, For fleeing fast, Saving your youth While it could last. If they had taken Your wreath away, They'd have fed Their horses that day. Had they untied Your ribboned braids, They’d have stitched Their bridle reins. Had they slipped off Your rings so fine, They’d have forged Their spurs to shine.