Cesteiros
Somos pobres cesteiros
Cestos que compoñer
Pobreciños de nosoutros
Que vamos a morrer
Fame que teño, vaia por Dios!
No sei se é fame ou será tos
Entra pola boca e sae polos pés
Porque este mundo foi feito al revés
Cando vamos para a feira
Cos cestas a vender
Chamamos as mulleres
Que nolos veñan a ver
E son bos cestos, e son, son, son
Que como os meus non hai ningún, non
E son bos cestos, míremos ben
Que como os meus xa non os fai ninguén
Cando vamos para a vila pola Calle Real
Quedan as señoritas sentadas nun portal
Elas, moi empolvadas, salen ó mirador
Falando polos dedos palabriñas de amor
E son bos cestos, e son, son, son
Que como os meu non hai ningún, non
E son bos cestos, míremos ben
Que como os meus xa non os fai ninguén
Fame que teño, vaia por Dios!
No sei se é fame ou será tos
Entra pola boca e sae polos pés
Porque este mundo foi feito al revés
Basket Makers
We are poor basket makers
Baskets to compose
Poor us
Who are going to die
Hunger I have, oh my God!
I don't know if it's hunger or maybe a cough
Enters through the mouth and exits through the feet
Because this world was made upside down
When we go to the market
With baskets to sell
We call the women
To come see them
And they are good baskets, they are, they are, they are
Like mine, there are none, none
And they are good baskets, let's look closely
Because like mine, no one makes them anymore
When we go to the town through the Royal Street
The ladies stay seated on a porch
They, very dusty, go out to the balcony
Speaking through their fingers little words of love
And they are good baskets, they are, they are, they are
Like mine, there are none, none
And they are good baskets, let's look closely
Because like mine, no one makes them anymore
Hunger I have, oh my God!
I don't know if it's hunger or maybe a cough
Enters through the mouth and exits through the feet
Because this world was made upside down