Ei toli toli || Far, far away

Описание: Lithuanian folk song.

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.
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Read more about Asutėja and Skomantas here:
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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.
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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.