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A' ciaradh mu àird nam beann.
A' ghrian a' tèarnadh do'n chnoc,
Soills' òir air choille gach bachd ;
Mise 'falbh an lòin 'a'm thosd,
Lionmhor m'ioghnadh, mòr mo thlachd :
'Bhi 'cluinntinn coʻ-sheirm nan grds
Ag éiridh o fhàrdaich a' chaoil,
Taing 'ga dhiol do Righ nan righ,
Le rùn cridh' o dhream gun ghaoid.
'S ionmhuinn leam sud 'nuair theid tàmh
Air gniomh nach drd-chuiseach glòir,
Iall chadha 'ga tarruing siar
Roi'n fhear liath 's a ghluasad fòil.
An sagart 's an t-athar gràidh
Ag èuladh troi'n bhlàr leis féin
Gu bruaich an iomal an raoin,
No 'ghàrradh beag chraobh nan seud ;
A chòmhradh r'a Dhia le cliù,
Gu crabhach, dùrachdach, teann ;
A chionn gu bheil a chròilein cruinn
Seall mu'm faic a làithean ceann.

GUTH NA CAOMH THROCAIR.

'S milis 's an òg mhaduinn sèimh-ghaoth air mòr bheanna,
Ag osnaich sa' mhòintich, 's a' monhhur air falbh;
Is òrbhuidh' an ceud-ghath tha 'lasadh o'n ghréin
'S an Ear, a’s i 'g éiridh mar threun-fhear fo 'airm.
O! 's milis an caochan tha 'sruthadh gun traoghadh,
'S le caithream a' caochladh a chùrs' measg nan gleann;
Is aoibhinn an t-soillse tha 'seòladh feadh oidhche
A' mharaich' fo ainneart, air faontradh feadh thonn.
Ach 's milse gun choimeas, a Dhé, guth do chaoimhneis,
Air m'anam a' boillsgeadh mar dhrùchd air an fhonn;
Le ùr-sgeul is àghmhoire, beath' agus slàinte,
A dh'fhuadaich gach sgàil dhorch' a shàraich mi trom.
O seadh! 's maith is eol domh, ro-chaoimhneil ga m'chòmhnadh
Mar chlos i am mòr ghuth 'bha ceartas a' seirm;
A' cluinntinn an drduigh dhòirt aingeal na tròcair
Ioc-shlàinte na m' leòntaibh thug sòlas gun seirbh'.
A's daonnan na m' chluasaibh, 's mi 'seòladh air chuantaibh,
Gu'n cluinn mi'n fhuaim cheudna 'an soirbheas, 's an tonn;
A'dusgadh o chagailt gach eibhl’ann am aignibh,
Ga m'lasadh gu tagairt a' gheallaidh nach meall.

"Tis the still voice of Him who expird on the mountain,
And breath'd out for sinners his last dying groan;
His voice who on Calvary open’d the fountain,
Of water to cleanse, and of blood to atone.
That voice, Oh believer! shall cheer and protect thee,
When the cold chill of death thy frail bosom invades;
At its sound shall the Day-Star arise to direct thee,
And gild with refulgence the valley of shades.

1

CULLODEN.*

The battle is fought on the bleak heather moor,
And the shield from the Gael has been wrenched in the stour ;
The sword has been broke in the grasp of the brave,
And the blood of the valiant is shed by the slave;

The kilt and the plaid that adorned the free
By Cumberland's horsemen are trod on the lea,
While the leal-hearted clansmen, whose limbs they arrayed,
On the battle-field mangled and gory are laid.
In the land of the mountains are wailing and woe ;
Its bonneted chieftains are vanquished and low ;
The warriors that life in defeat would not hold,
On the hill of Culloden are lifeless and cold.
Farewell, royal Charles ! the conflict is o'er :
Thy ancestors' kingdom no strife can restore ;
Thine essay with the clans of my love has been grand,
The fame of whose prowess for ever shall stand.

* Dr MʻLeod, in giving his thrilling narrative of the rising of the Highlanders in 1745 in the “Gaelic Messenger," of which he was Editor, concluded his account of the battle of Culloden by giving the short but touching Poem of which the English is a translation. While on the subject of Culloden in connection with ?45 we cannot resist the impulse of giving the following spirited lines, published some years ago in the “ Inverness Advertiser,” as a suitable inscription for the proposed Monument to be erected on Culloden Moor, to perpetuate the memory of the unfortunate but valiant clansmen who fell on that memorable day.

“Mu'n cuairt an t-sléibh 'tha fo m' bhonn

Tha iomadadh sonn euchdach,

'Se guth ciùin an Ti rinn air Calbhari iobairt (Cha'n ann arson fhirein) d'a spiorad 's d’a fheoil, O’n do ruith uisge.coisrigt' a's fuil a chuir casgadh Air cruaidh éigh a' cheartais ag agairt a chòir. Tha'n guth so a chriosduidh, mar shòlas 's mar sgiath dhuit, 'N uair tha'm bàs 'teachd a t'iarruidh gu d'chaol leabai'fhuair; Reult na Maidne ag éiridh aig fuaim a ghuth éibhinn, 'S le òr-bhrat ag eudach gleann iargait nan uaigh.

CUIL-FHOD AIR.

Tha'm blàr air a chur air monadh an fhraoich,
Tha'n sgiath air a spìonadh o ghuaillibh nan laoch ;
Bhristeadh an claidheamh ann an lamhaibh nan saoi,
'S tha fuil nam fear geala fo bhonnaibh nan daoi.
Tha'm breacan 's an t-fhéile leis an d'éideadh na sàir,
Le marcaichibh Shasunn air an saltairt ri làr ;
Tha'n suaicheantas uasal a chòmhdaich na suinn,
R’a fhaicinn 's an àrf haich gun dilleachd, gun loinn.
Ann an dùthaich nam mòr-bheann tha uamhas a's caoidh,
Luchd nam boineid, 's nam breacan cha'n fhaicear a chaoidh,
Na fir ùra bu tréine nach géilleadh 's iad beo,
Air monadh Chùil-f hodair, gun phlosg a's gun deo.
Slàn leat a Thearlaich, chaidh an iomairt le cách ;
Oighreachd do shinnsir, chaidh i dhì ort gu brath,
Thug thu'n oidhirp, 's bu treun i, le gaisgich mo ghràidh ;
'S bi’dh iomradh 'ur cruadail air a luaidh gu là bhràth.

A thuit a sios air an fhonn

Le buillean a's trom chreuchdan;
'S na'm faigheadh iad cothrom nan lann

A tharruinn ie'n teann fhéithean,
Bu lionmhor colunn a's ceann

A sgaradh an dream gun éislean;
'S bhiodh a chaochladh a nis 's an rann

R'a aithris mu àm an léirsgrios.
Ach bhuadhaich miosgain a's foill,

'S chaidh laoich na loinn a reubadh;
Mar shamhladh chuireadh mis' a chaoidh

Gach là 's gach oidhch' mar dh'éirich; 'S cluinneam troi' mbeanglain na coill?

Mic Albainn a' caoidh nan Treun Fhear.”

THE GOLDEN AGE-FROM OVID.
How blest the golden age in early times,
When no avenger knew, or punished crimes;
When faith and truth spontaneously prevailed,
When fear or force no happy mind assailed.
No threatening edicts, 'graved in lasting brass,
No trembling culprit heard his sentence pass,
No frowning judge impressed the crowd with awe,
But all were safe without avenging law.
As yet no pines their native mountains leave
To cut in crooked keels the liquid wave ;
No mortals ventured yet to shores unknown,
For all enjoyed the blessings of their own.
No ditches deep yet peaceful towns surround,
No brazen trumpets clang with warlike sound,
No soldier yet, nor shield, nor shining sword,
But peace secure the golden times afford.
The earth itself no toil or culture knew,
But fruits which nature gave luxuriant grow ;
And happy men, with frugal viands blessed,
Delicious cherries from the mountains pressed.
Cornels and berries, which the brambles love,
And acorns from the shady tree of Jove.
In endless spring spontaneous flowers exhale
Their spicy fragrance on the fostering gale ;
The earth unplough'd grows white with bending corn,
Unnumbered fruits each fertile field adorn ;
Now, streams of milk, or floods of nectar flow,

And yellow honey bursts from every bough. What is given on the opposite page was suggested by, and written in imitation of Ovid's“ Golden age.”

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor, old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

LINN AN AIGH.

B’i linn an digh a bh'ann 's na làithibh céin Le sonas àraidh, mar a dân' an sgeul ; Bha sìth a's suaimhneas seasmhach, buan gach tràth, Le càirdeas aobhach, caoimhneil, gràdhach, tlàth. Ceilg, creach, no ainneart cha robh ann ni's mò, Bha sannt a dhith, 's bha 'n cridhe fior, gun ghò; 'S an ceumaibh ceartais bha gach neach a' triall, Le sochair nàdurr', 's ann an càirdeas fial. Cha robh 's an linn ud lagh gu diogh'ltas trom, Bha caomh-lagh nàduir ceart a' tàmh 's gach com ; 'S da réir gach uair bhiodh beus an t-sluaigh gu glic, 'S cha bhiodh na mòid 'g an gairm gu còmhail tric. 'N sin cha do chleachd iad a bhi 'teachd le fiamh A chluinntinn reachd nam breitheamh reachdail, dian ; No comhghair uallach inneal b'fhuaimneach srann, A thional sluaigh gu còmhrag cruaidh nan lann. Mar so gu tèaruint', suaimhneach, sèimh bha'n tàmh Gun sgàth, gun chùram ac' roimh ionnsuidh nàmh ; 'S an luaidh gu sìor air euchd an sinnsear treun, Fo iomradh dhàn nam pong a b'àirde gleus. 'N an tìr, gun fhògradh, bhiodh an còmhnuidh buan, Mu'n d' fhuair iad miagh air cearnaibh cian a' chuain ; 'S mu'n d' ghabh an Gàidheal cead gu bràth le bròn Do“ ghlinn a ghràidh 's an d'fhuair e àrach òg," 'S do thìr an àigh, nam fraoch-bheann àrd 's nan gleann, 'S nan sraithean aibhneach, dreacht' le coill nan crann. Gach àite tric dha dh'àraich sliochd an fhéidh, Le siol na h-earb' gu pailt air leirg gach sléibh, 'San sår-iasg rioghail, 's lann-bhreac 's riomhach snuadh, Aig bruachaibh àithean cian o thràigh a' chuain ; 'S an spréidh gu cuanda, bliochdar, guanach, dill', Air machair ùror feòir bu shùgh'or càil. Le cluantaibh réidh do'm b' fheartar éibhinn snuadh, 'S an comhair sìl bu shaoibhir diol do'n t-sluagh ; Mar so bha maoin gu saibhir, saor gu'n deoin, 'S an còmhnuidh ghleann cha b'eòl dhoibh ganntar lòin.

ACHUINGE AN DEIRCICH. Gabh truas do bhròn an t-seann duin' f hann, 'S a bhuill air chrith 'ga iomchar chum do theach ; Tha 'làithe ’nis ach beag air teachd gu ceann, Dean còmhnadh ris 's bidh àgh a'd' mhaoin gu beachd.

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