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'N sin laidhidh mi 'smuainteach' mu bhuaidh Fir-mo-ghaoil,
Teachdair an earraich ait ;
Tha choill' a' seinn duit fàilt'.
Cha luaithe thig an neòinein maoth,
Na thogas tus' am fonn;
Gad threorachadh do'n fhonn !
Leat fein a chuairteir aoibhnich ait,
Dh'fhàiltichinn àm nam blàth;
A' seinn gu grinn gach tràth.
Gu h-àrd air uchd nan tom,
'S co-fhreagraidh e am fonn.
N’an robh thu 'd' thosd, gun chàil, gun toirt,
An còs a' chnuic fo dhubhar ?
Cha dean thu bròn a'd' shiubhal;
'S do chridhe daonnan subhach.
Gu faic do ghleann thu 'rithisd ;
Cha bhi mo dhùil ri pilleadh.
Air astar sgéith ’nar dithis;
'Nuair bhiodh an samhradh 'tighinn.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
Another spring to hail.
Thy sky is ever clear ;
No winter in thy year!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Companions of the spring.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O’er the grave where our hero was buried.
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of to-morrow.
And sinooth'd down his lonely pillow
And we far away on the billow!
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
Fo bhlàth 'n uair thig a' pheasair ghlas,
Fàgaidh tu 'choill gu luath;
Chur fàilt air earrach nuadh.
Do choill-se! eoin nam buadh tha gorm,
Do speur do ghnàth tha blàth,
No geamhradh ann a'd' thràth.
Gu'n siubhlainn leat gach àit,
Còmhlan an earraich ait.
TORRADH SHIR IAIN MOORE.
Cha chualas fonn téise no bròn air a' Mhùr.
Mar thog sinn a chorp air ar guailnibh ;
Druma cha chualas a' bualadh.
Airm chatha a' cladhach na h-àrach,
Lous soluis 'g ar seòladh gu tùrsach.
No ollanachd anairt g’a chuairteach';
Le 'thrusgan cogaidh mu'n cuairt air. B’aithghearr, 's bu tearc an urnuigh chaidh suas,
A's shil sinn na deòir gu sàmhach,
A's buairte mu theachd an là màireach.
'S mar bha sinn gu truagh 'ga dealbhadh, Gu'n deanadh coigrich a saltairt le fuath,
Agus sinn' air a' chuan a' seòladh.
Air an uaigh so suidhe 'ga chàineadh ;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
That the foe was sullenly firing-
From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
But we left him alone in his glory.
Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
* Lady Elizabeth, youngest daughter of Archibald, Second Earl of Argyle, was married to Lachlan Cattanach Maclean of Duart. It is evident from what followed that their marriage was not a happy one ; for Maclean, determined to get rid of his wife, left her on a rock in the Sound of Mull to perish by the rising tide. She was rescued, however, by a boat's crew who had heard her piercing cries, and was conveyed in safety to Inverary Castle. Tradition says that Maclean announced to the Argyle family his sudden bereavement, and requested them to join in his grief; and was suffered to go through the solemnities of a mock funeral--that he was met by his father-in-law and his men at the head of
Ach's suarach sin dhasan a' gabhail a thàimh
Far an d'rinn a luchd-dàimh a chàradh,
A's cian mu'n robh crìoch air an tòrradh,
A's gaoir nan gunnacha mòra.
Mar thuit e an tréin a mhòrachd,
Ach sìnte le 'ghlòir ’na ònrachd.
Fo leachd-lighe na còinnich, 'an so càiribh mo luaidh-
Glenara, where the coffin was opened and Maclean disgraced for his cruelty and treachery, and was instantly sacrificed by the Campbells and thrown into the ready-made grave. The latter part of this report is not correct, as Maclean was killed in Edinburgh, some years thereafter, by the brother of lady Elizabeth. The best account we have seen of this wild and romantic affair is written by Dr M‘Leod of St. Columba, Glasgow, who also translated this deservedly popular Poem. The account referred to, along with the excellent translation, is given in the Gaelic Messenger for August, 1829.