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'N sin laidhidh mi 'smuainteach' mu bhuaidh Fir-mo-ghaoil,
A's cluinnidh mi ri h-uine “guth ciùin agus caol,”
G ràdh, “ Duine tha cian uait, ach Dia a's a ghràs
Cha tréig Gàidheal air fuadan 'sna coillteanan fàs.”

A' CHUTHAG.
Fàilt ort, eilthirich ghlais nam bruach,

Teachdair an earraich ait ;
Tha t'aitreabh-shamhraidh uile deas,

Tha choill' a' seinn duit fàilt'.

Cha luaithe thig an neòinein maoth,

Na thogas tus' am fonn;
'Bheil agadsa reul-iùil gu h-àrd,

Gad threorachadh do'n fhonn !

Leat fein a chuairteir aoibhnich ait,

Dh'fhàiltichinn àm nam blàth;
An t-àm 'sam bi a' chòisridh bhinn

A' seinn gu grinn gach tràth.
Am balachan beag, 'se trusadh bhlàth,

Gu h-àrd air uchd nan tom,
Le aighear éisdidh e do ghuth

'S co-fhreagraidh e am fonn.

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N’an robh thu 'd' thosd, gun chàil, gun toirt,

An còs a' chnuic fo dhubhar ?
'S mòr m'fharmad riut, a chubhag chaomh,

Cha dean thu bròn a'd' shiubhal;
Chionn tha do chulthaobh daonnan gorm,

'S do chridhe daonnan subhach.
'S ged theicheas tu roimh 'n fhuachd air àm,

Gu faic do ghleann thu 'rithisd ;
Ach 'nuair bheir mise ris mo chùl

Cha bhi mo dhùil ri pilleadh.
O! 's truagh nach b'urrainn dhomh leat triall,

Air astar sgéith ’nar dithis;
Le caismeachd bhinn 'toirt fios gach àm

'Nuair bhiodh an samhradh 'tighinn.

What time the pea puts on the bloom

Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !

We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,

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.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's dusky light,

And our lanterns dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay-like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead

And we bitterly thought of to-morrow.
We thought—as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And sinooth'd down his lonely pillow
How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

Fo bhlàth 'n uair thig a' pheasair ghlas,

Fàgaidh tu 'choill gu luath;
Aoidheachd iarraidh tu an dùthch'aibh céin

Chur fàilt air earrach nuadh.

Do choill-se! eoin nam buadh tha gorm,

Do speur do ghnàth tha blàth,
Mulad cha 'n 'eil a chaoidh a'd' dhàn,

No geamhradh ann a'd' thràth.
0! na’m bu leamsa sgiath an eoin,

Gu'n siubhlainn leat gach àit,
Air chéilidh feadh an t-saoghail mhòir,

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 ;
Cha do loisgeadh urchair le saighdear m'an ùir ;

Druma cha chualas a' bualadh.
Thiodhlaiceadh esan an uaigneas na h-oidhch',

Airm chatha a' cladhach na h-àrach,
A' ghealach gu fann roi' neulaibh a' soills',

Lous soluis 'g ar seòladh gu tùrsach.
Cha robh feum aig an laoch air cist' a bhiodh buan,

No ollanachd anairt g’a chuairteach';
Ach laidh e mar ghaisgeach a' gabhail a shuain,

Le 'thrusgan cogaidh mu'n cuairt air. B’aithghearr, 's bu tearc an urnuigh chaidh suas,

A's shil sinn na deòir gu sàmhach,
Ag amharc air creubh an tréin a thug buaidh,

A's buairte mu theachd an là màireach.
Oir thug sinn fainear a' cladhach na h-uaigh,

'S mar bha sinn gu truagh 'ga dealbhadh, Gu'n deanadh coigrich a saltairt le fuath,

Agus sinn' air a' chuan a' seòladh.
Le tàir air a spiorad gu'n deanadh an nàmh,

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.
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring,
And we heard by the distant and random gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing-
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory!
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone in his glory.

GLENARA.*

Oh! heard you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ?
'Tis the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear ;
And her sire and her people are call’d to her bier.
Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud ;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ;
They march'd all in silence-they look'd to the ground.
In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar,
Now here let us place the gray-stone of her cairn-
Why speak yo no word ?” said Glenara the stern.
“ And now tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud you your brows ?”
So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

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* 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,
Ghairmeadh air falbh sinn o obair a' bhròin,

A's cian mu'n robh crìoch air an tòrradh,
Chuala sinn toirm a' chogaidh 'teachd oirnn,

A's gaoir nan gunnacha mòra.
Ach leig sinn e sìos gu h-athaiseach ciùin,

Mar thuit e an tréin a mhòrachd,
Gun leachd-lighe r'a cheann, gun chàrn os a chionn,

Ach sìnte le 'ghlòir ’na ònrachd.

GLEANNARA.
0! ’n cuala sibh nuallan na pìoba sa' ghaoith ?
Tha'm bannal a' tighinn le tuire, 's le caoidh ;
Dh'eug nighean Mhic Cailein, 's trom acain a chléibh,
Ag imeachd le 'ghillibh 'an coinneamh a creubh.
Ghluais esan roi'n ghiùlan, luchd-bròin air gach taobh,
A chinneadh 'ga leantuinn, cha chualas an glaodh;
Phaisg iad am breacain m'am broilleach gu teann,
Ghluais iad le h-aimheal, gun smid as an ceann.
Ghluais iad gu tosdach roi' mhonadh an fhraoich,
Gu réidhlein an daraich bh'air crionadh le aois ;

Fo leachd-lighe na còinnich, 'an so càiribh mo luaidh-
Nach labhair mo ghillean ?” deir Gleannaora fo ghruaim.
“A luchd.cinnidh mo chéile,” ars' an Leathanach garg,
C'arson tha gach maladh cho duaichnidh le fearg ?
A’bheil foill air a cleth fo bhreacain a daimh ?
Thogadh na breacain, 's bha biodag 's gach laimh.

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.

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