Iad uile leathann, lùbach, claon,
A' gealltuinn sòlas do gach aon—
Ach uile 'stad sa' bhàs.
Na ròid sin tha do choigrich làn,
'S gach aon a' giulan uallaich féin,
A sios do shlochd na caoidh :
Tha aon cheum fòil, nach lùb am feasd,—
Gu h-aimhlea'nn, doirbh a' direadh cas
O dhorchadas
gu soills'.
An t-slighe sin co leigeas ris?
Am Biobull;-cha ruig aon a leas
Le 'Bhiobull dol o'n cheum
Ach es' aig am bheil 's nach toir seach
An neamh cheann-iuil so do gach neach,
Air seachran theid e féin.
Gach slògh d'an còmhnuidh 'n cruinne-cé
Togaibh gu léir ait-chliù do 'n Triath,
Ri gàirdeachas 'n ar Cruithfhear treun,
Le 'r binn-cheòl éireadh cliù do'r Dia.
Dhuibh's fios gu'r h-esan Dia amhàin,
O'm bheil gach àl-ar dealbh 's ar deò,
A threud sinn-'s biathaidh e gach tràth,
'S ni dìon a's àrach dhuinn ri 'r beò.
Air dorsaibh 'àrois doirtibh 'steach,
'Na chùirtibh ait', dha thigibh dlùth,
'S guth molaidh 's gàirdeachais gach neach
A' luaidh air feartaibh Dhé nan dùl.
Airson gu 'r mòr 's gu 'r maith ar Dia,
Mu 'thròcair chinntich 's maith bhi 'seinn;
'S 'fhirinn a sheas gu daingean riabh,
Gu mair, feadh linntean siorruidh, leinn.
Rev Angus Macintyre, Kinlochspelvie, Mull. We would respectfully recommend its insertion in the next edition of the Psalms.
Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
"Good Mussulman abstain from pork,
There is a part in every swine
No friend nor follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication."
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge.
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose ;
These choose the back, the belly those ;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.
You laugh-'tis well-The tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. "Renounce the world," the preacher cries, "We do," a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards:
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play ;
Some love a concert, or a race;
And others shooting and the chase,
Mar so, deir fàidhe mòr na Tuirc'
"Tha earrann shònraichte do'n mhuic
'S ma thach'ras e aig am air bith,
Gu'n ith fear leanmhuinn ormsa dh'i,
Sàsuichte' na ocrach, 's aon chuid
e,
Iomsgarar e a mach á neamh."
Cha d' innis Mahomet mar so,
Am ball bha glan, n' aın ball nach robh ;
Na'm biodh e air deanamh sin,
Dh'itheadh iad a' chuid bha glan;
Ach air son earrainn', shaoil iad cruaidh
A' mhuc gu léir a bhacadh uath';
'S dh' fheuch iad gach doigh gu dheanamh 'mach,
Cia 'm ball bha aig an fhàidh 'n a bheachd,
Do thòisich iad o sin a mach,
Ri connsach', strìth, a's easonachd.
Roghnuich a' bhuidheann so an druim,
's fearr leis a' bhuidheann ud a' bhroinn,
Cuid eile leis am fearr an ceann,
"Their nach 'eil cron na peacadh ann.
Dream eile (càirdean do na Bàirde)
Tha 'g àicheadh so 's nach creid gu brach
Gu bheil 's an iorball lochd air bith
A's uime sin gu feud iad ith'-
Mar so, le coguis saor o shrian
Gun eagal roimh Fhàidhe na fiamh,
Tha na Mahometich gun sgàth,
Ag itheadh suas na muic' gach tråth.
A Chriosduidhean, tha sibh ri gàire,
Ruibh féin, ma seadh, an sgeula càiribh,
'S feoraichibh do'r cridhe féin,
'M bheil sibhse a' deanamh mar an ceudn'?
"Tréigibh an saoghal," dubhrar ruibh,—
"Tha sinne a' deanamh sin," deir sibh-
'M feadh tha fear 'n ur measg am beachd
'An cluith air chairtean nach 'eil lochd ;
Fear eile thug do chleasachd toil,
Nach creid bheil innt' beud no cron;
gu
Fear leis an caomh bhi 'g éisdeachd ciùil, 'S fear bhi falbh le gunn' a's cù,
Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he;
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.
Like the fair rose in vernal pride,
Or like the never-slumbering tide,
Or like the blossom, fresh and gay,
Or like the early dawn of day;
Or like the cloud 'midst tempest high,
That floats across the stormy sky,-
Even such is man, the heir of sorrow,
Alive to-day, and dead to-morrow!
The blushing rose soon fades away,
His course the ocean will not stay;
The blossom fades, the tempest flies,
And man, the child of frailty, dies!
Or like a tale that soon is told,
Or like a meadow gemm'd with gold,
Or like a bird with plumage gay,
Or like the genial dews of May,
Or passing hour, or fleeting span,
Even such, in all his pride, is man !
The grass decays, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended;
The span is short, the hour is past,
And his long home man seeks at last!
Or like a bubble in the brook,
Or glass, in which vain man doth look,
Or shuttle sent from hand to hand,
Or letters written on the sand;
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like an ever-gliding stream,-
Even such is man, who soon will know
That all is vanity below!
Fear leis am fearr bhi 'ruagadh féidh,
'S fear bhi 'ruith air seang-each réis.
Muc mhòr an t-sao'il, tha iad mar so
Ag itheadh suas gu léir gach lò,
Air nàbuidh chuir gach fear diubh beum!
Ach 's toigh leis caob cho maith ris féin.
BEATH' AN DUINE.
'S an earrach mar bhios àilleachd ròis,
No mòr-shruth 'choidhch' nach gabhadh tàmh,
'S mar bhlàth bhios ùrail le deadh-mhais',
No camhanaich ro-mhoch an là;
No mar na neòil feadh doinionn àrd,
'Tha 'snàmh air falbh 'measg anraidh speur;
Mar sud an duine, oighre bròin!
An diugh tha beò, 's a màireach eug!
Na ròsan, crìonaidh sìos gu luath,
'S cha chuir an cuan a rian 'na thàmh ;
Theid doinionn seach' 's na blàithean fòs,
'S gheibh duine, mac na breòiteachd, bàs!
Mar sgeul a dh'innsear luath le beul,
No mìodar seudaichte le h-òr,
No mar an t-eun le iteach ùr,
No drùchda mìn a' chéitein òig;
'S mar uair 'na ruith, no siubhal réis,
Mar sud tha neach gu léir le 'phròis!
Seargaidh 'm feur, tha 'n sgeula réith,
Tha'n t-eun air sgéith, tha 'n drùchd 's na neoil;
Tha 'n réis ro-ghearr, tha 'n uair 'nis seach,
'S a bhuan-theach iarraidh neach fa-dheòidh!
Mar bhuilgein sruth theid as gun dàil,
No sgàthan 's an dearc duine bà,
No mar an spal o làimh gu làimh,
No sgrìobhadh tarr'ngte sìos air tràigh;
No mar am bruadar, no mar smuain,
No sruth 'bhios luath nach stad gu bràch,
Ceart amhuil duine 'chi gu grad
Gur dìomhanas gach dad air làr!
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