Oir 's ann an sin 'chaidh sgiath an rìgh
A thilgeadh sìos le tàir,
'S a luidh am measg nam miltean marbh
Corp uasal, ungt an t-sàir.
Bha bogha buadh'or Ionatain
Air thoiseach anns gach càs
'S air thus bha claidheamh millteach Shauil,
'S na lorg chaidh sgrios a's bàs;
Mar fhìr-eòin luath, mar leògh'naibh treun
Maraon bha 'm beatha chaomh;
'S a nis 'n an suain tha 'n righ 's a mhac,
Neo-sgairte, taobh ri taobh.
A nighnean Israeil deanaibh caoidh
Air son nan gaisgeach mòr,
A dh'eudaich sibh le sgàrlaid,
A's a chrùn 'ur cinn le h-òr!
O! Ionatain, mo bhràth'ir, a'd' dhéigh
Is goirt mo dheòir 's mo chràdh!
Oir b' iongantach, thar gaol nam ban,
'S bu taitneach dhomh do ghràdh.
Cionnus, mo chreach! air beanntaibh àrd
Ghilboa 'thuit na sàir!
'An àird' an glòir 's am mòralachd, 'S am builsgean dian a' bhlàir! Cionnas a thuit na cumhachdaich Air faiche dheirg na strì,
A's sinnt' r' an taobh tha 'n sgiath 's an t-sleagh, Am bogha 's lann, gun chlì!
Esan a choisneadh cliù mar threun
Seachnadh le faicill mhaith 's le céill
Gach ni bheir tuisleadh dha:
An làr a leaba, 's nèamh nan speur
A phàiliunn 'cumail sgàil air féin-
'S an àrfhaich biodh gach tràth.
Unwearied by the battle's toil,
Uncumber'd by the battle's spoil,
No dangers must affright;
Nor rest seduce to slothful ease;
Intent alone his Chief to please,
Who call'd him forth to fight.
Soldier of Christ, if thou wouldst be
Worthy that epithet, stand free
From time's encumb'ring things;
Be earth's enthralments fear'd, abhor'd,
Knowing thy Leader is the Lord,
Thy Chief, the King of kings.
Still use, as not abusing, all
Which fetters worldlings by its thrall:—
With fame, with power, with pelf,
With joy or grief, with hope or fear,
Whose origin and end are here,
Entangle not thyself.
These close enough will round thee cling,
Without thy tight'ning ev'ry string
Which binds them to thy heart:—
Despise them not! this thankless were,
But while partaking them, prepare,
From each and all to part.
THE LATE PRINCE CONSORT.*
While bounteous harvest teeming o'er,
Its fulness yields on every hand-
While sweet the heather's purple bloom
With fragrance fills the mountain land-
* These beautiful verses, composed by the Rev. D. Fraser of Fearn, obtained the First Prize at the Northern Meeting Competition in 1863. Mr. Fraser very generously handed over the
Neo-chlaoidhte biodh e 'n déigh na streup,
'S neo-luchdaichte le spùill nan euchd,
Na biodh fo gheilt, no fhiamh;
Na biodh le leisg no lunnd e mall,
Ach deanadh toil an Ti 's gach àm
A ghairm e 's is e 'Thriath.
A shaighdear Chriosd, mu's maith leat féix
Bhi airidh air an ainm, na géill
Do dh'uallach trom na feòl';
Do chuing an t-saoghail thoir-sa fuath,
Oir 's e do Cheannard Triath nam buadh,
'S do Mhaighstir Rìgh na glòir.
Gu h-iomchuidh cleachd na fhuair thu mhaoin,
'S na bi mar àireamh mhòr de dhaoin'
Fo chuibhreach dha gach là:
Le h-aoibhneas, no le trioblaid mhòir,
A' gairm an cuibhrionn deth 's an stòr-
Na bi-sa mar tha càch.
Ged nach tarruing thu gach dual
An saoghal iadhaidh teann mu'n cuairt
Do chridhe chealgaich féin:
Air maitheas Dhé na dean-sa tàir,
Gidheadh 'n a mhealladh cuimhnich tràth,
Gu'n tig gu gearr an t-eug.
AM PRIONNSA NACH MAIREANN.
'N uair tha 'm fogh'radh air gach taobh
A' taomadh sìos le tharbhachd làn—
'N uair tha fàile blàth an fhraoich
Gu cùbhr' a' sgaoileadh air gach làimh;
Prize, One Guinea, to the Treasurer of the Tain Ragged School. The English translation is by Mr. Peter M'Naughton, already mentioned.
Who is she, the afflicted Fair,
Up Lochnagar that wends her way,
Her sorrowing face and weeds of woe
Attesting she has lost her stay?
Who, but Victoria, gracious Queen,
The merciful, the true, and just,
Bewailing on the mountain's brow
Her Consort lowly in the dust:—
"O! Albert, object of my love!
From the high place where is thy rest,
Dost thou behold me on the heath
With loneliness and grief opprest?
"Oft here, my love, retired, alone,
By sheltering bens, 'neath heavens clear,
Hast thou in secrecy avowed
Thy love for me and children dear!
A widow I am left behind,
To shed the tear with heavy moan;
While they, in bitter accents, wail
A loving father from them gone.
"For, och nan och, the heart is cold
That oft beside me warmly beat,
All mute and silent in the tomb
The charming tongue without deceit.
The lightsome foot, with buoyant step
That chased the deer along the steep,
Now stretched and stiff-ah! utter loss!-
The grave and death in durance keep!
"O! what to me the crown I wear?
Or palaces with splendour gay?
The while my heart is broken, bruised,
Because my Prince is in the clay!
I would resign my sway o'er realms
From sunrise to his going down,
To meet my husband on this hill,
As in the days of seasons flown!"
Cò is' a' Bhaintighearn 'tha fo ghruaim,
A' direadh suas ri Lochnangàr,
'S a tha 'giùlan air a gruaidh
Dearbhadh gu bheil uaip' a sàr?
Cò ach Bhictoria nam beus,
Banrigh aghmhor nan ceud buagh,
'Si 'tuireadh air mullach an t-sléibh
A chionn a céil' a bhi 's an uaigh :-
"O! Ailbeirt, annsachd mo ghaoil!
O'n ionad naomh 's am bheil do thàmh,
An leur dhuit mis' air lom an fhraoich,
A' m' aonar an so fo phràmh?
"An so, a rùin, is tric, leinn féin,
Fo ghorm-bhrat speur, fo fhasgadh bheann,
A' chuir thu gu dìomhair 'an céill
Do mhòr spéis dhomh féin 's d' ar clann!
Tha mise a'm' bhantraich a'd' dhéigh,
A' sileadh dheur fo' osnaibh throm,-
Tha iadsan a' cumha gu'n d'eug
An t-athar gràdhach, reul nan sonn.
"Och nan Och! tha'n cridhe fuar
A's tric a phlosg le luaths ri m' chléith;
Gun smid tha tosdach anns an uaigh
A'n teanga' luath-ghaireach gun bheud.
Tha 'chos bu shunndaiche ceum
Air tòir an fhéidh ri uchd nan càrn
Gu rag, sinte-mo chreach léir!
Fo chìs do'n eug, fo ghlais a' bhàis!
"O! ciod e dhomhsa glòir mo chrùin?
Ciod dhomh lùchairtean nan sròl?
'M feadh tha mo chridhe briste, brùit',
A chionn mo rùn a bhi fo'n fhòid!
Bheirinn m' impireachd gu léir,
O éiridh gréin' gu 'luidhe sìos,
Air son gu 'n tachradh orm mo chéil'
Air uchd an t-sléibh so mar o chian!"
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