Aoibhinn an obair an t-sealg,
Aoibhinn a meanmna ’s a beachd:
Is mòr gum b’ annsa leam a fonn
Na long is i dol fo bheairt.
Fad a bhithinn beò no maireann,
Deò den anail ann am chorp,
Dh’fhanainn am fochair an fhèidh –
Sin an sprèidh an robh mo thoirt.
Ceòl as binne de gach ceòl
Guth a’ ghadhair mhòir ’s e teachd;
Damh na shìomanaich le gleann,
Mìolchoin a bhith ann is às.
’S truagh an-diugh nach beò an fheadhainn,
Gun ann ach an ceò den bhuidhinn
Leis ’m bu mhiannach glòir nan gadhar –
Gun mheadhair, gun òl, gun bhruidhinn.
Cead as truaighe ghabhas riamh:
Don fhiadhach bu mhòr mo thoil;
Chan fhalbh mi le bogha fom sgèith
’S gu là bhràth cha leig mi coin.
Mise is tusa, ghadhair bhàin,
Is tùirseach ar turas don eilean;
Chaill sinn an tabhann ’s an dàn,
Ged bha sinn grathann ri ceanal.
Thug a’ choille dhìots’ an earb,
Thug an t-àrd dhìomsa na fèidh:
Chan eil nàire dhuinn, a laoich,
On laigh an aois oirnn le chèil’. |
It is a pleasant work, the hunting:
pleasant is its spirit, and
the recollection of it:
much more I preferred its bustle to a
ship getting under sail.
As long as I should live or last
with a breath of the spirit
in my body,
I would live near the deer –
that is the herd
wherein my profit lay.
Music sweeter than all music
is the voice of the great hound
as he comes:
a stag curving his way down a glen,
huntingdogs
attacking him and escaping.
It is a pity those folks are not alive today,
that nothing but
the shade of the company is left
who wished for the crying
of the hounds,
without memory, without drinking, without
speaking.
As sad a farewell as ever was taken:
in the hunting my
delight was great:
I will not go with a bow under my arm
and till Doomsday I will not slip hounds.
You and I, O white hound, sad is our journey to the island:
we have lost the barking and the singing,
although we were
cheerful for a time.
The forest has taken the roe from you:
the peak has taken
the deer from me:
it is no disgrace for us, my hero,
for
age has fallen on us together. |
