Is mi suidhe ’n seo am ònar
Air còmhnard an rathaid,
Dh’fheuch am faic mi fear-fuadain
Tighinn o Chruachan a’ cheathaich
Bheir dhomh sgeul air Clann Ghriogair
No fios cia an do ghabh iad.
Cha d’fhuair mi dan sgeulaibh
Ach iad bhith ’n-dè air na Sraithibh;
Thall ’s a-bhos mu Loch Fìne,
Masa fìor mo luchd-bratha;
Ann an Clachan an Dìseirt
Ag òl fìon air na maithibh.
Bha Griogair mòr ruadh ann,
Làmh chruaidh air chùl claidhimh;
Agus Griogair mòr meadhrach,
Ceann-feadhn’ ar luchd-taighe.
Mhic an fhir à Srath h-Ardail,
Bhiodh na bàird ort a’ tathaich;
’S a bheireadh greis air a’ chlàrsaich
’S air an tàileasg gu h-aighear;
Is a sheinneadh an fhidheall,
Chuireadh fioghair fo mhnathaibh. |
I sit here alone
by the level roadway,
hoping to see,
coming from Cruachan of the Mist,
a fugitive
who will give me news of Clan Gregor, or of where they have gone.
I have had no news of them but that they were in Strath Fillan yesterday,
that they were here and there about Loch Fyne,
if my informants spoke true,
and in Dalmally,
drinking wine to the health of the gentles.
Great red-haired Gregor was there,
whose hand was hard behind his sword,
and great mirthful Gregor,
the chief of our household.
O son of the laird of Strathardle,
the bards used to visit you,
and you would play the harp,
and play backgammon willingly,
and you would make the fiddle sing,
inciting women to dance. |
