Och, a Theàrlaich òig Stiùbhairt,
’S e do chùis rinn mo lèireadh:
Thug thu bhuam gach nì bh’ agam
Ann an cogadh nad adhbhar;
Cha chrodh is cha chaoraich
Tha mi caoidh ach mo chèile,
Ged a dh’fhàgte mi ’m aonar
Gun sìon san t-saoghal ach lèine:
Mo rùn geal òg.
Cò nis thogas an claidheamh
No nì ’chathair a lìonadh?
’S gann gur h-e tha air m’ aire,
O nach maireann mo chiad ghràdh.
Ach ciamar gheibhinn om nàdar
A bhith ’g àicheadh na ’s miann leam,
Is mo thogradh cho làidir
Thoirt gu ’àite, mo rìgh math?
Mo rùn geal òg.
Bu tu ’m fear mòr bu mhath cumadh
Od mhullach gud bhrògan;
Bha do shlios mar an eala
’S blas na meal’ air do phògan;
T’ fhalt dualach, donn, lurach
Mu do mhuineal an òrdugh,
’S e gu camalubach, cuimir,
’S gach aon toirt urram da bhòidhchead:
Mo rùn geal òg. |
O young Charles Stuart,
it’s your cause that has grieved me,
you took everything from me
in this war in your interest;
it’s not sheep, it’s not cattle
that I miss, but my first-love,
though I were left all alone
with not a thing but a shift,
my fair young love.
Who now will lift up the sword
or cause the throne to be filled?
All that hardly concerns me
since my first-love’s not living.
Yet how can my nature
disavow what I long for,
since my own strong desire
is the king’s restoration,
my fair young love?
You were big, you were shapely
from your head to your feet,
your side like the swan
and like honey your kisses,
curly brown bonny hair
draped over your shoulders,
intertwining so neatly,
and all praised its beauty,
my fair young love. |
