… Chaidh mi steach an ceann na còisridh,
An robh òl is ceòl is danns,
Rìbhinnean is fleasgaich òga
’S iad an òrdugh grinn gun mheang …
’S ghlacadh mo chridhe ’s mo shùil cò-luath
’S rinn an gaol mo leòn air ball.
Dhiùchd mar aingeal mu mo choinneamh
’N ainnir òg bu ghrinne snuadh:
Seang-shlios fallain air bhlàth canaich
No mar eala air a’ chuan;
Sùil ghorm mheallach fo chaoil-mhala
’S caoin’ a sheallas ’g amharc uath’;
Beul tlàth, tairis gun ghnè smalain,
Dhan gnàth carthannachd gun uaill.
’S bachlach, dualach, cas-bhuidh’, cuachach
Càradh suaineis gruag do chinn,
Gu h-àlainn, bòidheach, fàinneach, òr-bhuidh’,
An caraibh seòighn ’s an òrdugh grinn;
Gun chron a’ fàs riut a dh’fheudt’ àireamh
O do bhàrr gu sàil do bhuinn –
Dhiùchd na buaidhean, òigh, mun cuairt dut,
Gu meudachdainn t’ uaill ’s gach puing.
Bu leigheas eucail, slàn on eug,
Do dh’fhear a dh’fheudadh bhith mud chòir;
B’ fheàrr na cadal bhith nad fhagaisg,
’G èisdeachd agallaidh do bheòil.
Cha robh Bheunas am measg leugaibh,
Dh’aindeoin feucantachd, cho bòidh’ch
Ri Mòir, nighean mhìn a leòn mo chrìdh’
Le buaidhean, ’s mi ga dìth rim bheò. |
… I went in and joined the crowd
where there was music, drink and dance,
maidens there and young gallants,
ranged in order, flawless, neat …
and my heart and my eye were transfixed
and love pierced me on the spot.
There appeared, like an angel, before me
the young maid of finest mien:
lithe, healthy form, with skin as white
as cotton-grass or swan on sea;
blue eyes enticing, pencil brows,
yet kindly as they looked at me;
warm, gentle lips, no sign of gloom,
nor pride, their nature always kind.
In pleats and ringlets, yellow, curled
in careful order is your hair,
all lovely, beautiful, curled, golden,
in shapes so rare, yet ordered well;
with no fault that can be found
from top of head to sole and heel;
you were surrounded quite by grace,
a cause of pride at every point.
Disease’s healing, death’s respite
it were to one to be with you;
better than sleep to be near you,
listening to the words you speak.
Venus, surrounded by jewels,
with peacock’s preen, was not so fair
as gentle Mòr, whose virtues left
my heart wounded, quite lost to me.
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