An Comunn Gàidhealach Publications > Gaidheal > Volume 28, October 1932--September 1933

An Gearran, 1933.
AN GAIDHEAL.
71
Maibi—Bheir raise ort a pheasain gun
naire mur a leig thu cead an coise leis a’ chrodh
sin. Tha do chruaidh fhortan mu do chasan
thugad ma theid raise as do dheidh. Bheir
raise ort gu’m faigh thu aon sgleog a chuireas
has do sheana-mhar as do chuimhne (A’
bualadh a coise ris an talamh). An ann a’
gabhail ort raise a fhreagairt a tha thu, a
shiliche shalaieh a tha thu ann, agus b’e sin
thusa. Ach co a chuireadh na b’ fhearr air
do mhanadh!
Ceit—Tha e a cheart cho math dhuit leigeadh
leis. Chan’eil e aige fhein, an truaghan.
Mairi—Cha b’ann an diugh no an de a
dh’ aithnich sinne sin. Nach ann a thainig
mi air an latha roimhe le ad chruaidh athar
aige ’ga seoladh ann an allt, sin agadsa “ Flonn”
bochd duit.
Ceit—Rinn Niall againne soitheach
chuairtean da, agus cuiridh mi geall nach
tomhais thu cia dheth an do rinn e seol dith.
Mairi—Rinn, tha raise a’ creidsinn, de
leine a mhathar ged nach robh moran aice
dhiubh, bronag.
Ceit—Bhuail thu direach an tarrang air
a cheann an uair ud.
Mairi—Bha e agam fhin a’ buain chrotail
an latha roimhe agus thug mi dha truinnseir
brota, ach an uair a dh’ fhedraich mi dheth
an gabhadh e fear eile is e a thubhairt e rium
nach e am pathadh a bh’ air ach an t-acras.
De do bheachd fhein air sin, a nis, a Cheit ?
Ceit—Tha gur h-ann gle thana a bha am
brota agad, a Mhairi.
Mairi (gu sgaiteach) Ma’s ann ag iarraidh
gu tathag a thoirt domhsa a tha thu, a Cheit,
gheibh thu do dha roghainn air do bhois. Ma
bheir thu ormsa tionndadh ort bidh cuimhne
agad air gu latha do bhais.
Ceit (Gu seimh)—Is ann a bha raise, a
bhronag, a’ tarruing conais asad. Chan fhaod
sinn a dhol a mach air a cheile agus latha do
bhainnse cho faisg air laimh.
Mairi—Latha-bainnse ann no as, ach bu
choir dhuitse beagan ceille a bhi agad, is tu
air a thighinn gu latha. Ach tha mi an dochas
oidhche mo reitich gu’m bi thu ann an uair
a thig Iain Crosda ’gam iarraidh air mo
mhathair agus a bheir mi mo lamh do Chalum.
Ceit—Bithidh, is raise a bhios sin. Co a
bhiodh ann ach mi. Ach co a tha tighinn ach
Niall beag ’gam leigeadh dhachaidh agus
chan ann roimh a mhithich. Is e mo chuid
a bhi falbh an drasda ach am faigh mi blasad
bldh is mi air mo tholladh aig an acras. Feasgar
math leat, a Mhairi. Fench nach bi thu fada
gun tighinn a cheilidh,
Mairi—Theid mi fhin’s tu fhein gu Comunn
nam Ban feasgar Di-haoine.
Ceit (a’ falbh dhachaidh)—Ceart gu leoir,
ma ta.
Mairi (a’ bruidhinn rithe fhein)—Niall beag
agadsa, a Cheit, a’ dol a chosnadh bursary,
cha choision gu latha a bhais. Tha e ro choltach
ri cuideachd a mhathar airson gu’n dean e
ministeir. Ach nach eil e ’na thide dhomhsa
a dhol a thilleadh a chruidh, (a’ falbh agus a’
grudhan leathafhein).
C>
MIANN A’ BHAIRD AOSDA.
THE WISH OF THE AGED BARD.
(Translated by the late Rev. Hugh
MacMillan, D.D., LL.D.)
0! bear me where the streamlets stray,
With calm, slow footsteps o’er the lea;
My head beneath the oak-shade lay,
And thou, oh! sun, be kind to me.
My side stretch gently on the bank,
Which mild airs fan and flowers bestrew;
My feet cooled by the grasses rank,
That bend beneath the noontide dew.
Let primrose pale with beauty dress
My mossy couch of tenderest green,
My hand reclined the daisy press,
And ealvie* at my ear be seen.
Let blossom-laden trees surround
My glen’s high overhanging brow;
And let the aged crags resound
With songs of birds from' every bough.
From rocks with ivy mantled o’er,
Let the bright fountain pour its flood,
And echo multiply the roar
Of waters through the solitude.
Let voice of hill to hill repeat
The thousand lowings of the herd.
That by the rural cadence sweet
My heart’s deep pulses may be stirred.
Let the soft wing of every gale
The bleatings of the fold prolong,
The timid lambkin’s lonely wail,
The ewe’s quick answer to her young.
Let frisking calves around me stray
Along the stream, or upland high;
And let the kid, tired of its play,
Upon my bosom fearless lie.
Oh! let me hear the hunter’s tread
And bay of dogs upon the heath;
Then youth shall crown my hoary head
And happy visions round me wreathe.