Blair Collection > Gaelic names of beasts (mammalia), birds, fishes, insects, reptiles, etc

OWL
313
Lamh dheas a mharbhadh a bhradain,
Ba mhath e 'n t shabaid iia feirge.
Dh' fliag mi san Ruaidhe so shios,
Am fear a b' olc dhomsa bhas,
'S trie a chuir e a thagradh an cruas,
Ann cluais an dairah chabraich ann
sas.
RaonuU Macdhomhnaill ghlais,
Fear a fhiiair foghlum gii deas,
Deagh Mhac Uhonuill a chiiil chais,
Ni'm beo neach a choraig leis.
Alastair croidhe na'n gleann.
Gun e bhi ann mor a chreach,
'S trie a leag u air an tom,
Mac na sonn leis a choin ghlais.
Alastair Mac Ailein mhoir,
'S trie a mharbh sa bheinn na feigh,
'S a leanadh fad air an toir.
Mo dhoigh gur DomhnuUach treun.
A's Domhniillach u gun mhearachd,
Gur tu buinne geal na cruaghach,
Gur cairdeach u do Chlannchattain,
'S gur a dalt u do chreig ghuanaich.
An arm dexterous to pierce the
salmon
And powerful in the strife of wrath.
In that shealing below I have left
Him whose death was woeful to me.
Often did he fix his shafts
In the ear of the brown-antlered
Stilg.
Ronald, the son of the hoary Donald,
Who knew all that the schools could
teach,
Excellent Macdonald of the clustering
locks.
He lives not who can compare with
him.
Dear loved Alexander of the glens,
Desolation remains where he is no
more,
Often did he lay prone on the hills
The son of the stag, Avith his dark
grey dog.
Alexander, thou son of the mighty
Allan,
Fatal to the deer of the mountain.
Long persevering in the chase.
My hope is still in the brave son of
Donald.
A Macdonald thou art without fail,
A stream of glittering steel
Allied to the Clan Chattan
And a nursling of the Craig Guanich.
Here follows a verse said by Mrs Grant to be " scarce
intelligible, and untranslatable. The bard seems enteriiicr on
an enthusiastic reverie." It may, however, be given as follows: —
Ma dh' fhagadh DomhnuU a
muigh,
Na aonar a" tigh na fleagh,
'S gearr a bhios gucag air bhuil,
Luchd a chruigh bioidh iad as tigh.
Mi'm shuidh air sloth bhruth na'm
beann,
A coimhead air ceann loch a treig,
Creag ghuanach am biodh an t
shealg,
Grianan ard am biodh na feigh.
Chi mi na dubh-lochain uara,
Chi mi chruach a's beinn bhreac,
If Donald was left outside
Alone in the house of the feast,
Hardly will a flower have formed
Before the cattle raiders will be in.
On the turret of fairies I sit, where
the retiring sun
Points his last beam upwards to the
summit of the hill,
1 look on the end of Loch Treig,
The sheltering rock where the chase
was wont to be.
I see the dark lakes dim at a distance,
I see the mighty pile, and many
coloured mountain,