Chì mi rè geard na h-oidhche
Dreòs air chrith ’na fhroidhneas thall air fàire,
A’ clapail le a sgiathaibh,
A’ sgapadh ’s a’ ciaradh rionnagan na h-àird’ ud.
Shaoileadh tu gun cluinnte,
Ge cian, o ’bhuillsgein ochanaich no caoineadh,
Ràn corraich no gàir fuatha,
Comhart chon cuthaich uaith’ no ulfhairt fhaolchon,
Gun ruigeadh drannd an fhòirneirt
On fhùirneis òmair iomall fhèin an t-saoghail.
Ach siud a’ dol an leud e
Ri oir an speur an tostachd olc is aognaidh.
C’ ainm nochd a th’ orra,
Na sràidean bochda anns an sgeith gach uinneag
A lasraichean ’s a deatach,
A sradagan is sgreadail a luchd-thuinidh,
Is taigh air thaigh ga reubadh,
Am broinn a chèile am brùchdadh toit’ a’ tuiteam?
Is cò a-nochd tha ’g atach
Am bàs a theachd gu grad ’nan cainntibh uile,
No a’ spàirn measg chlach is shailthean,
Air bhainidh a’ gairm air cobhair, is nach cluinnear?
Cò a-nochd a phàigheas
Seann chìs àbhaisteach na fala cumant’?
Uair dearg mar lod na h-àraich,
Uair bàn mar ghile thràighte an eagail èitigh,
A’ dìreadh ’s uair a’ teàrnadh,
A’ sìneadh le sitheadh àrd ’s a’ call a mheudachd,
A’ fannachadh car aitil
’S ag at mar anail dhiabhail air dhèinead, |
I see during the night guard
A blaze flickering, fringing the skyline over yonder,
Beating with its wings,
and scattering and dimming the stars of that airt.
You would think that there would be heard
From its midst, though far away, wailing and lamentation,
The roar of rage and the yell of hate,
The barking of the dogs from it or the howling of wolves,
That the snarl of violence would reach
From yon amber furnace the very edge of the world;
But yonder it spreads
Along the rim of the sky in evil ghastly silence.
What is their name tonight,
The poor streets where every window spews
Its flame and smoke,
Its sparks and the screaming of its inmates,
While house upon house is rent
And collapses in a gust of smoke?
And who tonight are beseeching
Death to come quickly in all their tongues,
Or are struggling among stones and beams,
Crying in frenzy for help, and are not heard?
Who tonight is paying
The old accustomed tax of common blood?
Now red like a battlefield puddle,
Now pale like the drained whiteness of foul fear,
Climbing and sinking,
Reaching and darting up and shrinking in size,
Growing faint for a moment
And swelling like the breath of a devil in intensity, |
