Gu bheil mi ’m ònrachd sa choille ghruamaich,
Mo smaointean luaineach, cha tog mi fonn:
Fhuair mi ’n t-àite seo ’n aghaidh nàdair –
Gun d’ thrèig gach tàlanta bha nam cheann.
Cha dèan mi òran a chur air dòigh ann –
Nuair nì mi tòiseachadh bidh mi trom:
Chaill mi a’ Ghàidhlig seach mar a b’ àbhaist dhomh
An uair a bha mi san dùthaich thall.
Chan fhaigh mi m’ inntinn leam ann an òrdugh,
Ged bha mi eòlach air dèanamh rann;
’S e mheudaich bròn dhomh ’s a lùghdaich sòlas
Gun duine còmhla rium nì rium cainnt.
Gach là is oidhche ’s gach car a nì mi,
Gum bi mi cuimhneachadh anns gach àm
An tìr a dh’fhàg mi tha ’n taic an t-sàile,
Ged tha mi ’n dràst ann am bràighe ghleann.
Chan iongnadh dhòmhsa ged tha mi brònach,
’S ann tha mo chòmhnaidh air cùl nam beann,
Am meadhan fàsaich air Abhainn Bhàrnaidh,
Gun dad as fheàrr na buntàta lom;
Mun dèan mi àiteach ’s mun tog mi bàrr ann,
’S a’ choille ghàbhaidh chur as a bonn
Le neart mo ghàirdein, gum bi mi sàraichte
’S treis’ air fàillinn mum fàs a’ chlann.
’S i seo an dùthaich sa bheil an cruadal,
Gun fhios don t-sluagh a tha tighinn a-nall;
Gur h-olc a fhuaras oirnn luchd a’ bhuairidh
A rinn len tuairisgeul ar toirt ann; |
I’m all alone in this gloomy woodland,
my mind is troubled, I sing no song:
against all nature I took this place here
and native wit from my mind has gone.
I have no spirit to polish poems,
my will to start them is dulled by care;
I lose the Gaelic that was my custom
in yon far country over there.
I cannot muster my thoughts in order
though making songs was my great delight;
there’s little joy comes to smoor my sadness
with no companion to ease my plight;
each night and day, in each task I turn to,
the ache of memory grows more and more;
I left my dear land beside the ocean
and now no sea laps my dwelling’s shore.
It is no wonder I should be grieving
behind these hills in a desert bare,
in this hard country of Barney’s River;
a few potatoes my only fare;
I must keep digging to win bare living
to hold these wild threatening woods at bay;
my strength alone serves till sons reach manhood
and I may fail long before that day.
This is a country that’s hard and cruel,
they do not know it who journey still;
evil the yarns of the smooth-tongued coaxers
who brought us hither against our will; |
