Moch ’s mi ’g èirigh air bheagan èislein
Air madainn Chèitein ’s mi ann an Os,
Bha sprèidh a’ geumnaich an ceann a chèile,
’S a’ ghrian ag èirigh air Leac an Stòrr;
Bha gath a’ boillsgeadh air slios nam beanntan,
Cur tuar na h-oidhche na dheann fo sgòd,
Is os mo chionn sheinn an uiseag ghreannmhor,
Toirt na mo chuimhne nuair bha mi òg.
Toirt na mo chuimhne le bròn is aoibhneas
Nach fhaigh mi cainnt gus a chur air dòigh
Gach car is tionndadh an corp ’s an inntinn
Bhon dh’fhàg mi ’n gleann ’n robh na suinn gun ghò;
Bha sruth na h-aibhne dol sìos cho tàimhidh
Is toirm nan allt freagairt cainnt mo bheòil,
’S an smeòrach bhinn suidhe seinn air meanglan,
Toirt na mo chuimhne nuair bha mi òg.
Nuair bha mi gòrach a’ siubhal mòintich
’S am fraoch a’ stròiceadh mo chòta bàn,
Feadh thoman còinnich gun snàthainn a bhrògan
’S an eigh na còsan air lochan tàimh;
A’ falbh an aonaich ag iarraidh chaorach
’S mi cheart cho aotrom ri naosg air lòn -
Gach bota ’s poll agus talamh-toll
Toirt na mo chuimhne nuair bha mi òg.
Toirt na mo chuimhn’ iomadh nì a rinn mi,
Nach faigh mi ’m bann gu ceann thall mo sgeòil -
A’ falbh sa gheamhradh gu luaidh is bainnsean
Gun solas lainnteir ach ceann an fhòid; |
In early rising, I’m free of sorrow
on this May morning and I in Os,
one to another the cows are calling,
the sun is rising above the Storr;
a spear of sunlight upon the mountains
saw the last shadow of darkness gone,
the blithesome lark high above me singing
brought back to mind days when I was young.
Brought back to mind with both joy and sadness,
beyond my power to put in words,
each twist and turn felt by mind and body,
since I left the glen where we’d known no guile;
the river rippling so gently seawards,
my own speech echoed in the streamlet’s flow,
sweet sang the mavis in budding branches,
brought back to mind days when I was young.
In careless joy I would roam the moorland,
the heather tips brushing my white dress,
through mossy knowes without help of footwear,
or when ice formed ridges on silent lochs;
or on the high moors in search of sheep flocks
light as the snipe over meadow grass,
each mound and pool and rolling hollow
brought back to mind days when I was young.
Brought back to mind all the things I did there,
that will not fade till my story’s done,
going in winter to waulkings, wedding,
my only lantern a peat in hand; |
