| Trì Fichead Bliadhna ’s a Trì | Sixty-Three Years |
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| Trì Fichead Bliadhna ’s a Trì | Sixty-Three Years |
| Trì fichead bliadhna ’s a trì, b’e sin an aois mun an robh thu – cha mhòr tuilleadh a shaoghal tha cuid a dhaoine ri faighinn – nuair a dh’fhàg thu do dhilsean, ’s b’fhaoin an nì dha do leithid‚ gu dhol a ghearradh nan craobhan, och, gus an seann duine chaitheamh. |
Sixty-three years, that was about your age – some people do not live much longer – when you left your friends (what a foolish thing for someone like you) to go lumberjacking, och, to finish off the old man. |
Bha do cheann ’s e air liathadh, bha do chiabhan air glasadh – obair duine gun chiall a dhol a dh’iarraidh a’ bheartais far nach fhaic thu luchd-eòlais a nì còmhradh le tlachd riut no nì faighneachd dè ’s beo dhut, no bheir lòn dhut an asgaidh. |
Your head had gone grey, your locks silvered. It was a senseless idea to go looking for wealth where you will see no acquaintances to converse pleasantly with you, or to ask how you are, or to give you food for nothing. |
Cha b’ionnan dhuit fuireach sna Dailean ’g àiteach fearann a’ chòmhnaird, far an itheadh tu ’n t-aran ’s far an garadh a’ mhòin’ thu, seach a dhol a dh’fhàgail na tìre san d’fhuair do shinnsearan beòshlaint‚ far nach goideadh mathan ort caora measg an fhraoich air a’ mhòintich. |
How different if you had stayed in the Dells cultivating the land on the level where you could eat bread, and where the peat would warm you, rather than leave the land where your ancestors got their livelihood – where no bear could steal your sheep, among the heather on the moor. |
Bu tu buachaill nan caorach, cas a dhìreadh nam mullach‚ ’s cha bu mhiosa là buain thu togail sguab air an iomair: ’s e sin dh’fhàg mise fo ghruaimean nuair thèid mi suas dhan a’ mhuilinn‚ ’s mi faicinn thobhtaichean fàsa far am b’àbhaist dhut fuireach. |
You were a good shepherd, good at climbing the hills, and you were just as good on a harvest day lifting sheaves in the field. That is why I feel so sad when I go up to the mill to see deserted ruins where you used to live. |
Nuair a thigeadh tu ’n bhaile dh’aithnichinn sadadh do làimhe; nuair a bhitheadh tu cainnt rium, gheibhinn d’inntinn cho làidir: ’s e sin dh’fhàg mise gun mhisneachd an uair nach tuigte le càch mi, ’s gun fhios o Ailean no Dhòmhnall a bheil thu beò no ’n do bhàsaich. |
When you came to the township I knew the swing of your arm. When you spoke to me I found your mind so made up. That is why I feel so distressed – and no-one else understands it – when there’s no word from Alan and Donald whether you are alive or dead. |
’S ann agad tha ’n naidheachd ma tha do là air a shìneadh mun an eaglais a dh’fhàg thu gun nì ach càradh ort d’aodaich, far an cluinneadh tu briathran o bheul nach fiaradh an fhìrinn, ’s tu ’n-diugh measg fhineachan fiadhaich nach cuala diadhachd on sinnsear. |
What a tale you have to tell, if you have enjoyed length of days, about the church you left just to get yourself ready, where you would hear words from a mouth that would not twist the truth. And now you are amongst savage tribes who have not learned Godliness from their forebears. |
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| dòmhnall
mac a’ ghobhainn/ Donald Smith 1786-1862 |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Noel Sheridan Ann Bowen Morag MacLeod, William Matheson John Murray |
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