Theirinn gum bu dual domh sin –
dòch’ gur h-e Bhaltair Mòr as coireach,
sgeadaichte gu lèir sa bhreacan
ged nach bu spìocach e mu bhriogais;
b’ e gluntow wi giltin hippis,
ag èigheach ‘Suas leis a’ Ghàidhlig’
mus robh an Comunn idir againn
’s a’ Bheurla mhòr a’ tighinn don fhasan
an Cathair cheòthaich mhòir Dhùn Eideann –
bu chaomh le Uilleam an t-àite sin
is e ag ràdh ane lawland ers
wad mak a better noyis, ma-tha.
Greitand doun in Gallowa
mar bu dual don gallow breid
a’ dranndail is a’ canntaireachd
le my trechour tung, gun teagamh
that hes taen ane heland strynd.
A’ siùbhal dùthaich Chinneide
bho ‘Carrick tae the Cruives o Cree’,
mur eil luchd-labhairt eile ann,
O, horò, nach bithinn sùgrach
bruidhinn ris gach craoibh a th’ innte.
Nach b’ fheàrr dhomh mo neart a chur
gu sgrìobhadh Beurla Lunnainn shlàn,
’s gum faighinn leabhar bàrdachd beag
is e le còmhdach cruaidh glan
na bhith a’ toirt the Carrick clay
to Edinburgh Cors, a ghràidh. |
I would say that was my right,
likely Walter Mor’s to blame,
dressed up in the Gaelic fashion,
though not mean about the breeches;
he went bare-kneed with saffron hippings
shouting ‘Up with the Gaelic’
before An Comunn was with us at all,
and posh English coming into fashion
in the big smoky city of Edinburgh,
a place that Will (Dunbar) much liked
and he saying that one Lowland arse
would make a better noise indeed.
Grumbling down in Galloway
the habit of yon gallows breed,
muttering and deedling
with my traitor tongue, doubtless,
that has taken a Highland twist.
Travelling in Kennedie’s country
from ‘Carrick to the Cruives of Cree’,
if I find no other speakers (of Gaelic)
O horo won’t I be joyful
speaking to each tree that’s there.
Would it not have been better to spend my powers
writing faultless London English,
so I could get a little poetry book
with clean hard covers on it,
than that I bring the Carrick clay
to Edinburgh Cross, my dear. |
