| Motor-Boat Heidhsgeir | The Heisgeir Motor-Boat |
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| Motor-Boat Heidhsgeir | The Heisgeir Motor-Boat |
| Soraidh leis a’ bhàta a dh’fhàg leinn Port Ròigh ’S a chaidh leinn gu Màisgeir sàbhailte tron cheò; Faoileag gheal an t-sàile fàlaireachd ma sròin, Pliuthannan dhen phràisich oirre ’n àite sheòl. A’ dol seachad Stocaigh, cop oirre le spàirn, Hìobhairean ag osnaich ’s iad gun fhois gun tàmh, Suaile trom gu socair leigeil roc am bàrr ’S nuallan aig gach oitir roladh moil ’s ga chnàmh. Dol timcheall na h-Easgainn feasgar greannach fuar, ’S ann leam fhìn bu leisg e dol a shreap ri stuaigh; Marannan a’ cleasachd, tighinn on deas gu tuath, Sùil airson na h-Eiste, ’s eagal oirnn ro gruaim. Sruth is gaoth a’ còimhstri sa chòmhrag ri chèil’ - Cha robh ’n coltas bòidheach dol gam pògadh fhèin; Clann Dòmhnaill mo luaidh ann ri guaillibh a chèil’, Bristeadh geal ma sròin ga còmhdach às a dèidh. Ghabh i ris an fhuaradh, bhuail i ann le spàirn, Gun d’ sgoilt i le a gualainn rathad fuar fon t-sàl; Dh’èirich i mar fhaoileag air a faobhar àrd, Cuideam air a sliasaid, fiaradh air a sàil. Seonaidh Mòr ga stiùireadh, ’s gu robh shùil cho geur Ri caiptean air criùsair dol a dh’ionnsaigh euchd; Bha mise ’s mi crùbadh ann an cùil leam fhèin, ’S an crodh ris an taobh-stoc air an taodadh rèidh. Chan eil gheat no crùsair no tè-shiùil fon ghrèin Gheibh nad uisge stiùrach ’s tu fo shùrd do cheum; Bidh iad dèanamh cùrs’ ort, ’n dùil gum bi sibh rèidh – Fàgaidh tu gun diù iad ’s siùbhlaidh tu leat fhèin. |
Farewell to the boat that left Port Ròigh with us And went with us to Màisgeir safely through the mist; The white crest of the ocean dancing round her prow, With flippers of brass on her instead of sails. Going past Stocaigh, foam on her with effort, Heaving combers moaning, restless on the move, A heavy swell gently bringing tangle to the surface With all the shallows howling, rolling shingle and grinding it. Going round the ‘Eel’ on a cold surly evening, It’s I who was reluctant to face up to its waves, Seas wrestling with each other, coming south to north, Looking out for the Eist, we were afraid of its menace. Wind and current wrestling in combat with each other - They looked far from pretty moving in for the kiss; My darling MacDonalds standing shoulder to shoulder, White breakers at her bow raining down further aft. She drove on to windward, struck with all her might, Split with her forebreast a cold path through the brine; She soared up like a seagull with her bow held high, With her weight to one side, and her keel at a slant. Big John steered her, and his eye was as sharp As a cruiser captain’s when sailing into battle; I was crouched in a corner all by myself With the cattle at the gunwale tethered neatly in line. No yacht nor cruiser nor sailing-boat exists Which can catch your rudder-wake when you’re well under way; They’ll set a course for you, assuming you’ll be easy – But you’ll leave them looking silly and press on by yourself. |
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dòmhnall ruadh
chorùna/
Donald Macdonald |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
Fiona R. Hutchison Réiltín Murphy Ronald Black Norman Campbell |
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