| Bùth Dhòmhnaill ’IcLeòid | Donald MacLeod’s Pub |
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| Bùth Dhòmhnaill ’IcLeòid | Donald MacLeod’s Pub (excerpt) |
| …‘Cuir a-nuas leth-tè chruaidh,’ thuirt fear shuas mun cheann àrd, ‘Glainne fìon,’ thuirt fear shìos air bheil fìor choltas ceàird; ‘Happy Day, come away,’ labhair tè chamach bhàn A bha bhlàth air a sròin gun do thòisich i tràth Ann am bùth Dhòmhnaill ’IcLeòid. Chì thu deòraidheach ruadh agus spuic air a mhaol ’N dèidh bhith Dòmhnach gu Luan glaiste suas aig na maoir; Dh’fhalbh e ’s dh’òl e tè chruaidh ’s ghabh an truaghan an caoch, ’S chuir e eòlas an uair sin g’ eil smuais anns gach braon Th’ ann am bùth Dhòmhnaill ’IcLeòid. Nì sinn cinnteach mum falbh sinn à balgam no dhà Thig à Ile thar fairg’ air eil dealbh an Eich Bhàin; Toradh brìgheil an arbhair as ainmeile gràn – Cha bhi rìoghachd na h-Alba neo-shealbhach gu bràth Fhad ’s a dh’fhàsas innt’ eòrn’. Their na làithean a dh’aom orm caoineadh nan deur – Tha a bhlàth air an t-saoghal g’ eil saorsa dol sìos Nuair tha ’m bàrd ’s e Dihaoine gun bhraon thèid ’na bheul, ’S e air fhàgail cho daor aig na daoine gun chiall, An luchd-riaghlaidh a th’ oirnn. Anns an aimsir a dh’fhalbh thug iad Albainn fo chìs, Rinn iad ìocshlaint nam buadh a chur suas ann am prìs Gus na gheàrr iad on t-sluagh e, mo thruaighe ri inns’ – Gun do thràigh iad am fuaran bu dualach dhan tìr Bha na mìltean ag òl. Thràigh iad fuaran nam buadh, dh’fhàg iad sluagh ann an càs, Tha na ceàrnachan tuath ’s iad air thuar a bhith fàs; Tha na fàrdaichean fuar a bha uaireigin blàth, ’S chan eil àbhachd aig cluais mur eil fuaim a’ mhuir-làin, Far am b’ àbhaisteach ceòl. |
…‘Send over a small whisky,’ said a man up at the high end, ‘Glass of wine,’ said a man down here with a real tinker’s look on him; ‘Happy Day, come away,’ said a talkative blonde Who made clear by her nose that she started early In Donald MacLeod’s pub. You’ll see a red-haired vagrant with a bruise on his forehead Who’d been from Sunday to Monday locked up in a cell; He went off and had a whisky and the wretch went crazy And discovered then there’s a punch in each drop That’s in Donald MacLeod’s pub. We’ll be sure before leaving to have a mouthful or two That’s crossed the sea from Islay under the White Horse label; The substantial product of the corn whose grain is most famous – The kingdom of Scotland will prosper forever As long as her barley grows. Bygone days make me weep tears – It seems from the world that freedom’s on the decline When the poet on a Friday puts not a drop in his mouth, For it’s been made so expensive by senseless people, Those who rule over us. In times gone by they brought Scotland under tribute, They raised the price of the magic elixir Till they took it from the people, I’m sorry to say, And dried up the well that was traditional to the land And that thousands drank. They dried up the magic well, they left folk in a strait, The northern districts are almost deserted; The dwellings are cold that were formerly warm And no ear has good cheer but the incoming tide Where once there was music. |
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dòmhnall
mac an t-saoir/
Donald Macintyre |
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| Ealaíontóir/Artist: Peannaire/Calligrapher: Aistritheoir/Translator: Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: |
David Faithfull The Artist Ronald Black John MacInnes |
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