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An Clàrsair Dall, Ruairidh MacMhurich

Earann air a thaghadh le Ruaraidh Iain MacLeòid

Chaidh a’ chuibhle mun cuairt,
gun do thionndaidh gu fuachd am blàths.
Nàile! Chunna mi uair
dùn flathail nan cuach a thràigh,
far ’m biodh tathaich nan duan,
iomadh mathas gun chruas, gun chàs:
chaidh an latha sin uainn,
’s tha na taighean gu fuaraidh fàs.

Dh’ fhalbh Mac-Tall’ às an Dùn
’n àm sgarachdainn dhuinn rar triath.
’S ann thachair e rium
air seacharan bheann san t-sliabh.
Labhair esan air thùs:
‘Math mo bharail gur tu, mas fìor,
chunna mise fo mhùirn,
ron uiridh an Dùn nan cliar.’

‘Tha Mac-Talla fo ghruaim
anns an talla 'm biodh fuaim a’ cheòil,
’s ionad tathaich nan cliar
gun aighear, gun mhiadh, gun phòit,
gun mhire, gun mhùirn,
gun iomrachadh dlùth nan còrn,
gun phailteas ri dàimh,
gun mhacnas, gun mhànran beòil.

‘Beir an soraidh seo bhuam
gu beachdaidh gu Ruairidh òg,
agus innis dha fhèin
meud a chunnairt mas e MacLeòid;
e ag amharc na dhèidh
air an Iain seo dh’ eug ’s nach beò;
gum bu shaoibhir a chliù,
is nach fhàgadh e ’n Dùn gun cheòl.’

The Great Song of MacLeod

The Blind Harper, Roderick Morrison

Translation by Anne Lorne Gillies

Extract chosen by Roddy John MacLeod

The wheel has gone round,
turning warmth to cold.
Alas! I saw, once upon a time,
our princely castle before its conviviality ebbed away,
where flourished poetry
and every generous, unstinting virtue:
but those days have gone
and the halls are chilly and deserted.

The Echo fled the castle
at the time when we parted from our chief.
He and I met up with each other
wandering on the mountainside.
He addressed me first:
‘Am I right in thinking it was you
whom I used to see enjoying the conviviality,
over a year ago, among the bards in the Castle?’

‘The Echo is subdued now
in the hall where once music sounded –
and the haunt of bards is now
without joy, without pleasure, without conviviality,
without sport, without play,
without the serried ranks of drinking horns,
without hospitality towards learned men,
without wantonness, without singing.

‘Bear this last unequivocal message
from me to young Roderick,
and tell him to his face
how much is at stake if he calls himself MacLeod;
let him look back over his shoulder
at the late Iain who died,
who was famous for his largesse
and who would never have left the Castle without music.’