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Catrìona NicIlleBhàin Ghrannd

Aig beul na h-oidhche air latha Cèitein,
Sheas mi air Buachaill’-Èite,
A’ beachdachadh air na slèibhte
’Bha ’g èirigh gu h-èibhinn mu’n cuairt;
Sìdh-chailinn, Beinn Dòbhrain,
Agus Cruachan ’n a mhòrachd,
Bidein uaibhreach Ghlinn’ Cothann,
Beinn Nibheis, rìgh uasal nan cruach;
Gach mullach dhiubh breacta
Le badain sneachda
’S a’ ghrian ’gan òradh le gathan glòire
A beannachd ’s a soraidh
Mu ’n do luidh i ’na còs aig a’ chuan.

O gu ’m b’àluinn na gleanntan
Shìos aig ìochdar nam beanntan,
Le ’n sruthan ’nan deann-ruith,
A’ glaodhaich ri chèil’ o gach sliabh!
Gu ’m bu mhilis leam èisdeachd
Ris an sprèidh ’s iad a’ geumnaich,
Na laoidh leò a’ leumnaich;
An ruadh-bhoc ’s am fiadh
’Nan luidhe gu foisneach ’s an riasg.

Air raon ’s air stùc
Throm shil an driùchd:
Mar chanail dh’ fhàs anail nam beann;
A nìos à ìochdar nan gleann
Bhrùchd boltrach cùbhraidh,
Le spìosraidh o mhìltean tùiseir:
O lus, o phreas, o chraoibh,
O thonnan dorch’ an fhraoich,
Gach luibh d’ am b’ fheàrr fàile
Dhòirt a bhrìgh air an àile,
Is measgta leis uile gu lèir
Sìor chrònan nan caochan, is osnaich nan geug.
Chiar am feasgar air Gualainn Liath-Ghiuthais
A nìos à broilleach Ghlinn Urachaidh
Dh’èirich an ceò;
A nall bho Rudh’ Ardnamurchan
Thionail na neòil:
Mar gheòla ’seòladh ’measg chùirn na h-iar-dheas
Air muir na h-iarmailt’
Bha a’ ghealach òg

Faoidh a caoin dheàrrs’,
Thar cuan nan linntean a dh’aom,
Thàinig samhladh soillseach nan Laoch;
o thalla nan neul
Theirinn cuideachd chliùiteach nam Bàrd;
Mu’n cuairt daibh, nan ceò-èideadh,
Mar cheathach nan slèibhte
Dh’ iadh taibhse, is cruth mu gach beàrn.

A Blooming Garland from Imagination’s Trials

Katherine Whyte Grant

Translation by Ross Christie

At dusk on a day in May,
I stood on the Herdsman of Etive
Pondering the slopes that gayly rose around me;
Schiehallion, Ben Doran,
Cruachan and its greatness,
The haughty peaks of Glencoe,
Ben Nevis, noble king of the stacks;
Each summit speckled
with patches of snow
And the sun gilting them with rays of glory
and with her blessing and farewell
Before she came to lie at the sea.

O the beauty of the glens
down at the bottom of the hills,
With their streams in spate,
Crowing to each other from each slope!
Sweetly I listen
To the stock bellowing,
And their calves with them leaping;
The red buck and the deer
Lying peacefully amongst the grasses.

On plain and peak
Heavy dropped the dew;
Like speech, the breath of the mountains grew;
Up from the base of the glens
A sweet burst of fragrance came,
With spices from a thousand sources;
From plant, and thicket, and tree,
From the dark waves of heather,
The greatest fragrances of all the plants
Spilled their essence upon the air,
And mixed into all of this
Was the constant purring of the river’s wash, and the sighing of the boughs.

The evening faded over the shoulder of Liath-Ghiuthas.
Up from the breast of Glen Orchy
The mist arose.
Over from Ardnamurchan
the clouds assembled:
Like a small boat sailing amongst the rocky southwest
The moon was young.

Her gentle dazzle faded,
Over the sea of centuries past.
The bright vision of the Heroes came
from the hall of the clouds.
I’d say too, the famed bards were amongst them.
Around them, their misty apparel,
Like the smirr of the slopes.
An apparition came, and gave shape to that which was not there