EAGLE 271 



Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, 



And thou leavest them all behind ; 



Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves 



Fleet as the tempest wind. 



When the night-storm gathers dim and dark, 



With a shrill and boding scream, 



Thou rushest by the foundering bark 



Quick as a passing dream. 



Lord of the boundless realm of air, 

 In thy Imperial name, 

 The hearts of the bold and ardent dare 

 The dangerous path of fame." 



In contradistinction to this, we give two verses from " Cabar- 

 feidh," which every Highlander knows is a sarcasm : — 



" Chaneil eun anns na speuraibh cho breun ris an iolaire, 

 Cha'n ionnan idir beus di 's do'n fheidh anns na firichean 

 Bidh iadsan moch ag eiridh ri feuchainn a bhiolaire 

 'S bidh is' air scan each caola ri slaodadh a mhionach as 

 Chuir i spuir a stigh na churach, thug i fuil na spadul air, 

 'N t-iain gun sonais 'g iarraidh donais, bidh na coin a' sabaid rithe, 

 Gur breun an t-isean i air iteag, gun fhios caite a stadas i, 

 'S ged olc a lean i h-abhaist, cha'n fhearr far na chadail i. 



Cha 'eil ian ann ri fhaotainn air an t-saoghail so tha cosmhuil riut, 



Cha n' ithear do chuid sithne rinn Firinn a mholachadh, 



Ged th' ort iteag dhireach mar fhior shaighead corranach, 



'S ged thuirt iad riut am Fireun, tha inean au Donais ort, 



'S ioma buachaiUe air fuar chnoc agus cuaille bat' aige, 



Ni guithe bhuan do bhuintinn bhuaithe 's a bhuaileas bho do thapadh thu, 



'Nuair ni thu ruaig am measg nan uan nuair bhios buaireas acras ort ; 



Ma chi thu ' Cabarfeidh,' gum feum thu bhi snasadh dha." 



The following is an attempt at translation: — 



There's no bird in the aether so foul as the eagle is ; 



Quite different are her ways to the deer in the forest glade, 



That rise up so early to browse on the tender herb. 



While she is busy tearing the inside from an old lean horse. 



She sticks her talons in the carcass, blood and gore she revels in ; 



The restless bird. Destruction's dirge, the very curs they snap at her. 



A filthy fowl she's on the wing, her resting-place uncertain is ; 



Tho' bad her way by day is, no better is her sleeping-place. 



Go search the wide world over, the like of you we'll never find : 



To eat your flesh will no one ; by Holy Writ it is condemned. 



Though pinions straight you boast of as any barbed arrow-shaft, 



And though you're dubbed the *' True bird," your claws just like the 



devil are. 

 Many a herd on cold hillside, with staif both stout and trusty too. 

 Devoutly prays you'll keep away, as from your prey he threatens you ; 

 When 'mong the lambs you make a raid, impelled by hungry appetite. 

 If Cabarfeidh appears just, you fly with great celerity. 



An English, or rather a Scottish proverb, says : 



" As long as there is an eagle in Pennan, there will be a Baird 

 in Auchmedden," 



