OWL 



311 



'S annsa an lag tha air a cul, 

 Na machthir a's mur na'n gall. 



M' annsachd beinn sheasgach nam 

 fuaran, 

 'N riasgach o'n dean an darah ranan, 

 Chuireadh gadhar is glan nuallan, 

 Feigh na'nruaig gu hjinbhir-mheorain. 



B' annsa leara na durdan bodaich, 

 Os ceann lie aig eararadh sil, 

 Buireinan dairah'mbighnedhuinned, 

 Air leacainn beinn e 's e ri sin. 



'N uair bhuiris darah beinne bige, 

 'S a bheicis damh beinn na craige, 

 Freagraidh na daimh ud da cheile 

 'S thig feigh a' coire na snaige. 



Bha mi o'n rugadh mi riabh, 

 Ann an caidribh fhiagh a's earb', 

 Cha n fhachda mi dath air bian, 

 Ach buidhe, riadhach, a's dearg. 



Cha rahi fhin a sgaoil an comunn, 

 A bha eadar mi 's creag ghuanach, 

 Ach an aois ga'r to'irt o cheile, 

 Gur grathunn an fheil a fhuaras. 



Si creag mo chroidhe-se chreag 



ghuanach, 

 A chreag dhuilleach, bhiolaireach, 



bhraonach, 

 Na 'n tulach ard, aluinn, fiarach, 

 Gur cian a ghabh i o'n mhaorach. 



Cha mhinig a bha mi'g eisteachd. 

 Re seitrich na muice mara, 

 Ach 's trie a chuala mi moran. 

 Do chronanaich an daimh allaidh. 



Cha do chuir mi duil san iasgach, 

 Bhi ga iaraidh leis a mhadhar, 

 'S mor gu'm b' annsa leam am 



fiaghach, 

 'S bhi air falbh na'n sliabh is tfhaghar. 



More delightful is the deep valley 



behind it 

 Than the rich fields and proud castles 



of the stranger ! 



my delight ! thou reedy mountain 

 of springs ! 



The rushy bog, whence the stag roars, 

 The hound of clearest cry, who was 



wont to chase 

 The deer to Invermearin. 



More pleasant to me than the hum- 

 ming song of the rustic 



Over the quern, as he grinds the 

 crackling corn. 



The low cry of the stag, of brownish 

 hue, 



On the declivity of the mountain in 

 the storm. 



When roars the stag of the little hill. 

 And bellows the stag of the rocky 



height. 

 These stags answer each other. 

 And the deer ascend alarmed, from 



the corrie of retreat. 



From my birth I have ever sought 

 The society of deers and roes, 



1 never bestowed a look on a skin of 

 any other colour 



Than yellow, red, or brindled. 



I broke not the band of kindness, 

 Which held me to the Craig Guanich, 

 But old age has separated us. 

 Long, however, was the festival I 

 enjoyed. 



Rock of my heart ! thou rock of refuge. 

 The rock of leaves, of water-cresses, 



of freshening showers, 

 Of the lofty, beautiful, grassy heights. 

 Far distant from the shelly brink of 



the sea. 



Seldom did I listen 



To the spouting tumult of the whales, 



But much have I heard 



Of the murmuring of the wild harts. 



I placed not my confidence in 



searching 

 For the swift-gUding fish with the 



baited hook — 

 Far more delightful to me was the 



rapid chase 

 Traversing the purple mountains in 



autumn. 



