312 



OWL 



*S aoibhinn an obair an t shealg, 

 'S hit a cuairt ann airde beachd, 

 Gur binne a h aidhir *s a funn 

 Na long a's i dol fiii' beairt. 



Fad a bhithinn beo na mairiunn« 

 Deoth dheth 'n anani ann mo chorp, 

 Dh' fhanainn am fochar an fheigh, 

 Sin an spreidh ann raibh rao thoirt. 



C*^ite an cualas ceol ba bhinne, 

 Na mothar gadhair mhoir a' teachd, 

 Daimh sheanca na'n rith le gleann, 

 Miolchoin a' dol annta 's ast . 



^N uair a bha mi air an da chois, 

 'S moch a shiubhlain bhos a's thall, 

 Ach anois on fhuair mi tri, 

 Cha ghluais mi ach gu min mall. 



Tha blaigh mo bhogh' ann ai 



uchd, 

 Le aogh maol odhar is ait, 

 Ise geanail 's mise gruamach, 

 'S cruaigh an diu nach buan an 



shlat 



A joyful task is the chase— 

 Cheering are its circuits on the heights. 

 There is more delight and melody in 



the sound of its song 

 Thjin in that of the mariner when 



loosing the rattling sail. 



As long as I beheld the light, 



And the bretith remained in my body, 



I would continue within sight of the 



deer. 

 These are the herds in which I take 



pleasure. 



Where were heard sounds more 



melodious 

 Than the cries of the gallant hounds 



approaching ? 

 The slender stag rushing through 



the valley. 

 And the greyhounds mingling with 



the herds. 



When I had only two firm legs. 

 Early did I wander on this side and 



on that. 

 But now that I have acquired a 



third. 

 My motions are stiff and slow. 



The strength of my bow lies useless 



on my breast. 

 To the joy of the dun harmless 



fawn. 

 They sport secure and joyous, while 



I am gloomy and forlorn 

 Alas ! to-day my power continues 



not. 



'S truagh an diu nach beo an 



fheoghain, 

 Gun ann ach an ceo do'n bhuidhinn, 

 Leis 'm ba mhiannach gloir na'n 



gadhar, 

 Gim mheoghail gun 61 gun bhrithinn. 



Bratach Alastair na'n Gleann, 

 A strol faramach re crann, 

 Suaitheantas shoilleir shiol Chuinn, 

 Nach d' chuir suim ann clannabh 

 galL 



'S ann an Cinn-ghiubhsaich na 

 laidhe, 

 Tha namhaid na graighe deirge. 



Alas ! that this day they do not 



live ! 

 That the mist only remains of the 



social band ; 

 Whose joy was in the voice of the 



hounds 

 Witiiout riot, without drinking, 



without clamorous talk. 



The banners of Alexander of the 



glens 

 Its splendid streamer waving from 



the standard. 

 The bright ensign of the race of 



Cona, 

 Who regarded not the children of 



strangers. 



Low is laid in Kingussie 



The foe of the red and dusky herd, 



