OWL 



313 



Lamh dheas a mharbhadh a bhradain, 

 Ba mhath e 'n t shabaid na feirge. 



Dh' fhag mi san Ruaidhe so shios, 

 Am fear a b' olc dhorasa bhas, 

 'S trie a chuir e a thagradh an cruas, 

 Ann cluais an daimh ehabraich ann 



Raonull Macdhomhnaill ghlais, 

 Fear a fhuair foghlum gu deas, 

 Deagh Mhac Dhonuill a chiiil chais, 

 Ni'm beo neach a choraig leis. 



Alastair croidhe na'n gleann, 

 Gun e bhi ann mor a chreaeh, 

 'S trie a leag u air an torn, 

 Mae na sonn leis a ehoin ghlais. 



Alastair Mac Ailein mhoir, 

 'S trie a raharbh sa bheinn na feigh, 

 'S a leanadh fad air an toir, 

 Mo dhoigh gur Domhnullach treun. 



A's Domhnullach u gun mhearachd, 

 Gur tu buinne geal na cruaghach, 

 Gur cairdeach u do Chlannchattain, 

 'S gur a dalt u do chreig ghuanaieh. 



An arm dexterous to pierce the 



salmon 

 And powerful in the strife of wrath. 



In that shealing below I have left 

 Him whose death was woeful to me, 

 Often did he fix his shafts 

 In the ear of the brown-antlered 

 stag. 



Ronald, the son of the hoary Donald, 

 Who knew all that the schools could 



teach. 

 Excellent Macdonald of the clustering 



locks. 

 He lives not who can compare with 



him. 



Dear loved Alexander of the glens. 

 Desolation remains where he is no 



more. 

 Often did he lay prone on the hills 

 The son of the stag, with his dark 



grey dog. 



Alexander, thou son of the mighty 



Allan, 

 Fatal to the deer of the mountain. 

 Long persevering in the chase, 

 My hope is still in the brave son of 



Donald. 



A Macdonald thou art without fail, 

 A stream of glittering steel 

 Allied to the Clan Chattan 

 And a nursling of the Craig Guanich. 



Here follows a verse said by Mrs Grant to be "scarce 

 intelligible, and untranslatable. The bard seems entering on 

 an enthusiastic reverie." It may, however, be given as follows: — 



Ma dh' fhagadh DomhnuU a 

 muigh, 

 Na aonar a' tigh na fleagh, 

 'S gearr a bhios gucag air bhuil, 

 Luchd a chruigh bioidh iad as tigh. 



Mi'm shuidh air sioth bhruth na'm 



beann, 

 A coimhead air ceann loch a treig, 

 Creag ghuanach am biodh an t 



shealg, 

 Grianan ard am biodh na feigh. 



Chi mi na dubh-lochain uam, 

 Chi mi chruach a's beinn bhreac, 



If Donald was left outside 

 Alone in the house of the feast. 

 Hardly will a flower have formed 

 Before the cattle raiders will be in. 



On the turret of fairies I sit, where 



the retiring sun 

 Points his last beam upwards to the 



summit of the hill, 

 I look on the end of Loch Treig, 

 The sheltering rock where the chase 



was wont to be. 



I see the dark lakes dim at a distance, 

 I see the mighty pile, and many 

 coloured mountain, 



