Am Bùrach
Tha am bùrach a’ coiseachd tarsainn Drochaid Sheòrais,
a’ brunndail ‘Àidh Bhith’ ‘Àidh Bhith’ mar gum b’e geas
a th’ann ’s tron chlach tha bùrach nan linntean
a’ sruthadh sìos a Geata nam Bà mar chofaidh tro uachdar reòite.
Dhèanadh na Ròmanaich bùrach agus theireadh iad fois ris,
ach uaireannan chan eil dad a dhìth ort ach bùrach:
am faireachdainn ’ud gun robh thu seo uaireigin roimhe
ach gun chinnt’ cùin no ciamar no carson.
A’ ghrian a’ dealradh, neo-chneasta, air an Leabharlann Nàiseanta –
’s docha gur e sin am bùrach de dh’ eòlas a tha na broinn
nach deach eadar-theangachadh fhathast:
làmhan sgliudach a’ bùrachadh iomallan grinn.
Dh’fhàg sinn dùthaich dhuibh agus rinn sibh bùrach dheth.
Air neo: dh’fhàg sinn bùrach dhuibh agus rinn sibh dùthaich dheth,
ach chan eil e gu dìofar cho fad’s a tha bùrach gu leòr air fhàgail
gus tè bheag a ghabhail. O Thìr nam Beann ’s nam Bùrachan,
gus am bi sinn beò am bùrach seo a-rithist: slàinte!
Isd - cha robh am bùrach a-riamh air bhruidhinn an seo.
Translations of this Poem
The Bourach
Translator: Pàdraig MacAoidh Peter Mackay
The bourach is tramping down George the Fourth
muttering ‘I V’ ‘I V’ as if it’s a kind of an enchantment
and through the stones bourach drips to the Cowgate
like coffee through ice cream.
The Romans would make a bourach and call it peace,
but sometimes all you need is a bourach,
that feeling of having been here, before, though
not sure when or how or why.
The sun shining uncannily on the National Library
might just be the bourach of knowledge
that lies untranslated inside: spidery hands
bouraching the elegant margins.
We left you a country and you made a bourach of it.
Or we left you a bourach and you made a country of it –
ach, it doesn’t matter as long as there’s enough bourach left over
for a wee dram. Slanj va! Land of hills and bourachs,
lang may your bourach reek!
Wheesht: the bourach was never spoken here.
About this poem
Unpublished, but written from the Push the Boat Out Poetry Mile project
