Moladh Beinn Dóbhrain (extract)
4. Siubhal
A’ bheinn luiseanach fhailleanach
Mheallanach lìontach,
Gun choimeas dh’ a fallaing
Air thalamh na Crìosdachd:
‘S ro-neònach tha mise,
Le bòidhchead a sliosa,
Nach ‘eil còir aic’ an ciste
Air tiotal na rìoghachd;
‘S i air dùbladh le gibhtibh,
‘S air lùisreadh le miosaibh
Nach ‘eil bitheant a’ bristeadh
Air phriseanaibh tìre.
Làn-trusgan gun deireas,
Le usgraichean coille,
Bàrr-guc air gach doire,
Gun choir’ ort r’ a ìnnseadh;
Far an uchdardach coileach,
Le shriutaichibh loinneil,
‘S eoin bhuchallach bheag’ eile
Le ‘n ceileiribh lìonmhor.
‘S am buicean beag sgiolta,
Bu sgiobalt air grìne,
Gun sgiorradh gun tubaist,
Gun tuisleadh gun dìobradh;
Crodhanadh biorach,
Feadh coire ‘ga shireadh,
Feadh fraoich agus firich,
Air mhireadh ‘ga dhìreadh;
Feadh rainich is barraich
Gum b’arraideach inntinn;
Ann an ìosal gach feadain,
‘S air àirde gach creagain,
Gu mireanach beiceasach
Easgannach sìnteach.
‘N uair a théid e ‘na bhoile
Le clisge ‘sa’ choille,
‘S e ruith feadh gach doire,
Air dheireadh cha bhì e;
Leis an eangaig bu chaoile
‘S e b’ aotruime sìnteag,
Mu chnocanaibh donna
Le ruith dara-tomain,
‘S e togairt an coinneamh
Bean-chomuinn os n-ìosal.
Tha mhaoisleach bheag bhrangach
‘Sa’ ghleannan a chòmhnaidh,
‘S i fuireach ‘san fhireach
Le minneanan òga :
Cluas bhiorach gu claisteachd,
Sùil chorrach gu faicinn,
‘S i earbsach ‘na casaibh
Chur seachad na mòintich.
Ged thig Caoilte ‘s Cù Chulainn,
‘S gach duine de ‘n t-seòrs’ ud,
Na tha dhaoine ‘s a dh’ eachaibh,
Air fasdadh Rìgh Deòrsa,
Nan tèarnadh a craiceann
O luaidhe ‘s o lasair,
Cha chual’ is chan fhac’ i
Na ghlacadh r’a beò i;
‘S i gradcharach fadchasach
Aigeannach neònach
Gealcheireach gasganach,
Gealtach roimh mhadadh,
Air chaisead na leacainn
Cha saltradh i còmhnard;
‘S i noigeanach gnoigeasach
Gogcheannach sòrnach,
Biorshuileach sgurshuileach
Frionasach furachair,
A’ fuireach ‘s a’ mhunadh,
An do thuinich a seòrsa.
Translations of this Poem
Ben Dorain
Translator: Iain Crichton Smith
4. Siubhal
Luxuriant mountain
sprouting and knolled
more healthy and cloudless
than all hills in the world.
How long my obsession!
My song and my passion!
She’s the first in the nation
for grace and for beauty.
Her gifts are so many,
her fruits are so bonny,
and rarer than any
her bushes and leafage
in flawless green raiment
as bright as the diamond
your blooms in agreement
like elegant music.
The cock with his vital
and rapid recital,
colourful, brutal,
among the small birds.
The buck small and nimble
quick on the green
neat as a thimble –
a clever machine!
Bright-hooved in the weather,
as light as a feather,
among moorland and heather
exploring the corrie
he saunters forever
through bracken and story
along by each river
on the height of each hillock
playful and vivid
eel-like, elusive.
When he’s startled to motion
he’s as swift as your vision
with speed and precision
he speeds through each forest
without seeming exertion
he’s nearest, then furthest!
In the autumn-hued landscape
he skips in his gallop
each second brown hillock
as he’s greeting his sweetheart.
His small doe is dwelling
with the fawns in a corrie:
sullen and snarling
she guards them with fury:
sharp ear cocked for hearing,
quick eye ever peering,
she relies on the veering
quick tricks of her motion.
Though Caoilt and Cuchulain
are expert and nimble
and every battalion
King George can assemble
if the flash and the bullet
would leave her unsullied
no man on this planet
would catch her or find her:
just like the minute and brilliant cinder.
White-tailed and lightning-like
though hunting dogs can frighten her –
steep though the height to her
you’ll not see her blunder.
Haughty and spritely she’s
a head-tossing wonder!
sharp-eyed, disdainful,
restless and wary,
her home is the corrie
along with her neighbours.
