Sgreapadal
Sgreapadal anns a’ mhadainn
ris a’ Chomraich ’s ris a’ ghrèin,
Sgreapadal a tha cho bòidheach,
a cheart cho bòidheach ri Hallaig.
Cha chuirear briathran air bòidhche,
cha dèanar dealbh no ceòl no dàn dhi.
Sgreapadal anns a’ Chèitean
nuair nach eil an fhraineach òg
ach mu leth-troigh a dh’àirde,
cha mhòr os cionn an fheòir.
Sgreapadal an crò ’s a’ bhuaile
le ballachan a deas ’s an iar ’s a tuath,
agus an ear an linne
a-null gu Comraich Ma Ruibhe.
Tha cuimhne leth- mharbh air Ma Ruibhe,
gun ach ainmean sgrìobhte marbh
air a’ chloinn ‘s na fir ‘s na mnathan
a chuir Rèanaidh às an fhearann
eadar ceann a tuath na Creige
’s an Caisteal a thogadh do MhacSuain
no do Mhac Ghille Chaluim
airson fòirneart agus dìon.
Uaine ruadh-dhreagach is buidhe
tulaich gu fàire a’ Chùirn Mhòir
san àird an iar os cionn na bruthaich
a’ teàrnadh gu lèanagan uaine,
’s a’ choille ghiuthais dorcha ’s uaine
tuath gus an ruig i ’n Caisteal
’s na creagan liath-ghlas air a chùl.
Agus mu dheas ceann creag Mheircil
ceudan troigh os cionn an fheòir,
tùir is cuilbh is stìopaill
le bannan breaca liath-ghlas
’nan gile clach-aoil ris a’ ghrèin.
Bruthach chas ’na càrnaich
an ear sìos o cheann na Creige
fo bheithe, caorann is feàrna;
’s an Eaglais Bhrèige sa mhuir-làn
nuair tha an reothairt ’na buille.
Cha b’ e a breugan-se bhrath an sluagh
ri linn an diadhaire mhòir,
Rèanaidh, a thog an tuath
o cheithir bailtean deug
ann an Eilean nam Fear Mòra,
Ratharsair Mhòr nan Leòdach.
Dh’fhag Rèanaidh Sgreapadal gun daoine,
gun taighean, gun chrodh ach caoraich,
ach dh’fhàg e Sgreapadal bòidheach;
ra linn cha b’ urrainn dha a chaochladh.
Thogadh ròn a cheann
agus cearban a sheòl,
ach an-diugh anns an linnidh
togaidh long-fo-thuinn a turraid
agus a druim dubh sliòm
a’ maoidheadh an nì a dhèanadh
smùr de choille, de lèanagan ’s de chreagan,
a dh’fhàgadh Sgreapadal gun bhòidhche
mar a dh’fhàgadh e gun daoine.
Taigh Mòr a’ Chlachain ’s na fiachan
a thug e air Mac Ghille Chaluim
trom air tuath gach baile;
agus Rèanaidh diadhaidh,
ged nach robh esan anns na fiachan
leis na chuir an fhearas-mhòr
sac air Seumas Mac Ghille Chaluim
agus fògairt air a mhac,
aig a’ mhiad is aigan loinn
a chuir iad an Taigh Mhòr.
Fuidheall beag dhe dhaoine
ann an Eilean nam Fear Mòra
is turraidean dubha san linnidh
eadar Sgreapadal ’s a’ Chomraich
a’ fanaid air leac Ma Ruibhe
’s air Uamha ’n Fhuamhaire ’n Rònaigh
agus a sreathan beaga chlach,
suidheachain fhear is bhan is cloinne
ag èisteachd ri Maighstir Ruairi
ag innse nack eil an seo baile mhaireas,
Rèanaidh ann no Rèanaidh às.
Tha ’n linne gorm ris a’ ghrèin
agus na speuran rùiste
is bannan geala Creag Mheircil
a’ deàrrsadh anns an àird a deas
os cionn na coille beithe ’s calltainn,
caorainn agus feàrna.
’S os cionn nam bruthaichean uaine
far a bheil an fhraineach òg
’s am feur òg ’nam brat-làir
a-null gu taobh na coille giuthais
a tha ruigheachd Caisteal Bhròchaill.
Gàireachdaich agus còineadh,
gaol is mire ’s fulangas,
fearg is fuath agus gamhlas,
treuntas, gealt is bristeadh-cridhe,
agus uairean de shonas caomh
air Sgreapadal fhàgail
mar a dh’fhàg iad Caisteal Bhròchaill
mun d’fhàg iad tuath Sgreapadail
’s na Feàrnaibh agus Hallaig
agus gach baile
dhe na ceithir deug tha fàs
air sgàth airgead Rèanaidh
agus airgead MhicCoinnich.
Tha tùir eile ain linnidh
a’ fanaid air an tùr a thuit
dhe mullach Creag a’ Chaisteil,
tùir as miosa na gach tùr
a thog ainneart air an t-saoghal:
pearasgopan ’s sliosan slìoma
dubha luingeas a’ bhàis
a mharbh mìltean Nagasaki,
bàs an teis mhòir ’s na toite,
am bàs a dhèanadh an lèirchreach
eadhon air a’ bhòidhche
a dh’fhàs ann an Sgreapadal
agus a tha ann fhathast
a dh’aindeoin gnìomh dona Rèanaidh,
a shannt is fhearas-mhòir.
Ach ’s e luingeas-fo-thuinn
agus an luingeas adhair
agus an dadman is an neodron!
Chan e bhochdainn mhall chràiteach
an tiodhlac ach an lèirsgrios obann
a thuiteas às an iarmailt
’s a dh’èireas às gach bruthaich
’s a leanas ris gach lèanaig àlainn
eadar ceann a tuath na Creige
agus a’ choille ghiuthais
eadar Sgreapadal ’s an Caisteal.
’S e ’n sannt ’s an fhearas-mhòr
a dh’fhàg Sgreapadal gun daoine
agus bann iarainn nan lagh
a chuir grèim-teanchrach air an t-sluagh,
a’ bagairt togail os an cionn
Cùirn Mhòra dhubha ’n acrais
is Creagan Meircil na gorta
air am fàs an fhraineach phuinnsein
on cinn an rocaid mharbhteach,
bom idrigin is neodroin.
Translations of this Poem
Screapadal
Translator: Sorley MacLean
Screapadal in the morning
facing Applecross and the sun,
Screapadal that is so beautiful,
quite as beautiful as Hallaig.
No words can be put on beauty,
no picture, music or poem made for it.
Screapadal in May
when the young bracken is
but half a foot in height,
hardly above the grass.
Screapadal the sheep-pen and the cattle-fold
with walls to the south and west and north,
and to the east the sea-sound
over to the Sanctuary of Maol Rubha.
There is a half-dead memory of Maol Rubha
but only the dead written names
of the children, men and women
whom Rainy put off the land
between the north end of the Rock
and the Castle built for MacSwan
or for Mac Gille Chaluim
for violence and refuge.
Green, red-rocked and yellow
knolls to the horizon of the Carn Mor
in the west above the brae
coming down to green meadows,
and the pine wood dark and green
north right to the Castle
and the light-grey rocks beyond it.
And to the south the end of Creag Mheircil
hundreds of feet above the grass,
towers, columns and steeples
with speckled light-grey bands,
limestone whiteness in the sun.
A steep brae with scree-cairns
to the east down from the end of the Rock
under birch, rowan and alder,
and the Church of Falsehood in high water
when the spring tide is at its height.
It was not its lies that betrayed the people
in the time of the great pietist,
Rainy, who cleared
fourteen townships
in the Island of the Big Men,
Great Raasay of the MacLeods.
Rainy left Screapadal without people,
with no houses or cattle, only sheep,
but he left Screapadal beautiful;
in his time he could do nothing else.
A seal would lift its head
and a basking-shark its sail,
but today in the sea-sound
a submarine lifts its turret
and its black sleek back
threatening the thing that would make
dross of wood, of meadows and of rocks,
that would leave Screapadal without beauty
just as it was left without people.
The Big House of Clachan and the debts
that it brought on Mac Gille Chaluim
heavy on the tenantry of each township;
and godly Rainy,
though he was not in such debt
as the social climbing put
with its burden on James Mac Gille Chaluim
and brought exile on his son,
with the largeness and the beauty
that they added to the Big House.
A little remnant of its people
in the Island of the Big Men
and black turrets in the sound
between Screapadal and the Sanctuary
mocking the flagstone of Maol Rubha
and the Giant’s Cave in Rona
with its little rows of stones,
seats of men and women and children
listening to Maighstir Ruairi
telling that here is no abiding city,
Rainy or no Rainy.
The sound is blue in the sun
and the skies naked
and the white bands of Creag Mheircil
glittering to the south
above the wood of birch and hazel,
rowan and alder,
and above the green braes
where the young bracken
and the young grass are a carpet
over to the side of the pine wood
that reaches Brochel Castle.
Laughter and weeping,
love, merriment and suffering,
anger, hatred and spite,
heroism, cowardice and heartbreak,
and times of gentle happiness
have left Screapadal
just as they left Brochel Castle
before they left the crofters of Screapadal
and of Fearns and Hallaig
and of every township
of the fourteen desolate
for Rainy’s money
and Mackenzie’s.
There are other towers on the Sound
mocking the tower that fell
from the top of Castle Rock,
towers worse than every tower
that violence raised in the world:
the periscopes and sleek black sides
of the ships of the death
that killed the thousands of Nagasaki,
the death of the great heat and the smoke,
the death that would bring utter devastation
even on the beauty
that grew in Screapadal
and is still there
in spite of Rainy’s bad deed,
his greed and social pride.
But the submarines
and the aeroplanes
and the atom and neutron!
The slow sore poverty is not
their gift but the sudden holocaust
that will fall from the sky
and will rise from every brae
and will cling to every beautiful meadow
between the north end of the Rock
and the pine wood
between Screapadal and the Castle.
Greed and social pride
left Screapadal without people,
and the iron band of laws
that put a vice-like grip on the people,
threatening to raise above them
the black Carn-Mors of hunger
and the Meircil rocks of famine
on which grow the poisonous bracken
from which come the deadly rocket,
hydrogen and neutron bombs.
