Anns an adhar dhubh-ghorm ud,
à irde na sìorraidheachd os ar cionn,
bha rionnag a’priobadh ruinn
’ s I freagairt mireadh an teine
ann an cabair taigh m’ athar
a’ bhlianna thugh sinn an taigh le bleideagan sneachda.
Agus siud a’ bhlianna cuideachd
a shlaod iad a’ chailleach don t-sitig,
a shealltainn cho eòlach ’s a bha iad air an Fhirinn,
oir bha nid aig eunlaith an adhair
(agus cròthan aig na caoriach)
ged nach robh àit aice-se anns an cuireadh i a ceann fòidhpe.
A Shrath Nabhair ‘s a Shrath Chill Donnain,
is beag an t-iongnadh ged a chinneadh am fraoch àlainn oirbh,
a’ falach nan lotan a dh’fhàg Pàdraig Sellar ‘s a sheòrsa,
mar a chunniac mi uair is uair boireannach cràbhaidh
a dh’ fhiosraich dòrainn an t-saoghail-sa
is sìth Dhè ’na sùilean.
Translations of this Poem
Translator: Derick Thomson
In that blue-black sky,
as high above us as eternity,
a star was winking at us,
answering the leaping flames of fire
in the rafters of my father’s house,
that year we thatched the house with snowflakes.
And that too was the year
they hauled the old woman out on to the dung-heap,
to demonstrate how knowledgeable they were in Scripture,
for the birds of the air had nests
(and the sheep had folds)
though she had no place in which to lay down her head
O Strathnaver and Strath of Kildonan,
it is little wonder that the heather should bloom on your slopes,
hiding the wounds that Patrick Sellar, and such as he, made,
just as time and time again I have seen a pious woman
who has suffered the sorrow of this world,
with the peace of God shining from her eyes.