17
BHO 'AN CLAIGEANN'
Dùghall Bochanan
'S mi 'm shuidh' aig an uaigh,
Ag amharc mu bruaich,
Feuch claigeann gun snuadh air làr;
Do thog mi e suas,
A' tiomach' gu truagh,
Ga thionndadh mun cuairt am làimh.
Gun àille, gun dreach,
Gun aithne, gun bheachd
Air duine thèid seach na dhàil;
Gun fhiacail na dheud,
No teanga na bheul,
No slugan a ghleusas càil.
Gun ruiteag na ghruaidh,
'S e rùisgte gun ghruaig,
Gun èisteachd na chluais dom dhàn;
Gun anail na shròin
No àile den fhòid,
Ach lag far 'm bu chòir bhith àrd.
Gun deàlradh na shùil
No rosg uimpe dùn',
No fradharc ri h-iùl mar b' àbhaist,
Ach durraga crom
A chleachd bhith san tom
Air cladhach dà tholl nan àit'.
Tha 'n t-eanchainn bha 'd chùl
Air tionndadh gu smùr,
Gun tionnsgal no sùrd air d' fheum;
Gun smuainteach' ad dhàil
Mu philleadh gu bràth
A cheartach' na dh'fhàg thu 'd dhèidh.
FROM 'THE SKULL'
Dugald Buchanan
As I sit by the grave,
Looking over its edge,
On the ground - an expressionless skull;
I picked it up
And melted with pity,
Turning it round in my hand.
No beauty, no colour,
No knowledge nor thoughts
Of people who pass its way;
No teeth in its jaw,
No tongue in its mouth,
No throat to make a tune.
No blush in its cheek,
Stripped of its hair,
No ear to hear my song;
No breath in its nose,
No smell of the earth,
Just a hole where it should jut out.
No shining of eyes,
No lids to close on them,
No sight that once gave guidance.
Instead crooked worms
That lived in knolls
Have dug two holes in their place.
The brain behind them
Has turned to dust,
No ingenuity, no wit to relieve you.
No thoughts will cross it
Of ever returning
To repair what you left behind.
Chan innis do ghnùis
A nise cò thu,
Mas rìgh no mas diùc thu fèin -
'S ionann Alasdair Mòr
Is tràille dhìth lòin
A dh'eug air an òtrach bhreun.
Fhir-dhèanamh na h-uaigh',
Nach cogair thu 'm chluais
Cò 'n claigeann seo fhuair mi 'm làimh,
'S gun cuirinn ris ceist
Mu ghnàths mun do theasd,
Ged nach freagair e 'm-feasd mo dhàn.
'M bu mhaighdeann deas thu
Bha sgiamhach ad ghnùis,
'S deagh shuidheach' ad shùil da rèir,
Led mhaise mar lìon
A' ribeadh mu chridh'
Gach òganaich chitheadh thu fèin?
Tha nise gach àgh
Bha cosnadh duit gràidh
Air tionndadh gu gràin gach neach;
Marbhphaisg air an uaigh,
A chreach thu den bhuaidh
Bha ceangailt' ri snuadh do dhreach.
No 'm breitheamh ceart thu
Le tuigs' agus iùl
Bha rèiteach gach cùis don t-sluagh;
Gun aomadh le pàirt
Ach dìteadh gu bàs
Na h-eucoir bha dàicheil, cruaidh?
No 'n d' reic thu a' chòir
Air ghlacaid den òr
On dream gan robh stòras pailt,
Is bochdan an t-sluaigh,
Fo fhòirneart ro-chruaidh,
A' fulang le cruas na h-airc?
Your face will not tell
Now who you are,
If you were a king or a duke,
Alexander the Great,
Or a hungry slave
Who died on a fetid midden.
O digger of graves,
Whisper in my ear
Whose skull I have here in my hand,
So I can ask of it
Its habits in life,
Though it will never answer my song.
Were you a sharp young lass
With a handsome face,
Whose eyes were elegantly set,
Your beauty a net
That caught the hearts
Of every young man who saw you?
Now each attribute
That won you their love
Makes you the object of everyone's hate;
A curse on the grave
That ruined the effects
Of your appearance and shape.
Or were you a just judge
With wisdom and sense,
Who settled each case for the people;
Who'd be impartial
But sentence to death
Any crime that was probable and vicious?
Or did you sell justice
For a handful of gold
From those of plentiful means,
While those who were poor
And violently used
Suffered the hardness of poverty?
[.]
No 'n seanalair thù,
A choisinn mòr-chliù,
Le d' sheòltachd a' stiùireadh airm?
Air nàimhdean toirt buaidh,
Ga 'n cur ann san ruaig,
'S gam fàgail nan cruachan marbh.
'N robh do chlaidheamh gun bheirt,
No 'n dh'fhàg thu do neart,
'N uair choinnich thu feachd na h-uaigh,
'N uair b' èiginn dhut gèill',
A dh'aindeoin do dheud,
Do dh'armailt' de phèistidh truagh?
Tha na durraig gu treun,
Ri do' choluinn' cur sèis,
'S a' coisneadh ort sèisd gach là;
Is claigeann do chinn,
'Na ghearasdan dìon,
Aig daolagan dìblidh 'n tàmh.
Pàirt a' cladhach' do dheud,
A-steach ann ad bheul,
'S cuid eile ri reub' do chluas;
Dream eil nan sgùd,
Tighinn a-mach air do shùil,
A' spùinneadh 's a' rùsg' do ghruaidh.
[.]
No 'm morair ro mhòr
A thachair am dhòrn,
Neach aig an robh còir air tìr,
Bha iochdmhor ri bochd,
A' cluthadh nan nochd
Rèir pailteas a thòic 's a nì?
[.]
Or were you a general,
Who won great fame
With your skill at leading armies,
Beating down your enemies,
Making them flee,
Leaving them in stacks of the dead?
Or did your sword no deeds,
Did you lose your courage,
When you met the force of the grave,
When you had to surrender
In spite of your zeal
To the army of miserable beasts?
Bravely, the worms
Hum at your body,
And besiege you every day;
And the skull of your head,
Is now a firm fortress,
Where wretched beetles rest.
Some digging your teeth
In your mouth,
Others ripping away at your ears;
And another cluster
Coming out of your eyes,
Looting and stripping your cheek.
[.]
Or is it a splendid Lord,
Who's now in my grasp,
Who was once the owner of land:
Who was kind to the poor,
Who clothed the naked,
Out of his plentiful wealth?
No 'n robh thu ro chruaidh,
A' feannadh do thuath,
'S a' tanach' an gruaidh le màl,
Le h-agartas geur
A' glacadh an sprèidh,
'S am bochdainn ag èigheach dàil?
Gun chridh' aig na daoin'
Bh' air lomadh le h-aois,
Len claiginnibh maola truagh,
Bhith seasamh ad chòir
Gun bhonaid nan dòrn,
Ged tholladh gaoth reòt' an cluas.
Tha nise do thràill,
Gun urram ad dhàil,
Gun ghearsom, gun mhàl, gun mhòd -
Mòr mholadh don bhàs,
A chasgair thu tràth
'S nach d' fhuiling do stràic fon fhòid.
[.]
No 'n ceann thu 'n robh ciall
Is eòlas air Dia,
'S gun d' rinn thu a riar sa chòir,
Ged tha thu 'n diugh rùisgt',
Gun aithne, gun iùl,
Gun teanga, gun sùil, gun sròn?
Gabh misneach san uaigh,
Oir èiridh tu suas
Nuair chluinneas tu fuaim an stuic,
'S do thruailleachd gu lèir
Shìos fàgaidh tu 'd dhèidh
Aig durraga breun an t-sluic.
Deasaichidh Dia
Do mhaise mar ghrian
Bhiodh ag èirigh o sgiath nam beann,
A' cur fradharc ro-gheur
Sna sùilean seo fèin,
'S iad a' deàlradh mar reulta 'd cheann.
Or were you harsh,
Did you fleece your tenants,
Thinning their cheeks with rent,
Seizing their flocks
With sharp prosecutions
Though their poverty should plead for delay?
Their courage broken,
Them stripped by age,
With their poor bald skulls,
Standing before you
No caps in their fists,
Though frozen winds pierced...
