I moved you over to this thread, Maple Leaf Boy. It seemed to be a more appropriate home. I found lyrics for "Culloden Day" here (click)
-Joe-
CULLODEN DAY
John Roy Stewart (1700-1752)
Latha Chul-Lodair Gur mór mo chùis mhuliad,
’S mì ri caoineadh na guin atà ’m thìr;
A Rìgh! bi làidir, ’s tù ’s urrainn
Ar nàimhdean a chumail fo chìs;
Oirnne is làidir Diùc Uilleam,
An rag-mheirlaeach, tha guin aige dhuinn;
B’è sud salcahr nan sgeallag
Tighinn an uachdar air chruithneachd an fhuinn.Mo chreach, Teàlach Ruadh bòidheach
Bhith fo bhinn aig Rìgh Deòrsa nam biasd,
B’è sud dìteadh na còrach,
An Fhìrinn ’s a beòil foipe sìos;
Ach, a Rìgh, ma’s è ’s deòin leat,
Cuir an rìghachd air seòl a chaidh dhinn,
Cuir Rìgh dligheach na còrach
Ri linn na tha beò os ar cinn.Mo chreach, armailt nam breacan
Bhith air sgaoikeadh ’s air sgapadh’s gach àit’,
Aig fìor-bhalgairean Shasuinn
Nach do ghnàthaich bonn ceartais ’nan dàil;Ged a bhuannaich iad baiteal,
Cha b’ann d’an cruadal no ’n tapadh a bhà,
Ach gaoth aniar agus frasan
Thighinn a nìos oirnn bhàrr machair nan Gall.Is truagh nach robh sinn ans Sasunn
Gun bhith cho teann air ar dachaidh ’s a bhà,
’S cha do sgaoil sinn cho aithghearr,
Bhiodh ar dìchioll ri sesamh na b’fhearr;
Ach ’s droch-dhraoidheachd us dreachdan
Rinneadh dhuinne nu’n deachas ’nan dàil
Air na frìthean eòlach do sgap sinn,
’S bu mhì-chomhdhail gun d’fhàirtlich iad oirnn.Mo chreach mhòr! na cuirp ghleé-gheal
Tha ’nan laigh’ air na sléibhtean ud thall,
Gun chiste, gun léintean,
Gun adhlacadh fheéin anns na tuill;
Chuid tha beò dhiubh an déidh sgaoilidh
’S iad ’gan fògair le gaothan thar tuinn,
Fhuair na Chuigs an toil féin dinn,
’S cha chan iad ach ’reubaltaich’ ruinn.Fhuair na Goill sin fo ’n casan,
Is mòr an nàire ’s am masladh sud leinn,
An déidh ar dùthaich ’s ar n’àite
An spùilleadh ’s gun bhlaàths againn ann;
Caisteal Dhùinidh an déidh a losgaidh,
’S è ’na làriach lom, thosdach, gun mhiadh;
Gum b’è ’n caochladh goirt è
Gun do chaill sinn gach sochair a b’fhiach... (14)Culloden Day Great is the cause of my sorrow,
As I lament the wounds of my land;
O God! be strong, you’re able
To keep in subjection our enemies;
Over us Duke William is tyrant,
That extortioner, who destoys us;
Its like foul weeds of charlock
Overcoming the wheat of the land.Woe is me, Handsome red Charlie
At the mercy of King George’s worthless beasts,
That were just right’s denial,
Truth and her lips down beneath her;
But, O God, if you are willing,
Put the kingdom on the course that we lost,
Restore us our rightful ruler
To reign over us while we’re alive.Woe is me, the host of the tartan
Scattered and spread everywhere,
At the hands of England
Who met us unfairly in war;Though they overcame us in battle,
It was due to no courage or merit of theirs,
But the wind and the rain from the West
Coming on us up from the Lowlands.Pity we were not in England
And not so close to our homes as we were
Then we’d never have scattered so quickly
But endeavoured far better to stand;
We met evil sorcery
We were treated with wiles and deceit,
On our own hillsides we scattered,
It was through ill-chance that they did prevailWoe is me! The white bodies
That lie out on the hillsides,
Uncoffined, unshrouded,
Not even buried in holes;
Those who survived the disaster
Are carried to exile overseas by the winds,
The Whigs have got their will of us,
And ’rebels’ the name that we’re given.We are under the heel of strangers,
Great the shame and disgrace that we feel,
Our country and homes have been plundered
No welcome awaits us there now;
Castle Downie is in fire-blackened ruins,
Unhonoured its bare, silent walls;
It is bitter indeed fortune’s changing
We have lost every comfort we had... (14)
Latha Chul-Lodair 2 Cha do shaoil leam, le m’ shùilean,
Gum faicinn gach cù mar a thà,
Mar spùtadh nam faoileach
’N am nan luibhean a sgaoileadh air blàr;
Thug a’ chuibhle car tionndaidh,
’S tha iomadh fear gu h-aimcheart an càs,
A Rìgh, scall le do chaoimhneas,
Air n fir th’ aid na nàimhdean an sàs!Is mòr eucoir ’n luchd-orduigh
An fhuil ud a dhòrtadh le foill;
Mo sheachd mallachd air Mhoirear Deòrsa,
Ghuair e ’n là ud air ordugh dhà féin;
Bha an dà chiud air a mheóircan,
Mar an gìogan gun tròcair le foill
Mheall e sinne le ’chomhradh,
’S gun robh ar barail rop-mhòr air r’a linn.Ach fhad’ ’s is beò sinn r’ar latha
Bidh sinn caoi na ceatharin’ chaidh dhinn,
Na fir threubhach bha sgairteil
Dheanadh teugmhail le claidheamh’s le sgiath;
Mur bhiodh siantan ’nar n-aghaidh
Bha sinn sìos air ar n-adhairt gu dian,
Us bhiodh luchd-Beurla ’nan laighe
Tò air cheann, b’è sud m’aighear ’s mo mhiann.Och nan och! ’s mì fo sprochd,
’S mì an dràsda ri h-osnaich leam fhìn,
Ag amharc feachd an dubh-rosaich
’G itheadh feur agus cruithneachd an fhuinn;
Rothaich iargalt us Cataich
Tighinn a nall oirnn le luchd chasag us lann,
Iad mar mhìol-choin air acras
Siubhal chrìochan, chàrn, chlach, agus bheann.Mo chreach! tì air an tàinig,
Rinn sibh nis clàr réidh dhith cho lom.,
Gun choirce gun ghnàiseach
Gim sìol taight’ ann am fàsach no ’m fonn;
Prìs na circ’ air an spàrdan,
Gu ruige na spàinean thorit uainn,
Achy sgrios na craoibhe f’a blàth dhuibh,
Air a críonadh f’a bàrr gus a bonn.Tha ar cinn fo na choille,
’S èginn beanntan us gleanntan thoirt oirnm,
Sinn gun sùgradh, gun mhacnus,
Gun èibhneas, gun aitneas, gun cheòl;
Air bheag bìdh no teine
Air na stùcan air an laigheadh an ceò,
Sinn amr Chomhachaig eile
Ag èisdeachd ri deireas gach lò. (14)Culloden Day Page 2 I never thought that my vision,
Would see things as they are now,
As when the tempests in springtime
Have laid all the wild flowers low;
Fortune’s wheel has turned on us,
And many a man is unjustly in peril,
O God, look with your kindness,
On the men in the hands of our enemies!Great was the wrong of our leaders
Blood and blood feud through their guile;
My curse upon Lord George Murray,
Pure devouring killing off for today
yonder slaughter black gold buried us;
Two choices were at his disposal,
As a thistle without mercy draws blood
Honeyed us with speech
It is without slaughtered opinion great rope on to a generation.But as long as we live until our days’ end
We’ll lament the men that we lost,
The gallant and brave-hearted men
Fine fighters with sword and with shield;
Had the gales not been in our faces
We would have gone forward down in keen charge,
And the English now would be lying
Dead in heaps, if it were my own heart’s desire.Alas this, alas! I am saddened,
As I sigh by myself all alone,
Watching the host of black Rosses
Eating the grass and the wheat of the land;
Impudently rolling over the people of Caithness
Coming towards us with people and sword
Like ravening grey-hounds on bodies
Scouring the permafrost, graveyards, rocks, and hillsides.Woe is me! The land you’ve entered now,
You have swept flat and bare,
Without oats without crops standing,
Without choice seed in desert or ground;
You’ve taken the hens from the henroosts
Even our spoons you have stolen,
You are cursed destruction like a splitting tree,
Withered pine from top to bottom.We are now outlaws
And must take to the glens and hills,
Without diversion, Without sport,
Without Happiness, without pleasure, without song;
With little food or fire
On the rocks where the cold mist lies,
Like to another Barn-Owl
Hearing each day a story of woe. (14)