AN T-EILEAN MUILEACH
| THE ISLE OF MULL
|
(Gaelic words by Dugald MacPhail)
| (Translation by Malcolm MacFarlane)
|
Ged tha mi 'm fhògarrach cian air m'aineol
'S a' Chaisteal nuadh, 's an taobh tuath de Shasunn,
Bith'dh tìr mo dhùthchais a' tigh'nn fainear dhomh,
An t-Eilean Muileach 'bu lurach beannaibh.
| Tho' far from home I am now a ranger,
In grim Newcastle a doleful stranger,
The thought of thee stirs my heart's emotion,
And deeper fixes its fond devotion.
|
Sèist:
| Chorus:
|
An t-Eilean Muileach, an t-eilean àghmhor,
An t-eilean grianach mu'n iath an sàile;
Eilean buadh-mhor nam fuar-bheann àrda,
Nan coilltean uaine, 's nan cluaintean fàsail.
| The Isle of Mull is of isles the fairest,
Of ocean's gems 'tis the first and rarest;
Green grassy island of sparkling fountains,
Of waving woods and high tow'ring mountains.
|
B'fhallain, cùbhraidh's bu réidh an t-àilean,
Le 'bhlàthan maoth-bhog 'bu chaoine fàileadh:
Bu ghlan na bruachan mu'n d'fhuair mi m'àrach
An Doire-'chuilinn aig bun Beinn-bhàirneach.
| Oh! fresh and fair are thy meadows blooming,
With fragrant blossoms the air perfuming,
Where boyhood's days I've oft spent in fooling,
Around Ben-Varnick and Durry-Cooling.
|
Air Lusa chaisleach nan stac 's nan cuartag,
Bhiodh bradain thàrr-gheal nam meanbh-bhall ruadh-bhreac,
Gu beò-bhrisg, siùbhlach, le sùrd ri lùth-chleas
'N a cuislibh dù-ghorm gun ghrùid, gun ruadhan.
| Where Lussa's stream through the pools comes whirling,
Or o'er the clear pebbly shallows swirling,
The silvery salmon is there seen playing,
And in the sunbeams his hues displaying.
|
Bu chulaidh-shùgraidh do dh'òg-fhir uallach,
Le gathan tri-mheurach, rinneach, cruaidh-ghlan,
Air caol-chroinn dhìreach, gun ghiamh, gun chnuac-mheòir,
'Bhi toirt nan làn-bhreac gu tràigh mu 'bruachan.
| There might young manhood find fit enjoyment,
ln healthy, vigorous, rare employment;
With three-pronged spear on the margin standing,
And with quick dart the bright salmon landing.
|
'B e 'n sòlas-inntinn leam a bhi'g éisdeachd
Ri còisir bhinn-ghuthach, ghrinn a' Chéitein
A' seinn gu sunndach an dlùth's nan geugan-
A' choill' fo liath-dhealt', 's a' ghrian ag éirigh!
| How pleasant 'tmas in the sweet May morning,
The rising sun thy gay fields adorning;
The feathered songsters their lays were singing,
While rocks and woods were with echoes ringing.
|
Chlaon gach sòlas dhiubh sud mar bhruadar,
'S mar bhristeadh builgean air bhàrr nan stuadh-thonn:
Ach soraidh slàn leis gach loinn 'us buaidh
A bh'air eilean àghmhor nan àrd-bheann fuara. | But gone are now all those joys for ever,
Like bubbles bursting on yonder river:
Farewell, farewell, to thy sparkling fountains,
Thy waving woods and high tow'ring mountains! |