by Kenneth Morrison, who migrated from Scotland to Nova Scotia

sound file at http://beatoninstitutemusic.ca/gaelic/oran-an-deididh/ along with the following lyrics and translation:

Òran An Dèididh

Tha mi fo ghiorras le m’chàirean,
Tha mi gun tàmh gun chadal leis;
Tha mi fo ghiorras le m’chàirean,
‘S chan urrainn dhomh càil a chagnadh leis.

Thàinig an dèideadh gam phianadh,
An iomairt mo chiall is m’air’ thoirt bhuam;
‘S chaidh mi gu bodach nam fiaclan,
‘S agam-sa Dhia bha ceannach air.

Thuirt e ‘s e sealltainn nam bheul:
“Chan eil na do dheud ach starragan;
Bheir mi dhuit stobadh cocaine,
‘S chan fhairich thu tè tighinn asad dhiubh.”

Thòisich an slaodadh ‘s an spìonadh,
An iomairt mo bheul thoirt glan asam;
Fuil agus feòil agus fiaclan,
‘S bodach an diabhail ‘s fallas air.

Tha mise ‘n seo ‘s mi leam fhèin
Na m’shuidh’ air an t-sèithear ‘s mi fannachadh,
Botal an seo na mo dhòrn,
‘S mi deoghal mar phàisd’ aig banaltram.

Ma gheibh mise deud na mo bheul
Chan iarr mi a chaoidh de mhaitheas oirr’
Ach grèim às a’ bhodach mhìn bheulach
Tharraing na fiaclan asam-sa.

Translation:
Song of the Toothache

I am suffering because of my palate,
I cannot rest or sleep because of it;
I am suffering because of my palate,
And I cannot chew anything with it.

Toothache came to torture me,
About to deprive me of my sense and feeling;
I went to the old dentist
And, God, I paid dearly for it.

Examining my mouth, he said:
“Your teeth look like crows;
I will give you a shot of cocaine
And you won’t feel any of them coming out.”

The tugging and wrenching started,
Almost taking my entire mouth away;
Gore and flesh and teeth,
And the old devil in a sweat.

I am here alone,
Sitting in a chair about to faint;
A bottle in my hand
As I suck like a baby being fed by a nurse.

If I get dentures in my mouth
The only benefit I would ever want from them
Is a bite out of the smooth plausible old fellow
Who extracted my teeth.