MacKay / MacDonald 100 Dàn as Fheàrr Leinn

100 Favourite Gaelic Poems
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-910022-24-5
Verlag: Luath Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 408 Seiten

A collection of 100 favourite Gaelic poems and songs - love poems and hymns, sea ditties and war poems, lullabies and elegies - many translated into English for the first time. Selected by Peter Mackay and Jo MacDonald, and including public nominations, these poems give a multi-layered taste of the full richness of Gaelic literature from the Middle Ages to the present day. Cruinneachadh de 100 dàn agus òran Gàidhlig de dh'iomadh seòrsa agus o iomadh linn - nam measg bàrdachd gaoil agus laoidhean, òrain mara agus òrain cogaidh, tàlaidhean agus marbhrainn. Air an taghadh le Pàdraig MacAoidh agus Jo NicDhòmhnaill, le molaidhean an t-sluaigh, tha an cruinneachadh seo a' toirt blasad de shàr-bheartas litreachas na Gàidhlig.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Mackay, Peter

Macdonald, Jo

Leseproben

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...