Griogal Cridhe
(Cumha Ghriogair MhicGhriogair Ghlinn Sreith)
Mòr Chaimbeul, nighean Dhonnchaidh Ruaidh Chaimbeul Ghlinn Lìobhann
Earrann air a thaghadh le Màrtainn MacGriogair
Moch madainn air latha Lùnasd’
Bha mi sùgradh mar ri m’ ghràdh,
Ach mun tàinig meadhon latha
Bha mo chridhe air a chràdh.
Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh
Is goirt mo chridhe, a laoigh,
Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh
Cha chluinn t’ athair ar caoidh.
Mallachd aig maithibh is aig càirdean
Rinn mo chràdh air an-dòigh,
Thàinig gun fhios air mo ghràdh-sa
Is a thug fo smachd e le foill.
Chuir iad a cheann air ploc daraich,
Is dhòirt iad fhuil mu làr:
Nam biodh agam-sa an sin cupan,
Dh’ òlainn dith mo shàth.
Is ged tha mi gun ùbhlan agam
Is ùbhlan uile aig càch,
Is ann tha m’ ubhal cùbhraidh grinn
Is cùl a chinn ri làr.
Ged tha mnathan chàich aig baile
A-nochd ’nan cadal sàmh,
Is ann bhios mise aig bruaich mo leapa
A’ bualadh mo dhà làimh.
Is mòr a b’ annsa bhith aig Griogair
Fo bhrata ruibeach ròin,
Na bhith aig Baran crìon na Dalach
A’ giùlan sìoda is sròil.
Ged a bhiodh ann cur is cathadh
Is latha nan seachd sìon,
Gheibheadh Griogair dhòmh-sa cragan
’S an caidlimid fo dhìon.
Ba hu, ba hu, àsrain bhig,
Chan ’eil thu fhathast ach tlàth:
Is eagal leam nach tig an latha
Gun dìol thu t’ athair gu bràth.
Beloved Gregor
(Lament for Gregor MacGregor of Glen Strae)
Marion Campbell, daughter of Duncan of Glenlyon
Extract chosen and translated by Martin MacGregor
Early on Lammas morning
I was daffing with my love:
Before midday came
My heart was broken.
Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh
Sore is my heart, my dear.
Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh
Your father hears not our cry.
A curse on nobles and kinsfolk
Who have rent me thus with pain,
Who came without warning upon my love
And made him captive by treachery.
They placed his head on a block of oak,
And spilt his blood on the ground;
Had I but had a cup then
I’d have drunk of it my fill.
Though I am without apples
And all the rest have apples
My apple, fragrant and shapely,
Is with the back of his head to the ground.
Although other men’s wives are at home
Quietly sleeping tonight,
I shall be at the edge of my bed
Beating my two hands.
Far better to be with Gregor
Under a tattered hair mantle,
Than tied to the wrinkled Baron of Dall
Under silk and satin.
Though there would be snowfall and snowdrift
And a day of the seven elements,
Gregor would find for me a rocky place
Where we would find sleep and shelter.
Ba hu, ba hu, forlorn little creature,
You are but tender yet:
And I fear that the day will never come
When you avenge your father.
