Och, ochan a Righ gura timn an galair an gradh!

Chan eil neach air am bi nach saoil gura seach dainn gach la,

Gunn bhrist e mo chridh 's gun sgaoil e cuislean mo shlaint

Bhith 'g amharc ad dheidh, a gheng a' bhrollaich ghil bhdin - ghil bhdin.



A Bhuachaille Bhain, ma 's aill leat labhairt air thuis

Gura loatsa gun dail, mo lamh, ma thig thu rimm dluth:

Gur truagh mar ta nach d'tharlaidh mis' agus thu

An eilein gum traigh, gun ramh, gun choite, gun stinir - gun stinir.



Na faiccadh sibh geng, 's i 'g eirigh maduinn chiuin cheo.

Le pearsa dha reiri iu candan mhenlladh 'nan doigh:

Gur binne do bhen, na reudan thidheall ri ceol,

'Snach truagh leat mi 'd dheidh leam fhein air cnoam ri bron - ri bron.



The Fair Shepherd



Alas and alack, what a deadly sickness is love!

There is none who suffers it but feels every day is a week.

It has broken my heart and sapped the springs of my health

To keep gazing after you, young of the fair white bosom.



Fair-haired lad, if you but care to speak first,

My hand shall be yours without delay if you come for me:

Play it is true, you and I did not find ourselves

On an island with no ebb, with no oar, no boat, no rudder.



If you could see such a shoot springing up on a calm, misty morning,

With looks to go with it fit to win the hearts of thousands:

Sweeter is your voice than the strings of violins playing,

Can you not take pity on me, ? alone without you, lamenting on a knoll?