A Highland Woman
Hast Thou seen her, great Jew,
who art called the One Son of God?
Hast Thou seen on Thy way the like of her
labouring in the distant vineyard?
The load of fruits on her back,
a bitter sweat on brow and cheek,
and the clay basin heavy on the back
of her bent poor wretched head.
Thou hast not seen her, Son of the carpenter,
who art called the King of Glory,
among the rugged western shores
in the sweat of her food’s creel.
This Spring and last Spring
and every twenty Springs from the beginning,
she has carried the cold seaweed
for her children’s food and the castle’s reward.
And every twenty Autumns gone
she has lost the golden summer of her bloom,
and the Black Labour has ploughed the furrow
across the white smoothness of her forehead.
And Thy gentle church has spoken
about the lost state of her miserable soul,
and the unremitting toil has lowered
her body to a black peace in a grave.
And her time has gone like a black sludge
seeping through the thatch of a poor dwelling:
the hard Black Labour was her inheritance;
grey is her sleep tonight.
|
Ban-Ghàidheal
Am faca Tu i, Iùdhaich mhòir,
rin abrar Aon Mhac Dhè?
Am fac’ thu ’coltas air Do thriall
ri strì an fhìon-lios chèin?
An cuallach mheasan air a druim,
fallas searbh air mala is gruaidh;
’s a’ mhias chreadha trom air cùl
a cinn chrùbte bhochd thruaigh.
Chan fhaca Tu i, Mhic an t-saoir,
rin abrar Rìgh na Glòir,
am measg nan cladach carrach siar,
fo fhallas cliabh a lòin.
An t-earrach seo agus seo chaidh
’s gach fichead earrach bhon an tùs,
tharraing ise ’n fheamainn fhuar
chum biadh a cloinne ’s duais an tùir.
’S gach fichead foghar tha air triall
chaill i samhradh buidh nam blàth;
is threabh an dubh-chosnadh an clais
tarsainn mìnead ghil a clàir.
Agus labhair T’ eaglais chaomh
mu staid chaillte a h-anama thruaigh;
agus leag an cosnadh dian
a corp gu sàmhchair dhuibh an uaigh.
Is thriall a tìm mar shnighe dubh
a’ drùdhadh tughaidh fàrdaich bochd;
mheal ise an dubh-chosnadh cruaidh;
is glas a cadal suain a-nochd. |
Death Valley
Some Nazi or other has said that the Fuehrer
had restored to German
manhood the
‘right and joy of dying in battle’.
Sitting dead in ‘Death Valley’
below the Ruweisat Ridge,
a boy with his forelock down about his cheek
and his face slate-grey;
I thought of the right and the joy
that he got from his Fuehrer,
of falling in the field of slaughter
to rise no more;
of the pomp and the fame
that he had, not alone,
though he was the most piteous to see
in a valley gone to seed
with flies about grey corpses
on a dun sand
dirty yellow and full of the rubbish
and fragments of battle.
Was the boy of the band
who abused the Jews
and Communists, or of the greater
band of those
led, from the beginning of generations,
unwillingly to the trial
and mad delirium of every war
for the sake of rulers?
Whatever his desire or mishap,
his innocence or malignity,
he showed no pleasure in his death
below the Ruweisat Ridge.
* * *
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Glac a’ Bhàis
Thuirt Nàsach air choreigin gun tug am Furair
air ais do fhir na
Gearmailte ‘a’ chòir agus an sonas
bàs fhaotainn anns an àraich’.
’Na shuidhe marbh an ‘Glaic a’ Bhàis’
fo Dhruim Ruidhìseit,
gill’ òg ’s a logan sìos ma ghruaidh
’s a thuar grìseann.
Smaoinich mi air a’ chòir ’s an àgh
a fhuair e bho Fhurair,
bhith tuiteam ann an raon an àir
gun èirigh tuilleadh;
air a’ ghreadhnachas ’s air a’ chliù
nach d’ fhuair e ’na aonar,
ged b’ esan bu bhrònaiche snuadh
ann an glaic air laomadh
le cuileagan mu chuirp ghlas’
air gainmhich lachdainn
’s i salach-bhuidhe ’s làn de raip
’s de sprùillich catha.
An robh an gille air an dream
a mhàb na h-Iùdhaich
’s na Comannaich, no air an dream
bu mhotha, dhiùbhsan
a threòraicheadh bho thoiseach àl
gun deòin gu buaireadh
agus bruaillean cuthaich gach blàir
air sgàth uachdaran?
Ge b’ e a dheòin-san no a chàs,
a neoichiontas no mhìorun,
cha do nochd e toileachadh ’na bhàs
fo Dhruim Ruidhìseit. |
Hallaig
‘Time, the deer, is in the wood of Hallaig’
The window is nailed and boarded
through which I saw the West
and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig,
a birch tree, and she has always been
between Inver and Milk Hollow,
here and there about Baile-Chuirn:
she is a birch, a hazel,
a straight, slender young rowan.
In Screapadal of my people
where Norman and Big Hector were,
their daughters and their sons are a wood
going up beside the stream.
Proud tonight the pine cocks
crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra,
straight their backs in the moonlight –
they are not the wood I love.
I will wait for the birch wood
until it comes up by the cairn,
until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice
will be under its shade.
If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig,
to the Sabbath of the dead,
where the people are frequenting,
every single generation gone.
They are still in Hallaig,
MacLeans and MacLeods,
all who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim:
the dead have been seen alive.
The men lying on the green
at the end of every house that was,
the girls a wood of birches,
straight their backs, bent their heads.
Between the Leac and Fearns
the road is under mild moss
and the girls in silent bands
go to Clachan as in the beginning,
and return from Clachan,
from Suisnish and the land of the living;
each one young and light-stepping,
without the heartbreak of the tale.
From the Burn of Fearns to the raised beach
that is clear in the mystery of the hills,
there is only the congregation of the girls
keeping up the endless walk,
coming back to Hallaig in the evening,
in the dumb living twilight,
filling the steep slopes,
their laughter a mist in my ears,
and their beauty a film on my heart
before the dimness comes on the kyles,
and when the sun goes down behind Dun Cana
a vehement bullet will come from the gun of Love;
and will strike the deer that goes dizzily,
sniffing at the grass-grown ruined homes;
his eye will freeze in the wood,
his blood will not be traced while I live. |
Hallaig
‘Tha tìm, am fiadh, an coille Hallaig’
Tha bùird is tàirnean air an uinneig
trom faca mi an Àird an Iar
’s tha mo ghaol aig Allt Hallaig
’na craoibh bheithe, ’s bha i riamh
eadar an t-Inbhir ’s Poll a’ Bhainne,
thall ’s a bhos mu Bhaile Chùirn:
tha i ’na beithe, ’na calltainn,
’na caorann dhìrich sheang ùir.
Ann an Sgreapadal mo chinnidh,
far robh Tarmad ’s Eachann Mòr,
tha ’n nigheanan ’s am mic ’nan coille
a’ gabhail suas ri taobh an lòin.
Uaibhreach a‑nochd na coilich ghiuthais
a’ gairm air mullach Cnoc an Rà,
dìreach an druim ris a’ ghealaich –
chan iadsan coille mo ghràidh.
Fuirichidh mi ris a’ bheithe
gus an tig i mach an Càrn,
gus am bi am bearradh uile
o Bheinn na Lice fa sgàil.
Mura tig ’s ann theàrnas mi a Hallaig
a dh’ionnsaigh sàbaid nam marbh,
far a bheil an sluagh a’ tathaich,
gach aon ghinealach a dh’fhalbh.
Tha iad fhathast ann a Hallaig,
Clann Ghill-Eain ’s Clann MhicLeòid,
na bh’ ann ri linn Mhic Ghille Chaluim:
chunnacas na mairbh beò.
Na fir ’nan laighe air an lèanaig
aig ceann gach taighe a bh’ ann,
na h-igheanan ’nan coille bheithe,
dìreach an druim, crom an ceann.
Eadar an Leac is na Feàrnaibh
tha ’n rathad mòr fo chòinnich chiùin,
’s na h-igheanan ’nam badan sàmhach
a’ dol a Chlachan mar o thùs.
Agus a’ tilleadh às a’ Chlachan,
à Suidhisnis ’s à tir nam beò;
a chuile tè òg uallach
gun bhristeadh cridhe an sgeòil.
O Allt na Feàrnaibh gus an fhaoilinn
tha soilleir an dìomhaireachd nam beann
chan eil ach coitheanal nan nighean
a’ cumail na coiseachd gun cheann.
A’ tilleadh a Hallaig anns an fheasgar,
anns a’ chamhanaich bhalbh bheò,
a’ lìonadh nan leathadan casa,
an gàireachdaich ’nam chluais ’na ceò,
’s am bòidhche ’na sgleò air mo chridhe
mun tig an ciaradh air na caoil,
’s nuair theàrnas grian air cùl Dhùn Cana
thig peilear dian à gunna Ghaoil;
’s buailear am fiadh a tha ’na thuaineal
a’ snòtach nan làraichean feòir;
thig reothadh air a shùil sa choille:
chan fhaighear lorg air fhuil rim bheò. |
The Choice
I walked with my reason
out beside the sea.
We were together but it was
keeping a little distance from me.
Then it turned saying:
is it true you heard
that your beautiful white love
is getting married early on Monday?
I checked the heart that was rising
in my torn swift breast
and I said: most likely;
why should I lie about it?
How should I think that I would grab
the radiant golden star,
that I would catch it and put it
prudently in my pocket?
I did not take a cross’s death
in the hard extremity of Spain
and how then should I expect
the one new prize of fate?
I followed only a way
that was small, mean, low, dry, lukewarm,
and how then should I meet
the thunderbolt of love?
But if I had the choice again
and stood on that headland,
I would leap from heaven or hell
with a whole spirit and heart.
|
An Roghainn
Choisich mi cuide ri mo thuigse
a-muigh ri taobh a’ chuain;
bha sinn còmhla ach bha ise
a’ fuireach tiotan bhuam.
An sin thionndaidh i ag ràdha:
a bheil e fìor gun cual’
thu gu bheil do ghaol geal àlainn
a’ pòsadh tràth Diluain?
Bhac mi ’n cridhe bha ’g èirigh
’nam bhroilleach reubte luath
is thubhairt mi: tha mi cinnteach;
carson bu bhreug e bhuam?
Ciamar a smaoinichinn gun glacainn
an rionnag leugach òir,
gum beirinn oirre ’s gun cuirinn i
gu ciallach ’na mo phòc?
Cha d’ ghabh mise bàs croinn-ceusaidh
an èiginn chruaidh na Spàinn
is ciamar sin bhiodh dùil agam
ri aon duais ùir an dàin?
Cha do lean mi ach an t-slighe chrìon
bheag ìosal thioram thlàth,
is ciamar sin a choinnichinn
ri beithir-theine ghràidh?
Ach nan robh ’n roghainn rithist dhomh
’s mi ’m sheasamh air an àird,
leumainn à neamh no iutharna
le spiorad ’s cridhe slàn. |
The Cry of Europe
Girl of the yellow, heavy-yellow, gold-yellow hair,
the song of your mouth and Europe’s shivering cry,
fair, heavy-haired, spirited, beautiful girl,
the disgrace of our day would not be bitter in your kiss.
Would your song and splendid beauty take
from me the dead loathsomeness of these ways,
the brute and the brigand at the head of Europe
and your mouth red and proud with the old song?
Would white body and forehead’s sun take
from me the foul black treachery,
spite of the bourgeois and poison of their creed
and the feebleness of our dismal Scotland?
Would beauty and serene music put
from me the sore frailty of this lasting cause,
the Spanish miner leaping in the face of horror
and his great spirit going down untroubled?
What would the kiss of your proud mouth be
compared with each drop of the precious blood
that fell on the cold frozen uplands
of Spanish mountains from a column of steel?
What every lock of your gold-yellow head
to all the poverty, anguish and grief
that will come and have come on Europe’s people
from the Slave Ship to the slavery of the whole people? |
Gaoir na h-Eòrpa
A nighean a’ chùil bhuidhe, throm-bhuidh, òr-bhuidh,
fonn do bheòil-sa ’s gaoir na h-Eòrpa,
a nighean gheal chasarlach aighearach bhòidheach,
cha bhiodh masladh ar latha-ne searbh ’nad phòig-sa.
An tugadh t’ fhonn no t’ àilleachd ghlòrmhor
bhuamsa gràinealachd mharbh nan dòigh seo,
a’ bhrùid ’s am meàirleach air ceann na h-Eòrpa
’s do bheul-sa uaill-dhearg san t-seann òran?
An tugadh corp geal is clàr grèine
bhuamsa cealgaireachd dhubh na brèine,
nimh bhùirdeasach is puinnsean crèide
is dìblidheachd ar n-Albann èitigh?
An cuireadh bòidhchead is ceòl suaimhneach
bhuamsa breòiteachd an adhbhair bhuain seo,
am mèinnear Spàinnteach a’ leum ri cruadal
is ’anam mòrail dol sìos gun bhruaillean?
Dè bhiodh pòg do bheòil uaibhrich
mar ris gach braon den fhuil luachmhoir
a thuit air raointean reòta fuara
nam beann Spàinnteach bho fhòirne cruadhach?
Dè gach cuach ded chual’ òr-bhuidh
ris gach bochdainn, àmhghar ’s dòrainn
a thig ’s a thàinig air sluagh na h-Eòrpa
bho Long nan Daoine gu daors’ a’ mhòr-shluaigh? |
