A Fàgail Mhiughalaigh – Leaving Mingulay • Track 12  
Oran do Dhíeilean Mhiughalaigh Song to the Isle of Mingulay  

Bi m’aigne fhèin a gabhail reug
Air siubhal sgèith mo smaointinnean,
Ag aiseag spèis o ghrunnd mo chlèibh
Gu sgeireig èidich aonaraich
Far an tug mo mhàthair ghràidh
A dh’ àireamh chlann nan daoine mi,
Is far an iarrainn fois a bhàis
Na’m biodh e’n dàn dhomh fhaotainn ann.

Is tric a dh’èisd mi gàir’ nan tonn
Ri cladach lom nan caolasan,
Is m’aigne fhèin cho rèidh ri phong
’S mo chridhe trom a’smaointinn air
A’ liuthad car a chaidh de’n t-sruth
O’n chruthaicheadh an saoghal seo
Air ais ’s air aghaidh gus an diugh,
Is fuaim a ghuth gun chaochladh air.

3. Is tric air feasgar Chèitein chiùin
’S gun leam ach speil de dh’ fhaoileagan,
A shuidh’ mi greis gun mòran suim
Air binneag druim na h-aonaige;
An àm do’n ghrèin bhith dol ’sa chuan,
Bu mhaiseach snuadh a h-aodainn leam,
’S ged rinn i mìle mìle cuairt,
Cha tàinig tuar na h-aois’ oirre.

4. De’n teaghlach ghreadhnach shuidh’ gach oidhch’
Mu’n chagailt cruinn bha naoinear ann
Chanail an diugh air lom an tuinn
Ach mis’ a caoidh ’nam aonaran
Tha’n trathach gorm mu’n teinntein fuar
Gun beo mun cuairt ach caoraich air
Is luchd mo ghraidh nan seomar suain
Is glasan buan an aoig orra

5. Tha chreagan corrach sgorrach ciar
Is trusgan liath na h-aois orra
Ag èirigh suas mar bhalla dion
An aghaidh sian nam faoillichean
Ged thug gailleann gart is greann
Air bharr nam meall ’s na’ maolaidhean
Tha cluaintean fasgach ’n achlais bheann
Is dreach an t- samhraidh daonnan orr’

 

My mind takes a trip,
Travelling on the wings of my thoughts,
Conveying esteem from the bottom of my heart
To a stormy lonely rock
Where my beloved mother
Brought me into the circle of humankind
And where I would desire the tranquillity of death,
If it were my fate to receive it there.

Often have I listened to the roar of the waves
On the bare shores of the sounds
And my thoughts so attuned to its note,
And my heart heavy thinking of it –
How many turns the tidal stream has made
Since the world was created,
backwards and forwards to this day,
And the sound of its voice never changing.

Often on a calm evening in May,
Alone but for a flock of seagulls,
Have I sat without any thoughts
On the peak of the moorland ridge;
At the time of the sun dipping into the ocean
Beautiful was the appearance of her face to me,
And despite her thousands of rounds,
She does not appear aged.

Of the joyful family who sat each night
Round the hearth – there were nine of them –
There are not today alive
But I alone lamenting;
The green grass is about their fireplaces cold,
With sheep alone alive around them,
And my beloved folk in their chamber of slumber,
The eternal fetters of death on them.

Its rocks unstable and with clefts dark grey,
The grey garment of age on them,
Rise up like a protecting wall
Against the elements of winter.
Though storm has wrought bareness and surly scowl
On the peaks and brows,
There are sheltered meadows within the arms of the bens
With the bloom of summer even on them.

 
Arranged M.MacInnes & B.MacAlpine  
     


What the world says about air and nan
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