CATECHISM.

“C’arson a struidheas sibh ’ur maoinAir nithibh faoin nach biadh;’S a chailleas sibh ’ur saoth’ir gach la,Mu ni nach sasuich miann?”

“C’arson a struidheas sibh ’ur maoin

Air nithibh faoin nach biadh;

’S a chailleas sibh ’ur saoth’ir gach la,

Mu ni nach sasuich miann?”

How smoothly and sweetly does that rhyme flow compared with the English. I have seen a book called theHighland Bards, translated by a great scholar, and although done as well as possible in a translation, yet every one who knows Gaelic cannot fail to see how far short it comes of the strength and beauty of the original. No man, however great, can do an impossibility. I have also seen translations of Dugald Buchanan’s Poems, and these by men who were greater scholars than himself; and on looking at them, I saw as great a change between them and the original as if I had seen Dugald himself when in his prime, and again at seventy, when it would be all I could do to recognise his features, but O how changed!Taking his poem on the day of judgment, I defy the English language to produce its equal as a piece of lyric poetry. In the language there is scarcely a single word coined from another language, perhaps a few from the broad Scotch that came to be naturalized—all the language of his native country, extraordinary for its simplicity and expressiveness. The rhyme of that poem is smooth, it is perfect. I have attempted, or should rather say, I have endeavoured to improve what others attempted, and the best I could make of some of the verses I give in the following:—

My worldly thoughts, O God inspire,And touch my lyre that it may play,That I may put in solemn rhymeThy most sublime and awful day.O! listen all ye sons of men,This world’s last end is come to pass,Start all ye dead to life again,The great Amen has come at last.The sun, great majesty of lights,To his great brightness shall succumb,The shining radiance of his face,His light with haste shall overcome.Was it enough that nature’s sunAghast did shun the deed to see,Why did not the creation dieWhen Christ expired upon the tree?

My worldly thoughts, O God inspire,And touch my lyre that it may play,That I may put in solemn rhymeThy most sublime and awful day.

My worldly thoughts, O God inspire,

And touch my lyre that it may play,

That I may put in solemn rhyme

Thy most sublime and awful day.

O! listen all ye sons of men,This world’s last end is come to pass,Start all ye dead to life again,The great Amen has come at last.

O! listen all ye sons of men,

This world’s last end is come to pass,

Start all ye dead to life again,

The great Amen has come at last.

The sun, great majesty of lights,To his great brightness shall succumb,The shining radiance of his face,His light with haste shall overcome.

The sun, great majesty of lights,

To his great brightness shall succumb,

The shining radiance of his face,

His light with haste shall overcome.

Was it enough that nature’s sunAghast did shun the deed to see,Why did not the creation dieWhen Christ expired upon the tree?

Was it enough that nature’s sun

Aghast did shun the deed to see,

Why did not the creation die

When Christ expired upon the tree?

These are equally strong, and rhyme well, but where is the melody compared with the Gaelic, and it is most extraordinary that I cannot sing them without feeling that I am puffed up with the language, whereas in the Gaelic I have no such feelings. The English will never come up to the following, sublime in their simplicity:—

Mu mheadhon oidhch’ ’nuair bhios an saogh’l,Air aomadh thairis ann an suain;Grad dhuisgear suas an cinne daoin,Le glaodh na trompaid ’s airde fuaim.

Mu mheadhon oidhch’ ’nuair bhios an saogh’l,

Air aomadh thairis ann an suain;

Grad dhuisgear suas an cinne daoin,

Le glaodh na trompaid ’s airde fuaim.

Look at the rhyme how smooth and agreeable to the ear—the language how simple and artless, the scene presented how solemn. We can scarcely conceive of any thing more so, than the world having reclined over in sleep’s soft repose, and then suddenly to be awakened with the trumpet’s loudest sound.

The English language completely fails in giving a proper translation; being an artificial language, it disfigures almost every thing it handles.

When the whole world in midnight’s lull,In silent slumbering sleep is found,Their rest shall quickly be disturb’dBy the last trumpet’s awful sound.

When the whole world in midnight’s lull,

In silent slumbering sleep is found,

Their rest shall quickly be disturb’d

By the last trumpet’s awful sound.

The following are sublime:—

Tha’m bogha frois muo’n cuairt d’a cheann;Mar thuil nan gleann tha fuaim a ghuth,Mar dhealanaich tha sealla ’shul,A sputadh as na neulaibh tiugh.

Tha’m bogha frois muo’n cuairt d’a cheann;

Mar thuil nan gleann tha fuaim a ghuth,

Mar dhealanaich tha sealla ’shul,

A sputadh as na neulaibh tiugh.

Not a single expression but what a herd lad, who was never at school, could use, and yet how sublime. Put it into the hands of the mistress of arts, and see how it will appear.

The rainbow bright surrounds his head,Like flood of glens his voice divine,Like lightning flashes ’mid dark cloudsThe astounding glances of his eyes.

The rainbow bright surrounds his head,

Like flood of glens his voice divine,

Like lightning flashes ’mid dark clouds

The astounding glances of his eyes.

There it is pretty strong, but where is the melody so agreeable to the ear? The English will never make it rhyme without divesting it of its sublimity.

Tha mile tairneanach ’na laimhA chum a naimhdean sgrios a’m feirg,’S fonna-chrith orr gu dol an greim,Mar choin air eill ri am na seilg.

Tha mile tairneanach ’na laimh

A chum a naimhdean sgrios a’m feirg,

’S fonna-chrith orr gu dol an greim,

Mar choin air eill ri am na seilg.

Try that again.

A thousand thunders in his handAt his command his foes to crush,Shivering, eager to be engagedLike hounds restrained by the leash.

A thousand thunders in his hand

At his command his foes to crush,

Shivering, eager to be engaged

Like hounds restrained by the leash.

This is not so far amiss, only “crush” and “leash” as it regards the vowels, do not rhyme. Look at the Gaelic—how simple; every word forged and hammered on the anvil of a Highlander’s method of making his thoughts known. Consider the sublimity of the passage. Dugald was not a classical, but one of nature’s scholars, who had learned his lessons well, and I am certain that in learning them he was not puffed up as they are, but rather humbled. Thunder, one of the most awful agents conceivable. When the thunder roars the earth keeps silence. A thunder held in the hand—how sublime? A thousand thunders, a thousand times more so. How are these thunders held? Like hounds restrained by the leash. Anything more expressive could not come from the lips of man. A hound at first sight of the game would almost choke himself at the first spring, if restrained. Are these things so; and how perilous the condition of those who are the enemies of the Great Judge? The air to which that poem is sung is also most appropriate; so that in singing it, one never thinks either of the language or the melody, any farther than that they are expressive; but has his mind wholly occupied with the sublime, the awful, and the beautiful imagery presented before it. I have heard that poem sung to a crowded audience, and I have never listened to anything spoken or sung that had a greater effect. Every eye fixed; all attention; awe, anxiety, concern depicted on every countenance. And I can tell Ministers of the Gospel all over the Highlands, that could they get two or three to sing that poem properly to their congregations, that it would have a far greater effect than most of their sermons. And I can tell them, moreover, that that poem sung once had a more blessed effect than all my sermons for a whole twelvemonth.

There are three poems of M’Gregors composed to suit the air of an old song, called “Gaoir nam ban Muileach” (The wail of theMull women). There are seven lines in the stanza, and the last is repeated twice. In singing it it resembles the regular flow of a torrent, but when it reaches the sixth line it comes to a climax as if the torrent had become a beautiful waterfall. Or to use another simile. The first part of it resembles the Atlantic waves as they roll majestically to the shore, rolling and rolling along with a good deal of monotony till at length they reach the climax, when they break forth with a tremendous crash like rolling thunder. Were there a few individuals who could sing it together till they reached the sixth line, and then the whole to unite with them, there would be such singing as I have seldom listened to.

Thaom e spiorad neo-ascaoinAir a naoimh ’us air ’abstoil,’S rinn iad saighdearachd ghasda,Mine, macanta ’n gaisge;Cha do phill iad le masladh,Ach troimh Chriosd a thug neart dhoibh,Chuir iad cath gus ’n do chaisg iad an namhaid.Chuir iad cath, &c.

Thaom e spiorad neo-ascaoin

Air a naoimh ’us air ’abstoil,

’S rinn iad saighdearachd ghasda,

Mine, macanta ’n gaisge;

Cha do phill iad le masladh,

Ach troimh Chriosd a thug neart dhoibh,

Chuir iad cath gus ’n do chaisg iad an namhaid.

Chuir iad cath, &c.

Perhaps some of my countrymen do not know whatneo-ascaoinmeans;caoinmeans kind;ascaoin, unkind;neo-ascaoin, the reverse, that is great kindness. I will endeavour to give a translation as near as possible.

He poured his spirit most kindlyOn his saints and apostles,Who acted most soldierly,Meekly and lowly in heroism,Not turning disgracefully,But through Christ that strengthened themThey fought till they routed the enemy.

He poured his spirit most kindly

On his saints and apostles,

Who acted most soldierly,

Meekly and lowly in heroism,

Not turning disgracefully,

But through Christ that strengthened them

They fought till they routed the enemy.

Although all the masons in the world were to go on hammering at the English for a century, they could not make it rhyme like the Gaelic in this verse. I have composed a considerable number of poems. I suppose, when published together, they will form the largest collection in the language. I attempted to translate two or three of them, but found it impossible to do so by strictly following the rules of English versification. I attempted to translate more, but found I could not translate one verse to my satisfaction, and I wish that scholars would understand this—that it is utterly impossible to give them anything like a correct idea of our poetry, unless we are allowed to follow the Gaelic rules of versification, and even with that licence we cannot come up to it. I saw in a periodical a review of the lyric poetry of Wales, which showed that it was impossible to give a proper expression of it in an English translation. The same is equally true of the Gaelic. The strict rules to which he is tied down who would attempt to compose English verse prevent him from soaring like the eagle, and his productions must be comparatively tame, and awanting in energy.

Singing has a mighty power over the human mind, which the church to a great extent has neglected, and a power whichshe never wields aright but when in a revived state. I once went into a house; but the moment I entered, the youngsters, some of them men and women, all fled. “See,” said the mother, (a pious woman), “how they have all gone.” “Yes,” I said, “but we’ll soon bring them back,” and so commenced to sing a poem, not to the tunes of Martyrdom or Oldham (these would not bring them back), but to the tune, “Whistle o’er the lave o’t,” and they all returned immediately.

How shrewd the remark, “Give me the songs of a nation, and I care not who gives them laws.” It has been stated that the poems of the great reformer, sung to the native melodies of Germany, had a greater effect in promoting the Reformation than all his writings. I have heard melodies, but any that come up to our native melodies, both Highland and Lowland, I have not heard. If the songs of our country, many of them, have such a bad effect, and the melodies so sweet and fascinating, why not regenerate the song? By so doing the instrument would be wrested from the hands of the enemy; the sword taken from the great Goliath to cut off his own head, and to destroy the Philistines. In this respect we are in advance of our neighbours; our songs to a considerable extent are regenerated already. Dugald Buchanan’s Poems I place first, being superior to any that has appeared yet, so far as poetry is concerned. Duncan M’Dougall, a native of Mull, but ultimately residing in Tiree, has a considerable number, I suppose, with the exception of Peter Grant, the largest collection we have. His poems are good, most of them sung to the airs most common in Tiree and Mull. Daniel Grant, a native of Strathspey, but residing in Athol, comes next to M’Dougall in point of number, and although he is not his superior either as a Gaelic scholar or as a poet, he is his superior for conveying real spiritual instruction to the mind. He has picked up some of the airs in Athol and Strathspey, and even some from the low country. Donald Henry, I believe, a native of Arran, has also left some very sweet poems, of which many are very fond. J. Morrison, Harris, was an extraordinary genius. His language is superior to Dugald Buchanan, and is not his inferior as a poet. He had more of the language of the Highland bards that puffs up. Dugald had nothing of that, but was powerful in his simplicity. The former resembles David clad in Saul’s armour, the latter David with the sling and the stones. In singing Morrison’s we cannot but think of the bard, but in singing Dugald’s he is not thought of at all, and almost every word tells. Dr M’Donald has left a considerable number of poems; some of them are elegies. He was certainly the most powerful preacher in the Highlands in his time, and anything said in his praise is superfluous, as it is all over the Highlands. Yet it strikes me that he did not shine so much as a poet as he did as a preacher. His poetry is certainly good, but there is nothing extraordinary about it, as there is about his preaching. “The Christian on the Banks of Jordan” is excellent, and very expressive; but there are some pieces of his containinghis own views of disputed points of doctrine, with an evident intention to give a hit at those who differed from him, which are not suitable for being sung in the praises of God. Songs of praise should be for the whole church. No doubt he considered those opposed to him as holding error, but they consider that he holds error too, and how is the matter to be settled? Is it not possible to hold the doctrine of election, and at the same time to hold that, in a certain sense, Christ died for all men? Is it not possible to lay the blame at the sinner’s door, where it shall be left at the last day, without denying the necessity of Divine influence in his conversion?

I come now to my great favourite, M’Gregor. Buchanan was his superior as one of nature’s poets, and perhaps his superior in point of style. He did not show so much of the scholar. The scholar seen in lyric poetry, instead of adding to it, rather detracts from it. But, notwithstanding, M’Gregor was his superior by far as a theologian for bringing varied and important truths before the mind. I have seen many a book, but a book of its size which contains more important truth I have never seen. Every truth that is important for the Christian to know is systematically laid down; every poem is like a well-composed discourse, the subject experimentally handled in all its bearings; and all that in language excellent, in versification perfect, and suited to be sung to some of the most beautiful melodies of our country. I have never quarrelled with a single idea, a single word, a single line. There is not a book in existence, apart from the Bible, from which I have derived more benefit to my soul. Every one knows what a hold a truth sung takes of the mind. I am sorry for the tame manner in which these poems are recommended in their introduction, as if Dr M’Gregor was nothing but a mere imitator of the poets. How ridiculous! Did not these poets imitate those who went before them, taking the measure of their verses from them. I am also sorry to see some of his pieces sadly disfigured and maimed in the last edition, especially his poem on the judgment. He must indeed have had a very high opinion of himself, the man that would come after Dr M’Gregor and endeavour to improve his versification.

I come now toGrant’s Poems, which is the largest collection we have. His melodies are delicious; and no wonder, they are from the land of melody. The finest melodies in Scotland are called strathspeys. I believe thatGrant’s Poemsand thePilgrim’s Progresshave done as much good in the Highlands as any publications that have been circulated among them, apart from the Bible. They are extraordinary for their simplicity. There is not only milk for babes in abundance, but also strong meat for men. His “Glory of the Lamb” is splendid, and his “Love Song” is beautiful. Were these poems to pass through the hands of Archd. Sinclair, printer, 62 Argyle Street, Glasgow, they would be greatly improved. He is a good Gaelic scholar, and one of the best printers of that language in Scotland.

Let us now turn our attention to our neighbours. Is it to be credited that, in the year of our Lord, 1868, Christian Scotland, the land of creeds, bibles, ministers, churches, and Sabbath schools, has still nothing to play on their instruments of music but the old unregenerate songs of their country? They are so very orthodox, not only in their creeds, but also in their language and melodies, that they would look upon hymns composed in broad Scotch and sung to their native melodies as a kind of heresy not to be tolerated. Scotsmen have generally as much shrewdness, sagacity, and common sense as any people on the face of the earth. To call such blockheads would be considered the greatest falsehood that ever came from the lips of man. But consider what they have done. They have renounced their own language, which is a natural language, and the language of their nature, and their native melodies, which are the melodies of their nature. They have turned their backs on them. They have rejected their own; and what have they chosen in their place? An artificial language and artificial melodies quite foreign to their nature. Had Robert Burns as many hard consonants on his tongue as an Englishman has, he never would have set his country in alowewith his sweet melodies as he hath done. It has been remarked that England has no national melodies. Is that to be wondered at? England has no language for melody. The crows have no melody; and before they can have any, they would require either to get another language, or to send up a Scotchwoman amongst them to add her affectionateieto it, which would give it beautiful melody.Gira-ie, which would sound something like ourghraidh, the vocative ofgradh(love).

Let any person say, “My wee bonnie lammie;” let him continue doing so, placing the accent upon one word after another, and while he continues doing so, a sweet melody proceeds from his lips, which is the melody of nature, as if he held a tinkling bell in his hand. But let him say, “My little pretty lamb,” and the melody ceases, as if he struck the bell flat upon the table, and held nothing but a piece of cork in his hand. It is true that the English may be covered over with a tinsel of artificial melody, but what will be its effect? Will it affect the Scottish mind like its native melodies? These have seized the Scottish heart; have ingratiated themselves with the very feelings and nature of Scotsmen, which makes them their own natural melodies as much as the melody of larks and nightingales is their own.

I heard two females, beautiful singers, singing some revival hymns, one of them a very tame piece of lyric poetry; while singing it, they were in raptures about it. Now, I am certain it was the bursts of artificial melody that put them in raptures. It was the sound of their own voices, and not what they were singing, that affected them. They were puffed up with a puff of empty air, so that, in listening to them, I was led to put the question, What is all that noise about?

Now, I am convinced that were that masterpiece of lyric poetry,“Scots wha hae,” with the child’s simplicity, but the giant’s grasp in seizing the Scotch heart, to be sung to a regiment of Scotch warriors, or even played on the Highland Bagpipe in approaching the front of battle’s lower; the question, “What is all that noise about?” would be answered by their daring feats in the field of strife. And I put it to the good sense, and to the enlightened mind of Scottish Christianity—were there a piece composed in broad Scotch, as much calculated to fire the soul of the Christian warrior, as the other is calculated to fire the soul of the Scottish warrior, and sung to the same tune, what would be its blessed effect? Would it not put all their Anthems, their Old Hundreds, their artificial, their drawling slow march melodies entirely into the shade?

But our neighbours are so sensitive and have such fine and delicate feelings, that the vulgarity of the broad Scotch, and the associations connected with Scottish melodies, make them shrink back as the patient would shrink back from the surgeon’s knife. I was in a place of worship on one occasion, where a few individuals commenced to sing a Revival Hymn to the air of “Annie Laurie;” a grave Deacon rose from his seat and silenced them, stating that he could not bear the associations of that tune. I declare “Annie Laurie” was the most beautiful singer I heard amongst them; and as that was the first time I heard her voice, I would like to hear it again. If I could I would pick it up, and do with it as I have done with other pearls which as swine they are trampling under their feet. The late Mr Campbell, Oban, who had a fine ear for music, had a servant girl from Uist who was a beautiful singer; she was constantly singing a love song she had learned. The sweet melody of the piece caught the ear of the saint, and soon became his own; the words began to pour in also, and what could he do? The air he could not hate, but how to keep it without keeping the words along with it was the difficulty. He however fell on a plan; he went into his study, took his pen and wrote down some verses suited to the air. In his circumstances did he not do the best thing he could do? Let our neighbours follow his example. Sounds take a long time in coming. It is a long time since the sound was heard from Rowland Hill’s lips—“What a pity that the devil should have the prettiest tunes.” These words have at last found a response in the bosom of a Highlander, which he returns as from the rocky mountains of his country, saying—“The devil shall not have the prettiest tunes.” That again to find a response in rocky Wales, louder and louder still—“The devil shall not have the prettiest tunes,” and like the sound of thunder rolling and rolling over the United Kingdom, finding a response in all Churches and Chapels as it rolls along.

Have we not our associations in the Highlands as well as they? Two of the finest pieces we sing, Grant’s “Glory of the Lamb,” and M’Gregor’s “Righteousness of Christ,” we sing to the air of that song which Duncan Ban M’Intyre composed to his spouse (a piece of lyric poetry that the English can never imitate), and insinging them we never think that there was such a woman as Mhairi bhan òg in existence. The Scottish people prove that they find a sweetness in their native melodies, which they do not find in others. At their soirees do they not as it were cross over their fences in search of them? How ridiculous at the soirees of Christian Churches to hear “Scots wha hae,” “Ochone, Widow Machree,” and such like pieces sung. What vulgar beings they are to be sure!

I had a strong prejudice for the most part of my life against the broad Scotch. I looked upon it as I would from an eminence look down upon a number of tinkers anddonkeysbelow me. I saw aMagazineseveral years ago, which contained two pieces of poetry on opposite columns. The one was composed with all the power of the mistress of arts in pure English, and the other in the artless simplicity of the broad Scotch. The title of the former, if I recollect well, was “The Houseless Children;” that of the latter “There’s nae room for twa.” I read the former, and it did not awaken a single emotion in my soul; I began to suspect I was not scholar enough to comprehend it: the title was the most moving of the whole. I read the other piece, and it almost set me a dancing, and perhaps, had I only been twenty-five years of age, I would have risen up and danced the Highland Fling. The piece gives an account of a Jamie, and of a Katie, and a Janet who were in love with him. When crossing over a very narrow bridge, Jamie said, “Janet must walk behind, there’s nae room for twa.” Jamie’s words, “There’s nae room for twa,” went to Janet’s heart. The result was that Katie was his bride, and while the sun shone upon her, poor Janet was left under the dark clouds. She, however, began to bethink herself, and said—

I’ll gi’e to God my lingrin’ time,And Jamie drive awa;For in this weary heart o’ mineThere’s nae room for twa.There’s nae room for twa, ye ken,There’s nae room for twa;The heart that’s giv’n to God and Heav’n,Has nae room for twa.

I’ll gi’e to God my lingrin’ time,

And Jamie drive awa;

For in this weary heart o’ mine

There’s nae room for twa.

There’s nae room for twa, ye ken,

There’s nae room for twa;

The heart that’s giv’n to God and Heav’n,

Has nae room for twa.

Can the English language produce such a piece of artless simplicity, so natural, so touching, and so telling! No, never. The only fault that I could find with it, is, that there is some of it broader than the broad Scotch itself. I am not aware that “sheen” is ever used for “seen;” and I am not sure that it is strictly true, that there is nae room for twa in the grave to which we all must go. That’s a piece I would recommend to be sung at soirees; it will sing nicely to the air, “There’s nae luck aboot the house.” I was so delighted with the last verse, that I composed a poem in Gaelic on the same subject, suited to the same air.

Let us now bidfarewellto our neighbours, leaving them to bake their own cakes the best way they can, and let us retrace our steps to the land of our birth, and to the language of our nature; andin doing so, let me put a question to those who would wish to do away with our native language; can you supply us with a better language for our homes? I defy you. Is there a language upon earth by which our youth can attain the knowledge of God as the author of the great salvation, so readily and with so little trouble and expense, as through the medium of their own native Gaelic? What then shall we say to those parents and to those who have the management of our Schools in the Highlands, who do not teach our youth to read it and to understand it better? I have no hesitation in declaring that they were guilty of a very great crime—of an act of cruelty towards our youth, and of an act of rebellion against God. If God has given a revelation to men, he has appointed the Gaelic to the Highlanders, as the proper medium for obtaining the knowledge of that revelation; and how dare men in their shallow wisdom act towards Highlanders contrary to God’s appointed method of instructing them. The great stumbling-block with ministers, schoolmasters, and proprietors in the Highlands, is, that they do not consider the Gaelic genteel and fashionable, and do not put themselves to the trouble of studying it. I know no study that would repay better than the study of the Gaelic. It is not such a dry, such a complicated affair at all as the study of the English. In studying the Gaelic a man finds himself as among the living, but in studying the English as among the dead. In studying the former he finds himself as it were at home, in studying the latter as among foreigners. The more I study the Gaelic, the more I admire it, and the more am I astonished at the refined imagination which our forefathers had. I have no fears of the Gaelic because it has God for its author. I have no fears of it, because I believe that the spark is still alive in my countrymen which can be kindled into a flame.

When a boy, and at the end of our house (slated, substantially built, two-storey high) and raising my voice, every word that I spoke was repeated by the house. I had a younger brother, who was a great mimic, and thought he was mocking me; so I turned about and addressed the supposed brother: “If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet.” “If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet,” instantly replied the mimicking brother. “I tell you again to hold your tongue.” “I tell you again to hold your tongue,” as quickly replied. “If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you,” was as quick as lightning repeated. So having spent all my threats, and becoming more and more furious, the mimicking brother becoming equally so, I had at last to desist, being fairly mastered; he on my top, in spite of me. Now I am certain that were I to cry “Shame, shame,” or the more expressive Gaelic, “Mo naire, mo naire” (my shame, my shame), it would with equal distinctness be repeated by the house. So I would have all the Highlanders, from John o’ Groat’s to the Mull of Kintyre, and from Dunkeld to the Butt of Lewes and Cape Wrath, to raise their voices, and, with the strength of their lungs, to cry out “Mo naire, mo naire,” to those parents, those native proprietors,and those ministers and schoolmasters who wish to do away with the Gaelic by not teaching them to read it, so as to make all their castles, palaces, mansions, manses, school-houses, and dwelling-houses to resound “Mo naire, mo naire,” with such a terrific rattling noise as to startle the whole of them out of their houses; and seeing them still standing, each to address the troublesome noise, “Mo naire”—“If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet.” “If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet,” quickly repeated. “I tell you again to hold your tongue.” “I tell you again to hold your tongue,” instantly repeated. “If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you.” “If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you,” still repeated; and becoming more and more furious, the mimicking something becoming equally so, one and all of them be forced to give way, being fairly mastered, with the hearty Highlanders on their top.

A Catechism on the first principles of Divine teaching both by nature and revelation:—

Who are the two great teachers of mankind?—Nature and Revelation.

Who is the author of both?—The great God.

Is the teaching of both unerring or inspired?—Yes; because God is their author.

Is the teaching of both in anything opposed the one to the other?—In nothing, and cannot be so, because they have the same God as their author.

How ought the teaching of both to be received?—With an humble, teachable disposition of mind.

Does God teach the animal species?—Yes; he teaches them by putting what is called natural instincts in them.

Seeing that the human species have not only an animal body but also a rational soul, how does God teach them?—He teaches them by nature and revelation.

How does God teach them by nature? He teaches them by nature, by putting natural instincts in them, though not to the same extent as in animals.

How does God teach them by revelation?—By putting spiritual instincts in them. The unconverted have no spiritual instincts, are entirely influenced by a depraved nature, under the power of sin and Satan. But when God teaches them, he destroys the power of sin, puts spiritual instincts in them; they get an unction from the Holy One. The spiritual instincts of the converted differ as much from those of the unconverted as the natural instincts of the sheep differ from those of the wolf.

The same God who by instinct taught the ewe and the moor-hen to love their young and to care for them; the same God by instinct has taught the mother to love her child and to care for it. Andas the same God by instinct has taught the former a language to express their kindness which by instinct their young can comprehend; so in like manner he has taught a language to mothers to express their kindness, which the instinct and ultimately the reason of their offspring can comprehend. The native languages of the Highlands and Lowlands are as much the languages of nature, of what nature taught them, as the bleating of sheep or the lowing of cattle. God has given the best languages to beasts and birds that could be given to them. The Gaelic (and I say the same of the broad Scotch) is the best that could be given to Highlanders in all the relations of life, and for keeping them a united, a happy, and a contented people. Yes, and the best medium for conveying the knowledge of God our Saviour to their minds. This, then, is the language which a gracious God in great kindness gave unto them.

But there is another great being—man—who frequently sets himself up in opposition to the great God, as if he were wiser and disposed to be kinder than what he is. He also must give a language of his own making, which he has made up in a great measure from dead languages. He looks upon his own language as greatly superior to theirs—more learned, more refined, more respectable, and more genteel. Sets his extraordinary machinery agoing, gets schools and schoolmasters established all over the kingdom to teach, not one word of the languages which God taught the people, but his own; gives prizes to his scholars, and rewards the best of them by giving them honorary titles—Bachelor of Arts, and Master of Arts, &c.—puffing them up to the very skies. Thus the artificial English comes in direct opposition to the native languages of the country, calling them vulgar. God their author might as well be called so.

It comes and ingratiates itself with the pride and the vanity of the higher class of society. They were too high before, but it gives them their heart’s desire, it exalts them to the very clouds. It comes, and instead of bringing a blessing in its train, brings a curse; instead of regenerating, actually degenerates society. It found people united—the rich and the poor, the high and the low—in a society of brotherhood, knit together by the same language. The Highlanders by their Gaelic and the Lowlanders by their broad Scotch, living together in mutual friendship, the one looking upon the other’s language as that which the God of nature taught them. But the great man comes with his pure English and snaps the link in the chain asunder that united the rich and the poor, the high and the low together—puts a complete separation between them—removes the former from the common brotherhood, and exalting them as high above their heads as if they were a race of foreigners and not of the same species at all. There is your handiwork, proud man, who would be as gods. Those who have received the language you have prepared for them are exalted, many of them, above common mortals, as if they were gods. Yet they shall die like men. Both parties are injured, but especially the Englified, thegenteel, and the fashionable. They are puffed up with pride—filled with a vain conceit of their own superiority—their feelings of affection are dried up, being so far removed from the commonality as to have no sympathy with them. The others are injured also, being disheartened and discouraged from a conviction and a feeling of shame arising from it, that they are despised and treated with disrespect. This was not the case in former times. I knew proprietors in my younger days who not only spoke the Gaelic, but spoke it even better than the common people, and who, when they spoke English, spoke it in broad Scotch. At that time they were the men of the people, standing on a common level with them as regarded the language, and entered into their feelings. But how is the case now? All the answer that I will give to the question is, “God be merceful to my countrymen when foreigners are their proprietors!” Who has produced the melancholy change? Has it been brought about by God’s teaching, either by nature or revelation? Not at all; it is the doing of vain man, by introducing his artificial language. Is it not possible for men to receive all the benefits from the English which it is calculated to give without renouncing their own language and choosing it as the language of society.

Nature’s teaching and man’s teaching come contrary, the one to the other, in another respect. Nature teaches a beautiful variety, but the master of arts a dull uniformity. I have already referred to the beautiful varieties of the Gaelic, as spoken in the different parts of the Highlands. There is also the same variety in the different counties where the broad Scotch is spoken; but the master of arts comes with his artificial English, and with its rolling waves disfigures and spoils the whole, and leaves nothing but his own dull uniformity on their ruins. I believe that the time has come when God, as the great author of nature, and consequently as the author of the native languages of Scotland, shall say to the proud waves of man’s language, “Hitherto shalt thou come and no farther,” and “Here shall thy proud waves be stayed.” May all hearty Highlanders and all hearty Scotchmen say, “Amen, God grant it.” The great man does not duly set himself against the great God by going to the languages of nature and bringing a language out of them, which he sets up in opposition to the native languages as better and more genteel, but he must set himself up in opposition to Him likewise, as if he were wiser than he, by going to the other fountain of God’s teaching, Revelation, and bringing a creed and confession out of it, to be set up as the best and the most fashionable, and brands as a heretic every man who would differ from him. What do all the denominations of Christians attempt but to bring a creed and a confession out of Revelation as a bond of union and uniformity. But nature teaches a very different lesson. It teaches union and not uniformity, but union and variety. It teaches it in the human countenance, the human race, in trees and plants, four-footed clean animals, clean birds; in the Gaelic,broad Scotch, and, I am sure, in the French. Revelation teaches the same—a Trinity in unity. The bond of union amongst Highlanders is their Gaelic, and still there is no uniformity, but a beautiful variety. The bond of union amongst Christians is their Christianity. Christianity cannot exist without Christians. Christian union cannot exist amongst men without Christianity, and a real unity cannot exist amongst Christians without a glorious variety. This lesson nature teaches with perfect inspiration. Let Christians then treat Christianity as Highlanders treat the Gaelic. Let them follow their own views of it conscientiously and allow others to do the same, without attempting to set up their views as a confession of faith to others. Let the people of God then separate themselves from the unconverted world, and let this principle of nature’s Divine teaching be admitted by them, namely, unity and a glorious variety—unity as it regards the great essentials of Christianity, and variety as it regards the non-essentials. In that way, and in that way alone, shall they be properly united; in that way alone shall they enjoy one another, and, instead of living in the cold, narrow cell of sectarian selfishness, they will live in the expansive, the benign, the benevolent region of a glorious variety, and their minor differences, instead of detracting from, will actually add to the pleasure, the harmony, and the happiness of the whole.

There is a text which I would give to all the ministers in Scotland as the subject of their discourse on the first Sabbath of January, 1869—“Doth not nature itself teach you.”—1 Cor.xi., 14.

I am convinced that the teaching of nature has not been attended to as it ought. A person properly influenced by it, and humbly receiving its teaching, is conscious that he is under the guidance of a safe teacher. I will give one instance of nature’s teaching. I have two grandchildren in my house, a boy and a girl, about four years of age, who are very fond of their grandpapa, so fond that they wish to be oftener with him than he considers desirable. Should he only request them to go out in the usual way, they only laugh at him. If he rises to put them out, they run under the table like kittens. When he is on the one side they are on the other, where his hand cannot reach them. He then has to take the strap and threaten them severely and, even when putting them out with that severity, they put their backs to the door to prevent him from shutting it, and sometimes weep bitterly, which is very painful to his feelings. Nature, however, has taught him a different lesson: to speak kindly to them in a low tone of voice, and instantly they go out quite happy, and even saying, “Put the snib on the door, grandpapa.”

’S gu’m b’éibhinn, gu’m b’éibhinn,Gu’m b’éibhinn a’ Bhrataich i,’S gu’n leumainn, gu’n leumainn,Gu’m leumainn le h-aiteas rith:Teannaibh dlùth le aon rùn,—Teannaibh dlùth gu cabhagach,Cuiribh ’n àird i ’s gach àitBiodh gu h-aluinn ’crathadh i,’S aig éigheach, aig éigheach,Aig éigheach gur maireann i.’S gur spéiseil, gur spéiseil,Gur spéiseil ri labhairt i!’S gibht o Dhia i gach ialChaoidh nan cian cha dealaich rith?Fhuair i àit ann ar gràdh,Tha ri ’r nàdur ceangailte,’S cha tréig sinn, cha tréig sinn,Cha tréig sinn ’n ar n-anam i;’S cha ghéill sinn, cha ghéill sinn,Cha ghéill sinn, do’n t-Shasunnach,An e so seana Chabair-féidh?Cumaibh suas a’ Ghàelic ghrinnAnn ’ur srathaibh ’us ur glinn;Deanaibh ’teagasg do ur cloinn,’S na cuireadh Goill fo’n casan i.Labhraibh i gu sgairteal dànGun aon rugh ’n ’ur gruaidh le nàir;Anns a’ bhaile ’s air an t-sràid,Ged bhiodh e làn do Shasunnach.Cumaibh suas, &c.Cainnt na h-aoigheachd ’us na fàilt,Cainnt a’ chaoimhneis ’us a’ ghràidh,A bheir aoibhneas ’s gean gu fàs,’S a chuireas blàth’s ’n ’ur n-aignidhean.Cumaibh suas, &c.Cha b’ionnan i ’s Bhanshas’nnach mhòr’Rinn àrd sgoileirean na h-Oigh,Le Gréigis thioram, ’s Laidionn reòt,’S ann chuir iad còmhdach’ sneachdaidh oirr.Cumaibh suas, &c.Cha’n’eil i tioram,[2]crainntidh, fuar,Mar bhean mhòr-chuiseach na h’uaill,Mu bhios sibh pòsda ri bidh truagh,’Us ni le fuachd ’ur[3]meileachadh’S dh’ fheumadh pige dh’ uisge sgàld,A chuir fo bhonn ’ur cos ’se làn,’S còmhdach tlàth o’r ceann gu’r sàilMu’m blàthaich sibh ’san leaba leth.Cha b’ionann i ’s a’[4]chruinneag chòir,Nighinn a’ Ghàel ’s a’ cridh a’ teòth,Tha innte blàth’s ’us tlus gu leoir,’S i gun mhòrchuis ceangailt rith.Cumaibh suas, &c.A bhan-[5]Ephiteach ’s a’ bhan-tràillNa gabhaibh steach an caidreamh blàth,Na bean-taigh’ na biodh gu bràth,Biodh i ghnàth ’na ban-oglaich.Cumaibh i ri obair chruaidh,Biodh i mach ri am an fhuachd,(Ged tha i làn do ’n stràichd ’s do ’n uaill);Oir tha[6]ghruagach cleachdta ris.Cumaibh suas, &c.Tha ’feachd ’sa h-armailt ri dian strì,Gach bochd ’us beairteach thoirt fo ’cìs,’S a cuir ’n a suidhe mar bhanrìgh,Anns an tìr mar[7]Ealasaid.Ach fhad ’s a bhios an fhuil gu blàth,’Ruith ann an cuislibh nan Gàel,Cha dean iad strìochdadh dhi gu bràthGed ni sgàin ’s a chraicionn i.Cha cheadaich iad d’am[8]Màiri ghrinn,Mhàlda, bhanail, cheolmhòr bhinn,Bhi gun tròcair call a cinnLeis a’ mhilltear Shasunnach.Cumaibh suas, &c.Am maighstir-sgoile anns gach àitDeanaibh ghrad chuairteachadh gun dàil,’S abraibh ris gu daingean, dàn’,“Cha leig ’ur cànain seachad sinn!”“’S dean thusa ’teagasg do ar cloinn,A chum ’s gu ’n leugh iad i le sgoinn,’S nach bi iad uimpe mar na doill’Us na Goill ri fanaid orr’.“’Us àill leinn thu dhoibh theagasg beurl,A chum ’s gu ’n tuig iad i ’s gu ’n leugh,Ach do ’n Ghàelic thug sinn spéis,’S thoir-sa éisdeachd ealamh dhuinn.”Cumaibh suas, &c.’S gach neach ’n ur measg a chi ’ur sùil’Us earball peacaig air a chùl,’Le uaill ’s le mòr-chuis a chion-tùirA’ diùltadh bhi ga labhairt ruibh.Labhraibh ris gun mhodh gu grad,Abraibh ris gun sgeig, gun mhag’;Tha sinne ’faicinn mach troimh t’aid’Cluasan fad na h-asail ort!Cumaibh suas, &c.Tha Goill ’us Sas’nnaich tigh’nn ’nam brùchdA nios le carbadan ’n a smùid,’S ni iad a fògradh as an dùth’chMar grad dhùisg na h-Athalaich’.Dùisgibh, dùisgibh, ’luchd mo ghaoil,Seasaibh le dùrachd air a taobh,’Bratach gu sùrdail deanaibh sgaoil,A chum ’s a ghaoth gun crathadh i.’S na bodaich dhubh ’n taobh thall[9]Lochbraon,Abraibh riu le h-iolaich glaoidh,Nach ’eil sibh uile gabhail nàir,’S gu’n d’fhàg sinn n’ ur[10]cadal sibh?Nach ’eil fo nàir sibh thaobh ’ur dùth’ch’,Ris a bhan Ghàel bhi cuir ’ur cùl,’S mar na tràillean lub ’ur glùn’S toirt ùmhlachd do ’n bhan Shasunnaich!Cumaibh suas, &c.Gach creag ’us coire, stùchd ’us càrn,Gach lag ’us cnochd, ’us slios, ’us learg,Gach glaic ’us tullaich, eas ’us allt,Tha ’labhairt cainnt ar n-athraichean,Tha guth ri chluiantinn o gach fonn,—Gach dail, ’us bail’, ’us dùn, ’us tòm,—Gach beinn, ’us coill, ’us leachduinn lòmTha gu pongail ’labhairt iad.Cumaibh suas, &c.Nach ro mhuladach an sgeul,Ma bhios ’ur gincil thig ’n-’ur déighGun aon smid dhi ann am beul,Ach i gu lèir mar Laidionn doibh.[11]Dal-an-amair an Gleann Ile?Cha tuig aon anam tha ’s an tìrAn[12]t-alltanburnrinn iad na bhurn;Ach ’n a bhurn ’us cabhbaig air.Cumaibh suas, &c.

’S gu’m b’éibhinn, gu’m b’éibhinn,

Gu’m b’éibhinn a’ Bhrataich i,

’S gu’n leumainn, gu’n leumainn,

Gu’m leumainn le h-aiteas rith:

Teannaibh dlùth le aon rùn,—

Teannaibh dlùth gu cabhagach,

Cuiribh ’n àird i ’s gach àit

Biodh gu h-aluinn ’crathadh i,

’S aig éigheach, aig éigheach,

Aig éigheach gur maireann i.

’S gur spéiseil, gur spéiseil,

Gur spéiseil ri labhairt i!

’S gibht o Dhia i gach ial

Chaoidh nan cian cha dealaich rith?

Fhuair i àit ann ar gràdh,

Tha ri ’r nàdur ceangailte,

’S cha tréig sinn, cha tréig sinn,

Cha tréig sinn ’n ar n-anam i;

’S cha ghéill sinn, cha ghéill sinn,

Cha ghéill sinn, do’n t-Shasunnach,

An e so seana Chabair-féidh?

Cumaibh suas a’ Ghàelic ghrinnAnn ’ur srathaibh ’us ur glinn;Deanaibh ’teagasg do ur cloinn,’S na cuireadh Goill fo’n casan i.

Cumaibh suas a’ Ghàelic ghrinn

Ann ’ur srathaibh ’us ur glinn;

Deanaibh ’teagasg do ur cloinn,

’S na cuireadh Goill fo’n casan i.

Labhraibh i gu sgairteal dànGun aon rugh ’n ’ur gruaidh le nàir;Anns a’ bhaile ’s air an t-sràid,Ged bhiodh e làn do Shasunnach.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Labhraibh i gu sgairteal dàn

Gun aon rugh ’n ’ur gruaidh le nàir;

Anns a’ bhaile ’s air an t-sràid,

Ged bhiodh e làn do Shasunnach.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cainnt na h-aoigheachd ’us na fàilt,Cainnt a’ chaoimhneis ’us a’ ghràidh,A bheir aoibhneas ’s gean gu fàs,’S a chuireas blàth’s ’n ’ur n-aignidhean.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cainnt na h-aoigheachd ’us na fàilt,

Cainnt a’ chaoimhneis ’us a’ ghràidh,

A bheir aoibhneas ’s gean gu fàs,

’S a chuireas blàth’s ’n ’ur n-aignidhean.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cha b’ionnan i ’s Bhanshas’nnach mhòr’Rinn àrd sgoileirean na h-Oigh,Le Gréigis thioram, ’s Laidionn reòt,’S ann chuir iad còmhdach’ sneachdaidh oirr.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cha b’ionnan i ’s Bhanshas’nnach mhòr

’Rinn àrd sgoileirean na h-Oigh,

Le Gréigis thioram, ’s Laidionn reòt,

’S ann chuir iad còmhdach’ sneachdaidh oirr.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cha’n’eil i tioram,[2]crainntidh, fuar,Mar bhean mhòr-chuiseach na h’uaill,Mu bhios sibh pòsda ri bidh truagh,’Us ni le fuachd ’ur[3]meileachadh

Cha’n’eil i tioram,[2]crainntidh, fuar,

Mar bhean mhòr-chuiseach na h’uaill,

Mu bhios sibh pòsda ri bidh truagh,

’Us ni le fuachd ’ur[3]meileachadh

’S dh’ fheumadh pige dh’ uisge sgàld,A chuir fo bhonn ’ur cos ’se làn,’S còmhdach tlàth o’r ceann gu’r sàilMu’m blàthaich sibh ’san leaba leth.

’S dh’ fheumadh pige dh’ uisge sgàld,

A chuir fo bhonn ’ur cos ’se làn,

’S còmhdach tlàth o’r ceann gu’r sàil

Mu’m blàthaich sibh ’san leaba leth.

Cha b’ionann i ’s a’[4]chruinneag chòir,Nighinn a’ Ghàel ’s a’ cridh a’ teòth,Tha innte blàth’s ’us tlus gu leoir,’S i gun mhòrchuis ceangailt rith.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cha b’ionann i ’s a’[4]chruinneag chòir,

Nighinn a’ Ghàel ’s a’ cridh a’ teòth,

Tha innte blàth’s ’us tlus gu leoir,

’S i gun mhòrchuis ceangailt rith.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

A bhan-[5]Ephiteach ’s a’ bhan-tràillNa gabhaibh steach an caidreamh blàth,Na bean-taigh’ na biodh gu bràth,Biodh i ghnàth ’na ban-oglaich.

A bhan-[5]Ephiteach ’s a’ bhan-tràill

Na gabhaibh steach an caidreamh blàth,

Na bean-taigh’ na biodh gu bràth,

Biodh i ghnàth ’na ban-oglaich.

Cumaibh i ri obair chruaidh,Biodh i mach ri am an fhuachd,(Ged tha i làn do ’n stràichd ’s do ’n uaill);Oir tha[6]ghruagach cleachdta ris.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cumaibh i ri obair chruaidh,

Biodh i mach ri am an fhuachd,

(Ged tha i làn do ’n stràichd ’s do ’n uaill);

Oir tha[6]ghruagach cleachdta ris.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Tha ’feachd ’sa h-armailt ri dian strì,Gach bochd ’us beairteach thoirt fo ’cìs,’S a cuir ’n a suidhe mar bhanrìgh,Anns an tìr mar[7]Ealasaid.

Tha ’feachd ’sa h-armailt ri dian strì,

Gach bochd ’us beairteach thoirt fo ’cìs,

’S a cuir ’n a suidhe mar bhanrìgh,

Anns an tìr mar[7]Ealasaid.

Ach fhad ’s a bhios an fhuil gu blàth,’Ruith ann an cuislibh nan Gàel,Cha dean iad strìochdadh dhi gu bràthGed ni sgàin ’s a chraicionn i.

Ach fhad ’s a bhios an fhuil gu blàth,

’Ruith ann an cuislibh nan Gàel,

Cha dean iad strìochdadh dhi gu bràth

Ged ni sgàin ’s a chraicionn i.

Cha cheadaich iad d’am[8]Màiri ghrinn,Mhàlda, bhanail, cheolmhòr bhinn,Bhi gun tròcair call a cinnLeis a’ mhilltear Shasunnach.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Cha cheadaich iad d’am[8]Màiri ghrinn,

Mhàlda, bhanail, cheolmhòr bhinn,

Bhi gun tròcair call a cinn

Leis a’ mhilltear Shasunnach.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Am maighstir-sgoile anns gach àitDeanaibh ghrad chuairteachadh gun dàil,’S abraibh ris gu daingean, dàn’,“Cha leig ’ur cànain seachad sinn!”

Am maighstir-sgoile anns gach àit

Deanaibh ghrad chuairteachadh gun dàil,

’S abraibh ris gu daingean, dàn’,

“Cha leig ’ur cànain seachad sinn!”

“’S dean thusa ’teagasg do ar cloinn,A chum ’s gu ’n leugh iad i le sgoinn,’S nach bi iad uimpe mar na doill’Us na Goill ri fanaid orr’.

“’S dean thusa ’teagasg do ar cloinn,

A chum ’s gu ’n leugh iad i le sgoinn,

’S nach bi iad uimpe mar na doill

’Us na Goill ri fanaid orr’.

“’Us àill leinn thu dhoibh theagasg beurl,A chum ’s gu ’n tuig iad i ’s gu ’n leugh,Ach do ’n Ghàelic thug sinn spéis,’S thoir-sa éisdeachd ealamh dhuinn.”Cumaibh suas, &c.

“’Us àill leinn thu dhoibh theagasg beurl,

A chum ’s gu ’n tuig iad i ’s gu ’n leugh,

Ach do ’n Ghàelic thug sinn spéis,

’S thoir-sa éisdeachd ealamh dhuinn.”

Cumaibh suas, &c.

’S gach neach ’n ur measg a chi ’ur sùil’Us earball peacaig air a chùl,’Le uaill ’s le mòr-chuis a chion-tùirA’ diùltadh bhi ga labhairt ruibh.

’S gach neach ’n ur measg a chi ’ur sùil

’Us earball peacaig air a chùl,

’Le uaill ’s le mòr-chuis a chion-tùir

A’ diùltadh bhi ga labhairt ruibh.

Labhraibh ris gun mhodh gu grad,Abraibh ris gun sgeig, gun mhag’;Tha sinne ’faicinn mach troimh t’aid’Cluasan fad na h-asail ort!Cumaibh suas, &c.

Labhraibh ris gun mhodh gu grad,

Abraibh ris gun sgeig, gun mhag’;

Tha sinne ’faicinn mach troimh t’aid’

Cluasan fad na h-asail ort!

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Tha Goill ’us Sas’nnaich tigh’nn ’nam brùchdA nios le carbadan ’n a smùid,’S ni iad a fògradh as an dùth’chMar grad dhùisg na h-Athalaich’.

Tha Goill ’us Sas’nnaich tigh’nn ’nam brùchd

A nios le carbadan ’n a smùid,

’S ni iad a fògradh as an dùth’ch

Mar grad dhùisg na h-Athalaich’.

Dùisgibh, dùisgibh, ’luchd mo ghaoil,Seasaibh le dùrachd air a taobh,’Bratach gu sùrdail deanaibh sgaoil,A chum ’s a ghaoth gun crathadh i.

Dùisgibh, dùisgibh, ’luchd mo ghaoil,

Seasaibh le dùrachd air a taobh,

’Bratach gu sùrdail deanaibh sgaoil,

A chum ’s a ghaoth gun crathadh i.

’S na bodaich dhubh ’n taobh thall[9]Lochbraon,Abraibh riu le h-iolaich glaoidh,Nach ’eil sibh uile gabhail nàir,’S gu’n d’fhàg sinn n’ ur[10]cadal sibh?

’S na bodaich dhubh ’n taobh thall[9]Lochbraon,

Abraibh riu le h-iolaich glaoidh,

Nach ’eil sibh uile gabhail nàir,

’S gu’n d’fhàg sinn n’ ur[10]cadal sibh?

Nach ’eil fo nàir sibh thaobh ’ur dùth’ch’,Ris a bhan Ghàel bhi cuir ’ur cùl,’S mar na tràillean lub ’ur glùn’S toirt ùmhlachd do ’n bhan Shasunnaich!Cumaibh suas, &c.

Nach ’eil fo nàir sibh thaobh ’ur dùth’ch’,

Ris a bhan Ghàel bhi cuir ’ur cùl,

’S mar na tràillean lub ’ur glùn

’S toirt ùmhlachd do ’n bhan Shasunnaich!

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Gach creag ’us coire, stùchd ’us càrn,Gach lag ’us cnochd, ’us slios, ’us learg,Gach glaic ’us tullaich, eas ’us allt,Tha ’labhairt cainnt ar n-athraichean,

Gach creag ’us coire, stùchd ’us càrn,

Gach lag ’us cnochd, ’us slios, ’us learg,

Gach glaic ’us tullaich, eas ’us allt,

Tha ’labhairt cainnt ar n-athraichean,

Tha guth ri chluiantinn o gach fonn,—Gach dail, ’us bail’, ’us dùn, ’us tòm,—Gach beinn, ’us coill, ’us leachduinn lòmTha gu pongail ’labhairt iad.Cumaibh suas, &c.

Tha guth ri chluiantinn o gach fonn,—

Gach dail, ’us bail’, ’us dùn, ’us tòm,—

Gach beinn, ’us coill, ’us leachduinn lòm

Tha gu pongail ’labhairt iad.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

Nach ro mhuladach an sgeul,Ma bhios ’ur gincil thig ’n-’ur déighGun aon smid dhi ann am beul,Ach i gu lèir mar Laidionn doibh.

Nach ro mhuladach an sgeul,

Ma bhios ’ur gincil thig ’n-’ur déigh

Gun aon smid dhi ann am beul,

Ach i gu lèir mar Laidionn doibh.

[11]Dal-an-amair an Gleann Ile?Cha tuig aon anam tha ’s an tìrAn[12]t-alltanburnrinn iad na bhurn;Ach ’n a bhurn ’us cabhbaig air.Cumaibh suas, &c.

[11]Dal-an-amair an Gleann Ile?

Cha tuig aon anam tha ’s an tìr

An[12]t-alltanburnrinn iad na bhurn;

Ach ’n a bhurn ’us cabhbaig air.

Cumaibh suas, &c.

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