Na naoimh thog an sùilean le umhlachd an àird,
A's sheinn iad gu tiamhaidh do'n Dia o'n robh 'n slàint’.
Bha beanntaidhean creagach a' freagairt an òrain,
Rinn an fheadag 's a ghuilbneach co-sheirm riu cò'lath ;
Ach bhàsaich an ceòl a' measg spòrs agus gàraich,
'Nuair bha feachd nam mi-dhiadhach a' triall chum na h-àraich
Ged bha iad a' tuiteam feadh deatach a's teine,
Bha anama nam fìrean ciùin, siochail, gun eagal ;
Bha 'n sùilean a' lasadh, 's le taise cha ghéilleadh,
'S ann a sheas iad mar charraig 's an dealan ga reubadh.
Rinn na gunnachan làmhach, dhears gorm lanna faobhrach,
Na clogaidean spealgta, bha 'n dearg fhuil ga taosgadh,
Dhorchaich na speuran, b' àrd beucail na torruinn,
'S na treun-fhir ga'm marbhadh 'an garbhlach a' mhonaidh.
'N uair mharbhadh na fìrein, 's a chriochnaich an streupaid,
Thainig carbad do theine roi' dhubh-neoil nan speuran;
B'iad ainglean a's cheruib nan speur a luchd-coimhead,
'S bha 'rothan a' lasadh air aisilean soluis.
Chaidh seraph a dh'fhosgladh a dhorsan geal maiseach, A bha 'deàrsadh mar òr chaidh seachd uairean a ghlanadh, 'S na h-anamaibh éibhinn a dh'éirich á àmhghar, 'S do fhlaitheanas dh'fhalbh iad air charbad na slàinte.
Air bogha nan speuran bha'n carbad air fhaicinn,
Roi' raidean an tàirneanaich thairneadh am marc-shluagh: Greasaibh aingle gu luath, oir tha'n duais ann 'ur còir, Crùn a bhios siorruidh ann an rioghachd na glòir.
Ri comhairl' Chalum Chille a Hunaild éisd,
'S ri d' charaid aom do chluas gu toileach, geur;
Mo chainnt cha bhi le loinnir fòghlum cruaidh.
An ni their gràdh ni mi gu saor a luaidh.
Cuir muinghinn ann an Dia, 's d'a ghuth thoir géill,
Am feadh a mhaireas là do chuairt fo'n ghréin ;
A's thoir fainear ar beath' an so gu'n d' fhuair
G'ar n-anaman dheasach' air son sonas buan.
Dean dìmeas air na sòlasan nach mair,
'S na leag do chrì air buannachd leat nach fan;
Ach tòraichd ionmhais anns an Fhocal Naomh,
A's anns gach comhairle d'a réir thug daoin':
These noble treasures will remain behind
When earthly treasures fly on wings of wind
Think of the time when trembling age shall come,
And the last messenger to call thee home.
'Tis wise to meditate betimes on death,
And that dread moment which will stop the breath,
On all the ills which age brings in its train,
Disease and weakness, langour, grief and pain.
The joints grow stiff, the blood itself run cold,
Nor can the staff its trembling load uphold.
And need I speak of groans and pangs of mind,
And sleep disturbed by every breath of wind?
What then avails the heaps of yellow gold,
For years collected, and each day re-told?
Or what avails the table richly stored
To the sick palate of its dying lord?
The sinful pleasures which have long since past,
Are now like arrows in his heart stuck fast.
He who reflects that Time, on eagle-wing,
Flies past, and preys on every earthly thing,
Will scorn vain honours, avarice despise,
On nobler pursuits bent, beyond the skies.
Alas! vain mortals, how misplaced your care,
When in this world you seek what is not there ?
True lasting happiness is found above,
And heaven not earth, you therefore ought to love.
The rich enjoy not what they seem to have,
But something more their souls incessant crave.
The use of riches seldom do they know ;
For heirs they heap them, or they waste in show.
O! happy he, to whose contented mind
Riches seem useless, but to help mankind;
Who neither squanders what should feed the poor,
Nor suffers Avarice to lock his store.
No moths upon his heaps of garments feed,
Nor serves his corn to feed the pampered steed.
No cank'ring care shall take his peace away;
No thief, nor flame, shall on his substance prey.
His treasure is secure beyond the skies,
And there he finds it on the day he dies.
This world we entered naked at our birth,
Naked we leave it, and return to earth:
Silver and gold we need not much, nor long,
Since to this world alone such things belong.
Life's little space requires no ample store :
Soon heaven opens to the pious poor;
While Pluto's realms their dreary gates unfold,
Those to admit who set their souls on gold.
Na h-ionmhais luachmhor sin bidh buan mar neamh, Ach siubhlaidh ionmhais shaoghalta mar neul.
Dean smuainteach air an tiom 's an tig seann aois, 'S an teachdair' deireannach gu d' ghairm o'n t-saogh❜l ; Is glic dhuit meorachadh air bàs gach lò,
A's air an uair 's an toir thu suas an deo-
Air na h-uile sin uile thairngeas aois na deigh,
Bochduinn a's laige, caitheamh, bròn, a's péin.
Neo-easguidh bidh na h-uilt, 's ni'n fhuil ruith fuar,
'S cha chum an lorg a h-uallach critheach suas:
A's iomradh 'n ruig mi leas air inntinn chlaoidht',
A's codal buairte leis gach oiteig ghaoith.
Ciod feum matà nan torran buidhe òir,
O bhliadhn' gu bliadhna truist, 's nam meud a' bòsd:
No'm bord an t-sòigh, 's an t-saibhreis ciod am feum
Do chàil ro thinn a thighearn 'dol do'n eug?
Na sòlais pheacach bho cheann fada dh'fhalbh,
Tha sàithte nis na chrì mar mhìle sgolb.
Es' bheir fainear cia luath tha tiom dol seach,
'S a' cosd gach ni is cuspair talmhaidh as,
Ni sgeig air onair fhaoin, air sannt ni tàir,
Le 'shùil air nithe 's fearr taobh thall a' bhàis.
Mo thruaigh a chnuimhean bochd' sa' cheo air chall
Ag iarraidh ni 'san t-saoghal nach 'eil ann,
Fior shonas maireannach tha shuas gu h-àrd
Do neamh mata 's na b'ann do'n t saogh'l thoir grådh.
Am beartach cha 'n 'eil sona le 'chuid òir,
Tha miannan 'anm' air cuspair eil' an toir;
Fior fheum an saibhreis 's tearc iad e d'an eoil,
'S e 's gnàth leo thorradh suas no chosd le strogh.
O!'s son' an neach tha toilichte le 'chrann,
'S le'n coma beartas ach a chum a roinn-
Nach sgap an ni bu choir dha thoirt do'n bhochd,
'S nach leig le sannt gu'n glais e suas a stochd.
Na leomainn cha dean air a thrusgain beud,
'S cha toir e ghràn a reamhrachadh nan steud,
Ni mo bheir iomagain crì e chaoidh fo sprochd :
No teine fòs, no meirlich gu bhi bochd.
Tha ionmhas taisgt' os ceann nan neul gu h-àrd,
A's gheibh e 'n sin le riadh e latha 'bháis.
Lomnochd thàinig sinn do'n t-saogh'l so'n tùs,
A's lomnochd uaithe pillidh sinn do'n ùir:
Ar feum air airgiod cha bhi mòr no buan,
A chionn nach buin e ach do'n taobh so'n uaigh.
Là cuairt chloinn daoin' a bhos cha 'n iarr mòr stochd, Oir fosglaidh nèamh gun dàil do'n diadhaidh bhochd, Am feadh a dh' fhosglas prìosan dorcha a bhròin G'an gabhail-san a steach rinn dia do'n òr.
Our Saviour bids us Avarice avoid,
Nor love those things which can't be long enjoyed.
Short, says the Psalmist, are the days of man,
The measure of his life a narrow span.
Time flies away; and on its rapid wing
We fly along, with every earthly thing.
Yet Time returns, and crowns the Spring with flowers,
Renews the seasons, and repeats the hours.
But life returns not with revolving years,
And man, once gone, on earth no more appears.
Wise then is he who makes it his great care,
In this short space, for heaven to prepare.
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection had proved,
The husband that mother and infant had blest,
Each-all are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
Tha sannt fo dhìmeas ann am focal Dé,
Is lubach, carach tha gach ni fo'n ghréin:
An duine truagh, thuirt Daibhidh, 's gearr a là,
A bheatha teichidh as gu luath mar sgàil.
Tha tiom na ruith, a's air a sgiathaibh luath
Tha sinne 'falbh mar chàch gu'r dachaidh bhuan.
Ach pillidh tiom, a's bheir na glinn fo bhlàth,
'S thig àm gu cur a's buain, a's là 'n deigh là.
Ach beatha rìs cha phill le blath nam bruach,
A's duine aon uair marbh cha phill o'n uaigh.
Is glic mata gach aon d'an cùram geur,
'S an t-seal so ullachadh fa theachd a Dhé.
BASMHOIREACHD.
Ciod uime 'n dean duine gearr-shaoghalach uaill!
Mar an dreug, no mar neul a shiubhlas gu luath,
Mar bhoilsgeadh an dealain—mar thonnan air tràigh,
O bheatha tha 'siubhal gu tosdachd a' bhàis.
Seargaidh duilleach an daraich 's an t-seilich 's a' ghréin,
Theid an sgapadh mu'n cuairt, a's ni luidhe le chéil';
An t-òg a's an t-aosd', an t-ainnis, 's an t-àrd,
Ni luidhe gu tosdach fo chuibhreach a' bhàis.
An leanabh a dh'altrum a mhàthair le gràdh,
'S a' mhàthair 'bha tairisneach, iochdmhor, a's blàth;
'S an t-athair a ghràdhaich a leanabh, 'sa chéil',
Tha iad uile a nis 'nan luidhe fo'n déil'.
A' mhaighdean bha maiseach, le aoibh air a gnùis,
A nis tha, na luidhe gu tosdach 'san ùir;
A's tha cuimhne na muinntir 'thug spéis di a's gràdh,
Air an dearmad gu tur leis an àl a tha làth'ir.
Tha cumhachd an righ a riaghail na slòigh,
Tha uabhar an t-sagairt a thionndaidh o'n chòir,
Tha sùilean a' ghliocair, a's gairdean nam buadh,
Air am folach 's air chall ann an doimhneachd na h-uaigh.
Tha'n croitear a shaoithrich ri cur agus buain,
'S am buachall a dh'ionaltair a ghobhair feadh bhruach, Tha'n déirceach 'bha 'g iarraidh o choigrich a lòin, Air seargadh mar fheur, a's nan luidhe gun deò.
An naomh a bha 'mealtuinn co-chomunn ri Dia,
'S am peacach d'a aingidheachd fuath nach d' thug riamh, An glic a's am baoghalt, an daoi a's an còir, Tha'n cnàmhan air measgadh le chéile fo'n fhòid.
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