Am Buachaile Ban
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?
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