#laigh anne

[sgrobailancoiseam]

an Tighinn Dara

A' cuartalan 's a' cuartalan sa slugan mèananach cha chluinn an seabhag a seabagair; tuitidh rudan às a chèile; cha sheasidh am meadhan; tha dìreach ain-rian leigte mu sgaoil air an t-saoghal, tha an làn dubh-fala leigte mu sgaoil, 's anns gach àite tha an deas-ghnàth neochiontais bàthte; iad as fhèarr gun cinnt, neas iad as mìosa làn de dèinead lasanta.

Gu fìrinneach, tha taisbean làimh rinn; Gu fìrinneach, tha an Tighinn Dara làimh rinn. An Tighinn Dara! Cha robh na faclan a-mach Nuar chur tionnail mhòr às Spiritus Mundi trioblaid air mo shùil; badeigin sa bacannan fàsaich cumadh le corp lèanhainn agus ceann fir, sgeann cho bàn agus neo-thrusacante ris a' Ghrian, a' gluasad a sliasan slaodach, treis timcheall a' ruidhleadh sgàilean de na eun-fàsaich diomach. Tùirl dorchas a-rithist, ach a-nis bha fios agam gu robh figead linnteann de cadail càrnach dorranaichte do trom-laighe le creathal turcadh. Agus dè biast garbh, a h-uair thàinig fa dheireadh, a' sliùbhd chun Betlehem 'son a bhreith?

____________________

An Tighinn Dara, le WB Yeates, Gàidhlig le Còiseam

Cuiribh mi Ceart

dìoghrasach, seach lasanta? an urrian dhomh a chleachd thimcheall gun cuspair? a bheil an verbal adjective ceart air 'fighean linnteann... dorranaichte'?

[ggicon]

little mix (strip)

LITTLE MIX (STRIP)

follow frrost (i follow back)

please LIKE if use

credit @4sheeran if you use on twitter

[shipfishwrites]

in honor of red hearts appreciation day, please tell me your favorite relationship from a pern fic or rp. bonus points if it's platonic, familial, or adversarial, extra bonus points if it's dragons

[saint-sebastian-coded]

AN T-EUN NACH D’RINN SGÈITH by Niall O’Gallagher

Laigh an t-eun gun ghluasad air an làr.                                                   Thàinig iad nan gràisg: ‘Is ann a dh’eug                                                      brù-dhearg, mharbh esan e’, ’n gille sèimh                                                       a rinn iad a thrèigsinn mar bu ghnàth.                                                            Cha tug e an aire ach, le gràdh,                                                                    rinn e nead le làmhan agus shèid                                                                  anail shocair, thlàth air a dà sgèith                                                              sgaoileadh beatha feadh gach ite ’s cnàmh’.

Dh’fhan i tiotan air a bhois                                                                                a’ ceilearadh air leth-chois                                                                                mus do thog i oirre tron an sgleò.

Theich a threud ach cha do chlisg                                                                      an gille le làmhan brisg’,                                                                                cluas sa lios ri bualadh sgèith an eòin.

[dimitrescus-bitch]

If you aren’t busy may I request a Leigh-Anne x reader. Where Laigh-Anne and the girls of Little Mix are having an interview and the interviewer brings up the reader because R was deployed with the military and Leigh misses R. Later in the interview R surprises Leigh with the help of interviewer, band mates and manager

Yeah, no problem.

[scotianostra]

On October 26th 1911 the Gaelic poet, Sorley MacLean, was born on the island of Raasay, the same island my own ancestors originated.

Maclean was born at Osgaig on the island into a Gaelic speaking community. He was the second of five sons born to Malcolm and Christina MacLean. His brothers were John Maclean, a schoolteacher and later rector of Oban High School, who was also a piper, Calum Maclean, a noted folklorist and ethnographer; and Alasdair and Norman, who became GP's. His name in Gaelic was Somhairle MacGill-Eain.

At home, he was steeped in Gaelic culture and beul-aithris (the oral tradition), especially old songs. His mother, a Nicolson, had been raised near Portree, although her family was of Lochalsh origin her family had been involved in Highland Land League activism for tenant rights. His father, who owned a small croft and ran a tailoring business,[12]:16 had been raised on Raasay, but his family was originally from North Uist and, before that, Mull. Both sides of the family had been evicted during the Highland Clearances, of which many people in the community still had a clear recollection.

What MacLean learned of the history of the Gaels, especially of the Clearances, had a significant impact on his worldview and politics. Of especial note was MacLean's paternal grandmother, Mary Matheson, whose family had been evicted from the mainland in the 18th century. Until her death in 1923, she lived with the family and taught MacLean many traditional songs from Kintail and Lochalsh. As a child, MacLean enjoyed fishing trips with his aunt Peigi, who taught him other songs.[9] Unlike other members of his family, MacLean could not sing, a fact that he connected with his impetus to write poetry.

Sorley was brought up as a follower of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, now if you think the Wee Free are strict, these guys think that The Wee Free are too lenient, but Sorley says he gave up the religion for socialism at the age of twelve as he refused to accept that a majority of human beings were consigned to eternal damnation. He was educated at Raasay Primary School and Portree Secondary School. In 1929, he left home to attend the University of Edinburgh.

While studying at Edinburgh University he encountered Hugh Macdiarmid who inspired him to write poetry. However, Maclean chose the Gaelic of his childhood rather than Scots.

After fighting in North Africa during World War II he embarked on his life-long career as a school teacher - working in Mull, Edinburgh and Plockton.

Maclean was one of the finest writers of Gaelic in the 20th century. He drew upon its rich oral tradition to create innovative and beautiful poetry about the Scottish landscape and history. He was also an accomplished love poet. However, writing in Gaelic limited his audience so he began to translate his own work into English. In 1977 a bilingual edition of his selected poems appeared - followed by the collected poems in 1989.

His fame as a poet began to spread during the 1970s - helped by the appearance of his work in Gordon Wright's Four Points of a Saltire. Seamus Heaney, who first met Maclean at a poetry reading at the Abbey Theatre Dublin, was one of his greatest admirers and subsequently worked on translations of his work.

One of Maclean's most celebrated poems is Hallaig which concerns the enforced clearance of the inhabitants of the township of Hallaig (Raasay) to Australia. A film, Hallaig, was made in 1984 by Timothy Neat, including a discussion by MacLean of the dominant influences on his poetry, with commentary by Smith and Heaney, and substantial passages from the poem and other work, along with extracts of Gaelic song

In 1990 Maclean received the Queen's Gold Medal for poetry. He died in 1996 at the age of 85.‘.

Tha tìm, am fiadh, an coille Hallaig’

Tha bùird is tàirnean air an uinneig

trom faca mi an Àird 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.

Uaibreach 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 Clachan mar o thus.

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 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.

Hallaig

Translator: Sorley MacLean

‘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.

)

[444names]

french and american forenames + dragons + brythonic deities BUT excluding "y"

Abnoît Adamelie Albenn Aldrosco Alduana Alfre Alfrée Alphaëlle Alphine Alémice Amaria Amarviose Amitambie Amona Amure Ancia Andavine Andon Angentiel Anient Anique Anlosé Anlusis Anmie Annade Annes Anneton Annico Annine Aponie Ardona Ardorgine Arique Arletin Arrus Artori Asamen Asandamon Asmas Athen Audise Azhderm Beandre Benie Berbar Berice Bermaxie Bermene Berne Bertrina Binette Blacques Blamo Blanna Blasharce Bobor Boborema Bormarice Bracis Brance Brina Béancis Canick Cantra Carack Carah Cardona Caria Carid Carred Cason Cassim Castanus Catri Celmarce Chaedete Charus Cheane Cheanice Checcan Chelbeluc Cheranne Cherne Chrie Chrinès Chrisa Ciscashan Claegg Clain Clarta Classa Claudie Claur Connir Céanic Céanoé Cédérine Dalfres Damaph Damarnus Danckie Dannire Darie Deandane Deannis Debis Debri Delsonge Denth Derandra Derne Dette Diaen Dillenue Ditack Ditianna Ditina Dolauleen Domon Donatra Dorack Drace Dremarle Dresa Duines Duinnicha Dwaraus Dward Dwina Edraco Eline Ellaulin Emaurolle Emmannus Eredwis Erice Erine Ernes Ertine Essanth Essio Ethal Etorgine Faine Fanca Fantholia Flaint Flance Flord Floric Frain Frandred Frankonie Franniene Fraque Freste Gaéta Gelaudida Gellie Genée Geria Geris Gertris Ghirna Gileigh Ginesuce Glamna Glaunna Gleillene Glorastin Grudent Grunne Grunoé Guelline Harantuta Harila Helee Henth Hered Herentie Hermaula Herrella Hewille Honettal Huettevel Irenée Irèse Ivinus Jacecla Jacol Jacoutan Jailietth Jamer Jance Janceles Janessine Janfrah Jania Jasonien Jassopham Jeaha Jeana Jeancedd Jeane Jeann Jeannusta Jeate Jefferne Jefin Jence Jenire Jeriam Jeris Jessalton Jessild Jestie Jimbisa Jimbrie Jimel Jimohnnie Joanckald Joanianio Joanir Joharma Johnnicia Joria Jorve Juancel Julaell Julip Junnie Jusilisa Jusulier Jérène Jérômetth Kalbeld Kallil Kargil Karvolvie Katholia Katinus Katon Katrah Katrie Katte Kelene Kelille Kennalber Kerris Kiren Kirnus Krierel Krina Krisopha Krissabis Krita Kuranca Kuren Laigh Laine Lanmannus Lanus Leile Lianne Lifra Linence Lolannius Loracobis Lored Lorie Lourne Lucantiam Lucaro Ludil Luguerio Léris Maine Mandamis Mandeano Mannetel Maranna Marce Marebis Marent Marice Maridin Marlen Marlor Marnus Maronie Marra Marrenca Martina Martri Marvine Marvissie Matha Matie Maton Mattellus Mauderen Maudia Maulis Maume Maxim Maxis Meene Meliance Melle Mered Metter Micamet Michawn Michaze Mickien Micton Milend Milie Milis Minell Miria Mohalip Monne Mookenus Moreght Méliquel Nales Nandian Naros Natus Nemarine Nichrico Niernos Nonick Oleen Opheldin Oraelie Orestanda Orvonn Orvéradee Palle Pamio Pamon Patame Patarn Patucin Paulaudia Paulix Paurne Paurora Peandra Pence Pessie Pette Pricam Prista Racque Rance Randon Raqueth Renez Rette Rielle Ristia Rithen Robel Rochria Rogmir Rogueth Rolde Ronna Ronne Rorede Rosell Roxan Rudeti Runus Réginda Rélis Saberm Salip Samona Sanic Sanne Sannel Sannian Sared Scode Scola Scolline Seançois Serre Shale Shankon Shanna Shantine Sharich Sharis Shaël Shenie Shilvie Sienus Smaunna Solli Sonie Sonne Starmatus Stiel Stierena Susthell Suzacor Taberis Tanluinn Thannie Thwill Tinax Tinobith Tinton Todience Toroth Track Tricha Trise Vanna Vette Viange Vicadean Vicaria Vichalis Vidne Vieunie Vinnianne Vionus Virene Virgaël Voloé Vériaetel Vérista Wadove Wigus Wilista Willorve Élieris Érannie

[ficseanspeisear]

Bha iongnadh an-aoibhinn air Daud

Caibideil 3:  Dè a thachair dhainn?

Dhùisg Daud, nuair a chaidh a leabhaidh a ghluasad. ''Halò Emily, an do chàir thu do fhalt?''

''Chàir. Agus tha Piero a' càireadh Corvo an-dràsta. Tha e a' tighinn seo nuair a bhios e deiseil. Tha mi ag iarraidh feitheamh ri Corvo leat.''

''Ceart gu leòr. Sreap ris an leabhaidh agus dol a cadal, Emily.'' Thug Daud cagar do Emily.

Nuair a bha Emily anns an leabhaidh, phòg e Emily air a ceann. Chuir e na plaideachan air Emily. Agus chadal iad.

An uair no dhà uair an dèidh, choisich Corvo anns an t-seòmar. Dhùisg Daud a-rithist. Nuair a chunnaic e Corvo, thomh e eadar Corvo agus an leabaidh ri taobh Emily.

Laigh Corvo sìos, ghlac e Emily teann, agus phòg e do Daud. Thug Corvo cagar dha, ''Tha gaol agam ort.''

''Tha gaol agamsa ort fhèin.'' Thug Daud cagar dha. Rinn e snodha-gàire. Agus chaidh iad a chadal.

[sgribhisg]

’S e DiHaoine, an còigeamh latha dhen Fhaoilleach a th’ ann an-diugh. Tha an teòthachd nas laighe an-diugh na an-dè, agus cha robh gaoth ann.

[sgrobailancoiseam]

Donnal 2: Molech

Dè sfinge de simeant ’s alman bhuail foscailte an clagann ’s dh’ithe an eauchaill ’s meanma?

Molech!  Ònrachd! Sal!  Gràine!  Smùr agus do-ruisgin dolaran!  Clann a’ sgreadail fon staidhrichean!  Balich ag ochanaich ann an armailtean!  Bodaich a’ caoineadh sa phàircean!

Molech! Molech! Trom-laighe Moleich!  Molech gun gaol!  Molech inntinneil!  Molech, am britheamh trom de fir!

Molech, a’ ghanntair do-thugsinn!  Molech, an toll-bùtha cnàmhan sgapte gun anam ’s dàil bròin.  Molech, ’s e breith anns a thogalaichean!  Molech, a’ chlach bhlàir mhor! Molech, na righaltasan sa tuaineal!

Molech, aig a bheil inntinn de innealradg fìor-ghlan!  Molech, aig a bheil fuil de airgead bàreaidheach!  Molech, aig a bheil chorragan de deich airmailt!  Molech, le dainamo duin-itheach anns an asgail!  Molech, aig a bheil cluasan de tunga smùidreach!  

Molech, ’s e a shùilean mìle uinneagan dall!  Molech, a seasaidh a thuir sa sraidean cho Iehòbhahan dìlinn!  Molech, bruadailidh ’s gròcaidh a fhactaraidhean sa cheò!  Molech, a crùnnaidh a stacan-shimilearan ’s iadhairean a’ chathraichean!

Molech, ’s e a ghaol ola ’s onn gun ceal!  Molech, ’s e anam dealan ’s bancaichean! Molech, ’s e a bhochdanas an t-uabhas sàr-chomaic!  Molech, ’s e a dhàn sgòth de hàidhdreaidean gun feis!  Molech, a tha ainm anns an t-inntinn!

Molech, ann an suidheas mi ònaranach!  Molech, ann a dh'aislingeas mi aingleananns!  Craicte sa Molech!  Bod-itheadair sa Molech!  Cion-gaol gun fhear ann an Molech!  

Molech, a do dh’inntrig m’anam gu moch!  Molech, 's ann annsan a tha mi nam aigne gun chorp!  Molech, a sgànraich mi às mo mhire dùth!  Molech, a bhi mi a’ dìobair!  Dùisg sa Molech!  Solas a’ sruthadh às an speur!  

Molech!  Molech!  Flathaichean ròbot!  Fo-bhaile do-fhaicsinneach!  creatlaich-cilleanan!  ceann-bhailtean dall!  gnìomhachas deamhnaidh!  nàisean aibhseach!  taighean-caothaich do-chìosnaichte!  boid gaireil!  Bomaichean uilebheisteach!  

Bhrisd iad na muin a’ togail Molech do Nèamh!  Cabhsairean, craobhan, rèidiothan, tunnaichean!  a' togail na cathrach do Nèamh a tha ann, agus tha thimcheall sinn!

Seallanan!  manaidhean!  breug-sheallaidhean!  mìorbhailean!  àighean!  rachte a-stan an abhainn Aimeireaganach!

Aislingean!  adhraidh!  soillseachaidhean!  creideamhan!  am bata làn de blaotail thiom!  

Bealaichean!  thar an t-abhainn!  teabaisean ’s ceusaidhean!  Rachte sìos an tuil!  Ailp!  Foillseachaidhean!  Ann-dòchasan!  Ainmh-sgreadan ’s ùthachdan nan deich bhliadhnaichean!  Inntinnean!  Luranaich ùra!  Ginealaichean mearanach!  shìos air na clachan tìme.  

Gàire fìor naofa san t-aibhainn!  Chuala iad uile!  Na sùilean fiadhain!  na èighean naonh!  Fhàg iad soraidh slàn!  Leum iad far a’ mhullach!  do dìomhaireachd!  A’ smèideadh!  A’ toirt dìtheanan!  sìos dhan an abhainn!  a-steach an t-sràid!

___________________________

Dàn le Alan Ginsberg Gàidhlig le Còiseam

Cuiribh mi ceart!

[clargaidhlig]

Cùil Lodair le Fionnlagh MacLeòid - BBC Radio nan Gàidheal

Cùil Lodair - foillsichte ann an Dìomhanas - Ùr-Sgeul/CLÀR

Èist ri seo! http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08lkpy0

Agus na faclan gu h-ìseal!

Cùil Lodair le Fionnlagh MacLeòid

(ann an Dìomhanas, foillsichte le Ùr-Sgeul/CLÀR, 2008)

Cha bhithinn-s’ air a chluinntinn mura bitheadh gun robh e air Radio nan Gàidheal a’ mhadainn ud. Eadar Smuain na Maidne agus An Aimsir dh’ainmich iad gun robh blàr gu bhith air a chur, tràth feasgar a-màireach, air raon Chùil Lodair. Faisg air Inbhir Nis, thuirt iad. Agus gun robh an t-aiseag a’ dèanamh turas sònraichte eadar Steòrnabhagh agus Ulapul am feasgar sin fhèin.

Cha bu mhath a b’ fheàirrde sinn na dh’òl sinn air an aiseag cheudna. Cha do ghluais mi fhìn is Iain às a’ bhàr bho sheòl i. Thug sinn dhinn na claidhrean ’s chuir sinn iad fon t-seat. Ged a bha mise mar a bha, ’s ann air an uisge-bheath’ a bha mi – ach thòisich esan air an ruma dhubh, ’s chan eil càil idir cho suarach ri hangover an ruma dhuibh a’ dol a-steach dhan chath. Thòisich an t-sabaisd mus robh sinn càil ach a-mach à Loch Steòrnabhaigh. Bha dithis oirre à Siadar an Rubha ’s iad a’ falbh chun nan rigs. ‘Seall air na h-amadain sin,’ thuirt fear dhiubh ’s e a’ sealltainn a-nall an taobh a bha sinne. ‘Seall air na h-amadain sin, a’ falbh a chogadh airson poofter de dh’Eadailteach. Pàpanach ann am fèileadh.’

Uill, a bhalaich, ma thubhairt. Leum sinn orra. ‘Claidheamh-mòr,’ dh’èigh Iain, ach thuirt mise ris gun dèanadh na dùirn fhèin an gnothaich. Chaidh an ceathrar againn suas chun a’ bhoatdeck ’s siud sinn nan cràic ’s thug sinn slacadaich mhath air a chèile ann an sin airson greis, gus mu dheireadh gun leig iadsan roimhe. Thurchair do dh’fhear de luchd an rèidio a bhith shuas gu h-àrd, ag òl na gaoithe, ’s chunnaic esan an t-sabaisd. ‘An canadh sibh gur e samhla tha seo air mar a tha an latha a-màireach a’ dol?’ ars esan ’s a mhic aige ri ar bus. ‘Dè rud?’ ars Iain. Iain cho geur ’s cho luath a bharrachd ormsa. Cha bhithinn-s’ air smaoineachadh air a seo gu bràth. ‘Dè rud,’ ars Iain, ‘an e gun robh Gàidheil an ugannan a chèile?’ ‘Chan e,’ arsa fear a’ mhic, gun e fhèin anabarrach luath, ‘ach gun tug sibhse a-mach a’ bhuaidh.’ ‘Gabhaidh mi iongantas,’ fhreagair Iain, ’s thill sinn sìos dhan a’ bhàr, còmhla ri balaich Shiadair. ‘Tha sùildhubh ort,’ thuirt Iain nuair a shuidh sinn.

Bha am bàr a’ brùchdadh le muinntir a’ Chomuinn a’ dol gu coinneamh dhan Òban. Bha a’ choinneamh an toiseach gu bhith an Inbhir Nis ach chuir iad i dhan Òban ri linn ’s an ùpraid a bha gu bhith timcheall Inbhir Nis a-màireach.

Thàinig na naidheachdan air an rèidio mus do ràinig sinn Ulapul. Bha fear aca shìos air an raon aig Cùil Lodair agus thug e cunntas air dè an seòrsa àite a bh’ ann. ‘Achadh còmhnard,’ ars e fhèin, ‘le beagan thaighean mun cuairt. Mòinteach fhraoich is ballachan cloiche. Cò shaoileadh,’ chriochnaich e, ‘na tha de Ghàidheil òga eireachdail gu bhith nan laighe marbh mun àm sa a-màireach fèar far a bheil mise an-dràsta na mo sheasamh?’ Dh’inns e mar a bha an rèidio an dùil fiosrachadh a chumail ris an luchd-èisteachd mar a bhiodh an là a-màireach a’ dol air adhart . . . le OB, no Outside Broadcast Unit, shìos air an raon.

Agus gum biodh ceathrar no ’s dòcha còignear cruinn anns an stiùidio gus beachdachadh air cùisean mar a bha iad a’ dol air adhart. Dh’inns e gun robh oifis na tìde a’ gealltainn slinnteach ghrànda de ghlìbheid bhon àird an ear, co-dhiù son a’ chiad cheann dhen là a-màireach.

Dh’fhuirich sinne air leann an oidhche sin anns a’ Royal Highlander – gu h-àraid seach gun robh sinn air beathaichean a dhèanamh dhinn fhìn air an aiseag na bu tràithe air an latha. Bha leth-dhùil is dòchas gu nochdadh e fhèin. Agus dh’fheith sinn is dh’fheith sinn na h-uairean gus aon bhoillsgeadh fhaighinn air, no fiù ’s suathadh ri iomall a chuid aodaich. Ach cha robh sin gu bhith. Bha dà shagart ag ùrnaigh aig peilear am beath’, a’ guidhe gun deigheadh an là a-màireach le na Gàidheil. ‘Thug thu bhuam gach nì a bh’ agam . . .’ bha fear a’ seinn thall aig a’ bhàr le a dheòir sìos a lethcheann. Ach ged a bha ar sùil air doras an residents’ lounge, cha do nochd mo liagh ’s m’ fhearsaoraidh. Bha i a-nise a’ fàs anmoch, ’s na sagartan a’ cumail orra mar gu faigheadh iad èisteachd . . . Agus gu seo bha mo shùil fhìn gu dhol fodha. ‘Faic an dithis sin,’ ars Iain. Bha esan a’ dol fhathast, ged a bha snuadh na h-easlaint’ air, a thoradh air ruma nan tràlairean. ‘Faic an dithis sin,’ ars esan a-rithist, mar a bhios duine a’ dèanamh ann an sgeulachd, ‘ag achanaich full-out gu sgrios Dia sgiobadh Shasainn a-màireach.’ ‘Dè eile dhèanadh iad?’ arsa Catach caol a bha na shuidhe mu ar coinneamh ag òl glainne mhòr Drambuidhe. ‘Dè mu dheidhinn,’ ars Iain, ‘gu bheil padres inbheil Shasannach gu dìleas a’ cur asta fhèin leis an aon ghlaodh bhon taobh-san?’ ‘Dè mu dheidhinn sin?’ ars an Catach. ‘Tha,’ ars Iain, mar a bhitheas e, ‘g’ eil e a’ cur Dia ann am fìor mhox ach cò dha a bheir e a’ bhuaidh.’ ‘Thèid a’ bhuaidh leis a’ cheart,’ thuirt

fear thall aon taobh. ‘Theid a’ bhuaidh leis an neart,’ fhreagair fear beag maol, ’s brùchd aige, ’s e fèar air a thighinn a-mach às an dining room. ‘Gu dearbh,’ ars esan, ‘cha tàinig na chops ud orm fhìn, ge b’ e cò am bùidsear bhon d’ fhuair iad iad.’ Ghabh mi fhìn orm a ràdh, ‘Thèid a’ bhuaidh an taobh a chaidh a chur sìos anns an leabhar mhòr leis an Tì tha riaghladh, ro thoiseach an t-saoghail.’ Uill, a dhuine, na rinn na daoine ud de ghàireachdainn. ‘’S mi nach creid,’ thuirt Iain, ‘nach do rinn an sgleog a fhuair thu mun t-sùil beagan criothnachaidh air d’ eanchainn.’ Cha robh dùil a’m gun robh daoine air a dhol cho buileach fineachail.

Aig bòrd leotha fhèin bha dithis a bh’ air a thighinn à oilthigh. ‘’N dùil an e Cùl Lodair a th’ ann?’ ‘No Cùil-Lòdair?’ ‘Dè mu Cùil-Fhodair?’ ‘’S ann a tha e bho Cuidh,’ thuirt fear neulach à Sgoil Eòlais na h-Alba. ‘Cuidh, mar Cuidhsiadar . . . Lìonacuidh.’ Agus sheinn e, ‘Ann an Lìonacuidh ri tàmh, leabaidh bhàn ri sàil na mara.’ Cha tuirt duine an còrr.

Sin, ma-thà, an seòrsa oidhche dhòigheil a bh’ againne, gun ghuth air an là a-màireach. ‘Tà,’ ars Iain, ‘tha mise fhathast gun mo chlaidheamh a ghleusadh.’ Le sin theich sinne taobh na leapa, ach tha e coltach gun robh an fheadhainn eile an-àirde gu eadar ceithir ’s a’ còig. Agus bha sin glè ghòrach ’s am blàr romhpa tràth an ath latha. ‘Sin sinn, ma-thà,’ thuirt Iain am bàrr na staidhre, ‘sweet dreams.’ Le gàire. Cha robh mi ann gus an cuala mi fuaim stàilinn ’s e a’ ruspaigeadh air a chlaidheamh. ’S an uair sin sàmhchair.

Fhuair sinn lioft sìos pìos seachad air Bail’ an Loch ’s choisich sinn an còrr dhen t-slighe. Bho dheireadh ràinig sinn a’ mhòinteach lom seo. ‘Na teich bho mo thaobh air do bheatha bhuan’: sin an aon rud a thuirt Iain. ‘Ma thilleas tu às m’ aonais, cùm dìon air Mary Ann,’ thuirt mise ris-san. ‘Agus, Iain . . .?’ ‘Dè?’ ars esan – agus sin am facal bho dheireadh a chuala mi a’ tighinn às a bhilean. ‘Iain . . . Ma chì thu mi air m’ fhìor leòn . . . Iain, tha fhios agad dè nì thu.’

Ach cha b’ ann mar sin a thachair. Thòisich an onghail ’s an èigheachd . . . Chan fhaca tu a leithid ’s na bu tig an latha a chì. Bha sinne thall air taobh a deas arm nan Gàidheal – aig outside-right, mar gun canadh tu. Aig aon àm bha am Morair Seòras, le a cheann maol, na sheasamh cho faisg dhomh ’s a tha thu fhèin an-dràsta. Bha sinne a’ dol air adhart, agus am balla cloich an taobh thall dhinn – beagan dìon, bha sinn an dùil. Ach, fhearaibh, fhearaibh, sinn a bh’ air ar mealladh ’s air ar brath. Mastaigean nan con air nach dèan teanga luaidh . . . na Caimbeulaich mheallta a-staigh am broinn nam ballachan. Mi fhìn is Iain nar ruith . . . na biodagan a’ dol . . . nuair a dh’fhairich mi mo ghàirdean a’ toirt breab às, ’s an uair sin e slaodte rium na bhloigh. Agus èighe Iain ri mo thaobh, ’s mus do sheall mi rium fhìn bha e marbh aig mo chasan. Shlaod mi mi fhìn am measg nam marbh . . . Shìn mi greis am measg an fhraoich. Ach bha daoine a’ ruith thairis orm gun sgur.

Shìos pìos bhuam mhothaich mi do chairt mhòr agus rinn mi oirre air mo spògan. Dè bha seo ach OB Unit a’ BhBC ’s i air a dhol am bogadh. ’S iongantach mun do mhothaich cuideigin aca dhomh, oir chaidh mo shlaodadh a-steach agus copan cofaidh ann an copan polystyrene a chur dhan aon làimh a ghluaisinn. ‘Tourniquet!’ dh’èigh fear. ‘Faigh tourniquet! Seall air a’ ghàirdean aige.’ ‘Dè a’ Ghàidhlig a th’ air tourniquet?’ thuirt cuideigin. ‘Dè a’ Ghàidhlig a th’ air banana?’ thuirt tè ’s i a’ suaineadh tè de theipichean a’ BhBC mu mo ghàirdean. ‘Casg fala . . . sin tourniquet.’ ‘Sin a tha sinne feumach air an-diugh fhèin,’ arsa mi fhìn ’s mi rudeigin aotrom a’ faireachdainn. ‘Casg fala.’ Bha mi aotrom a’ faireachdainn, oir bha iad air plum ruma dubh a chur an ceann a’ chofaidh. ‘Faire, faire,’ arsa mi fhìn, ‘tha fear na shìneadh tosdach glè fhaisg dhuinn san achadh-chogaidh a bha gu math geallmhor air an ruma dhubh.’ Ach ciamar a bhiodh fios acasan cò thuige a bha mi ag iarraidh? ‘’Eil thu deis gus a dhol air an èadhar?’ thuirt fear rium. ‘Air an èadhar?’ arsa mise. ‘Aidh,’ thuirt e, ‘’s tusa a’ chiad veteran.’ ‘Coma leam dhan an èadhar,’ arsa mi fhìn. ‘Cà’il mise a’ dol air gin a dh’èadhar ’s an diabhal rud a’ dol fhathast.’ Thòisich iad an uair sin ag argamaid nam measg fhèin. Cuid aca ag ràdh gur ann am Beurla a bu chòir dhomh bruidhinn. Son Newsdrive. Aidh.

Shlaod mi mi fhìn a-null gu uinneag an OB ’s sheall mi a-mach. Uill, a dhuine thruaigh, nam faiceadh tu am forgladh ’s am murt a bha siud. Bha mise le mo leth slaodte rium ’s gun eadar mi ’s traoghadh gu bàs ach teip a’ BhBC a bha mum ghàirdean. ‘Uill,’ arsa mise rium fhìn, ’s mi a’ coimhead nan Gàidheal gan sgrios air gach taobh dhen OB Unit. ‘Uill,’ arsa mise rium fhìn a-rithist, mar a bhios duine a’ dèanamh ann an sgeulachd, ‘tha sinn done.’

Anns a’ mhionaid sin bhuail cnap mòr de rudeigin air cliathaich an OB ’s chriothnaich e na bha na bhroinn. ‘Na bugairean,’ dh’èigh fear. ‘Gheall iad nach buaileadh iad sinn . . . ’S fios is cinnt aca nach eil claon-bhàidh againne ri taobh seach taobh . . . G’ eil sinn neutral.’ ‘Chan eil dòigh am Prionnsa fhaighinn son Aithris an Fheasgair,’ dh’èigh tè. ‘’S tha mi airson cuideigin a bhith againn live.’

Thòisich i gam cheasnachadh . . . Dè mo bheachd air an latha . . .? Carson nach tàinig barrachd às na h-Eileanan an Iar? Cha do ghabh i sùim dhe mo ghàirdean idir, ach dh’fhaighnich i dè an ìre dhen bhlàr aig an d’ fhuair mi an t-sùil-dhubh. ‘Fhuair,’ arsa mi fhìn, ‘nuair a thug an Isle of Lewis robhla aiste ’s thàinig gòradh orm ’s bhuail oglach dìobhairt mi, ’s anns a’ mhionaid sin thug fear à Siadar a thurchair a bhith dol seachad dhomh i mar a laigheadh i orm. Aidh,’ arsa mise, ‘sin mar a fhuair mise an t-sùil-dhubh.’ Cha do dh’fhaighnich i an còrr dhomh, ma-thà. ’S an uair sin sàmhchair.

*

Copyright @ Fionnlagh MacLeòid agus Úr-Sgeul/CLÀR, 2008. Gach còir glèidhte.

Èist ri seo air BBC Radio nan Gàidheal! http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08lkpy0

[scotianostra]

Yesterday I told you about Margaret Fay Shaw, who was a collector of stories, on December 12th 1902 we saw the birth on the island of Barra of Nan Eachainn Fhionnlaigh , (Nan MacKinnon), who became a traditional singer and storyteller on the island of Vatersay. 

Whilst Margaret Fay Shaw was a collector, Nan of Vatersay, as she was known, was a storyteller in the old sense of the word, the songs she sung and the tales she told had been handed down in the same way for centuries, sitting in your blackhouse with your family and friends around you, you entertained everyone in the ancient way.

Also known as Nan of the Songs she was the daughter of fisherman, Hector MacKinnon and his wife Mary MacPhee. At the age of four she moved with her family to the island of Vatersay.

Nan spent the 1930s and 1940s bringing up the children of her late sister.

Nan MacKinnon was known for her apparently inexhaustible memory for the traditional folklore and songs of Vatersay. She was also the last surviving link with the songs and folklore of the nearby island of Mingulay, whose population had fallen from 135 in 1901 to northing at all in 1912.

Nan MacKinnon was first "discovered" by Donald MacPherson of Barra. The University of Edinburgh's School of Scottish Studies recorded her singing 600 songs, and relating over 1000 stories, anecdotes and proverbs she knew by heart. Her singing voice was very unusual, and debate continues to this day as to whether she simply had a unique personal style, or represented the last survivor of a now lost traditional style.

You can listen to Nan singing a song called Gur Mise Tha Fo Mhì-ghean 's Mi Leam Fhìn air a' Chnoc at  the link below, she remembers it as a song written by  by Lady Grange when she was abandoned on St Kilda by her husband, whom she was separated from, and who feared she was causing him trouble by accusing him of being a Jacobite sympathiser. She composed this song when she saw his boat leaving St Kilda. She was sorrowful, sitting alone on a hillock, far away from her relations. She saw his boat sailing around the headland and cutting through the waves. Nan laid the track down in 1956, you can listen to it here 

http://tobarandualchais.com/en/fullrecord/19290?backURL=/en/search%3Fpage%3D1%23track_19290

Or listen to a modern interpretation by Julie Fowlis above

The Lyric, in Gaelic then English goes...........

Gura mis’ tha fo mhìghean, ’S mi leam fhìn air a’ chnoc, Fada, fada, bho m’ chàirdean, Ann an àite ri port; Gus am facas do bhàta, Le siùil àrda ri dos, Tigh’nn a-steach chun na h-Àirde ’S mac an àrmainn air stoc. Mac an àrmainn air stiùir, A tigh’nn a dh’ ionnsaidh an Troit; Gu bheil an caolas a’ beucadh, ’S muir ag èirigh mu slait; Tha do làmh-sa cho gleusta, ’S nach do thrèig ise neart; Ged a thigeadh muir dubh-ghorm, Chuireadh sgùradh a-steach. ’S ged bhiodh cìosnachadh mar’ ann, ’Bhuileadh barraibh a crann, ’Chuireadh dh’ ionnsaigh a slat i, ’S luaithe h-astar na long; Bhiodh i aigeannach, aotrom, ’G èirigh eadar gach gleann, ’S muir a’ bualadh mu darach, ’Fuasgladh reangan is lann. Bu tu sgiobair na fairge, Bu tu fear falmadair grinn, Gur tu b’ urrainn a stiùireadh, ’Nuair a dhiùltadh iad i; Ged a bheireadh iad thairis, ’S iad na laighe ’s an tuim, Chumadh tusa i cho gàireach, Gus an tàrradh i tìr. Chan eil aon rubha cladaich, Eadar seo ’s a Chaoir-dhearg, Eadar Lìte ’s gach cala, ’N dèanta fantainn neo falbh; Chan eil maighstir soithich, Chuala feothas do làimh, Nach bi faighneachd, ’s a feòrach’, Càite faighte do bhàt’. Iùbhrach àlainn, ’s i fallainn, ’S i ri gabhail a’ chuain, I ruith cho dìreach ri saighead, ’S gaoth na h-aghaidh gu cruaidh; Ged bhiodh stoirm chlacha’-meallain Ann, ’s an cathadh a tuath, Nì Fear Heisgeir a gabhail Làmh nach athadh ro ’n stuaigh. Tha Fear Heisgeir a’ tighinn; Bu tu ceann-uidhe nan ceud, Bu tu ceann-uidhe na cuideachd, ’S cha bu sgrubaire crìon; ’N àm ruighinn do bhaile, Seal mu ’n cromadh a’ ghrian; Bu tu mac an deagh athair, Bha gu mathasach riamh. [Translation:] I am melancholy Alone on the hillock Far, far from my relations Stranded in this place. Till your ship was seen, Full sailed Coming in to the Aird Son of the hero on the gunwhale. Son of the hero at the helm Coming towards the Troit The waters of the straits are roaring The sea rising around her yards; Your hand is so skilled, She did not lose her strength Though the black blue sea Would scour over her. Though the seas were overpowering and tested the top of the mast And the sail yards Increasing the speed of the ship; She would be spirited, light, Rising between each glen Sea crashing her oak timbers Opening ribs and scales. You were the sea skipper You were the elegant helmsman You were the one who could steer When the rest refused; Though they were overcome Lying down in the bilge water You would keep her laughing Till she reached land. There’s not a coastal point Between here and a’ Chaoir-dhearg Between Leith and each harbour From which they anchored or sailed; There isn’t a ship’s master Who heard of your expertise Who isn’t asking and enquiring Where your ship is to be found. Beautiful sound ship, Taking on the seas Sailing straight as an arrow Despite strong headwinds Though there was a hailstorm And snow from the north Fear Heisgeir will take it on And never falter in the face of rough seas. Fear Heisgeir is coming; You are the destination of hundreds You are the destination of the company Not a withered niggard; On reaching your homestead A while before sunset You are the son of the good father Who was always benevolent.

There are a few more of the tracks Nan of The Stories and tracks she recorded for the University of Edinburgh http://tobarandualchais.com/en/searchByPerson...

[scotianostra]

A Gaelic Poem on the Massacre of Glencoe.

There are few events in the history of the Scottish Highlands more notorious than the Massacre of Glencoe, it has been the subject of, books, songs and poems, like this one by the Gaelic poet  Iain Lom, Bàrd na Ceapaich,reading about the history of people are as interesting as the verse they wrote, although many of them may not have been able to read or write, the poems being passed through the storytellers. Lom, anglicised to  Iain Lom MacDonald was a native of Lochaber and was born about the year 1624. He was a descendent of Iain Àlainn or 'Handsome John', the deposed chief of Keppoch.

While historical documentary evidence on his life is nearly non-existent, what we do know is largely based on oral tradition.  

Iain Lom had extensive knowledge of the Bible, Scottish history and was well acquainted with all the political and contemporary events of his day. He was a man of strong convictions and sincerity who had a vast amount of influence over the Jacobite chiefs of his time. He had superior poetic abilities and was a renowned Gaelic bard.

It is thought by some that he had a good education, but it's more likely that he could neither read nor write. It's not clear whether he was married but he had a son who fought under John Graham, 7th Laird of Claverhouse better known as 'Bonnie Dundee' in the Battle of Killiecrankie in 1689 and had considerable poetic skills himself.

After being involved in the notorious events commemorated in 'Murtadh na Ceapaich',  (The Keppoch Murder) Iain Lom was forced to flee from Lochaber and seek protection under the MacKenzies of Seaforth in Kintail. Once the hostility against him had cooled down and after living a dangerous life full of political and domestic troubles, he finally returned from exile but died in extreme poverty in about 1710. He was buried in Cille Choirill in a place named 'Tom Aingeal' in the braes of Lochaber.  I will add a link at the end to the story behind 'Murtadh na Ceapaich', from the excellent  Calum Maclean Project  

The poem is posted in the format I found it with the stanzas numbered. For those that have the Gaelic, or can even pick up a few words it might be of interest, if not skip down to the translation.

Original Text

1. ’S mi ’am shuidh’ air a’ chnocan Chaidh mo léirsinn an olcas Is mi mar aon mhac an trotain air m’ fhàgail.

2. Tha mi coimhead a’ ghlinne Far am b’ aighearach sinne Mur bhith mì-rùin na fine ’s an robh an fhàilinn.

3. Rinn na Duibhnich oirnn leadairt Ar fuil uasal ’ga leagail ’S bha Gleann Lìomhann ’na sheasamh mar cheannard.

4. Ach nam b’ ionnan d’ ur macnas ’S nuair bha mise ’nur taice Nàile! Rachadh iad dhachaidh ’nan deann-ruith.

5. Bhiodh MacFhilip le ’bhrataich Air tùs na fine neo-ghealtaich Ged a fhuair iad an nasgadh le ainneart.

6. A MhicEanraig nam feadan ’S tric a bha mi ’s tu beadradh Leis a’ mhuinntir a ghreas don taigh-shamhraidh.

7. Clann Iain nan gadhar Rinn na h-uaislean a thadhal Gu moch Di-Sathairn’ a’ chuthaich gun chàirdeas.

8. Dh’fhàg sibh marcaich’ an eich uaibhrich Reubt’ air ruighe nan ruadh-bhoc Ann an sneachda trom fuar nam beann àrda.

9. Dh’fhàg sibh làraichean dubha Far am b’ àbhaist duibh suidhe ’N comann luchd an fhuilt bhuidhe chais amlaich.

10. Fhir Bhail’ Fearna nam badan Bu cheann-fheadhn’ thu air brataich Is chaidh smùid a chur ri t’ aitreabh ’na smàlaibh.

11. Bha do cho-bhràthair guailte Deagh fhear Bhaile nam Fuaran Leam is goirt e, ’s an uair air dhroch càradh.

12. Ach mas deònach le’r Rìgh e Bidh là eile ’ga dhìol sin Agus Maighdeanan lìobhte ’cur cheann diubh.

13. Bidh na Tuirc air an dathadh ’S bidh Rìgh Uilleam ’na laighe ’S bidh cùird mhór air an amhaich dhen an-toil.

14. B’ e mo rogha sgeul éibhneis Moch Di-Luain is mi ’g éirigh Gun tigeadh Rìgh Seumas ’s na Frangaich.

15. ’S gum biodh iomain ball-fhaiche Air fir mheallt’ nam balg craicinn Loisg ar n-arbhar ’s ar n-aitreabh ’s a’ gheamhradh.

English Translation

(1) I sit on the hillock, my eyesight has failed me, as I am left behind like a toddling only son.

(2) I gaze at the glen where we would be merry, if not for the ill-will of the blemished clan.

(3) The Campbells massacred us, our noble blood being shed, as (Campbell of) Glenlyon stood as commander.

(4) If only you prospered as you did when I was with you, they would go homeward in a rush!

(5) MacKillop would have his war-banner in the vanguard of the indomitable clan, even though they were hemmed in by violence.

(6) O Henderson of the (bagpipe) chanters, often did we sport and play with those folk who hastened to the summer abode (i.e., sheiling).

(7) Clan Donald of Glencoe, (owners) of greyhounds, were visited by the nobility until the early Saturday of brutal frenzy.

(8) You left the horseman of the proud spirited chargers gored on the sheilings of the roe-bucks in the cold, heavy snows of the great mountains.

(9) You left charred ruins where you were once seated in the company of the people of flowing, ringleted, blonde hair.

(10) O tacksman of Baile Fhearna of the thickets, you were the war-bannered war-leader, and your abode was burnt to ashes.

(11) Your dear companion, the goodly tacksman of Baile nam Fuaran, was charred (by fire): an ill hour it was that makes me sore.

(12) But if our King grants it, there will be another day to avenge that, when the sharpened Maidens will behead them.

(13) The boars (i.e., Campbells) will be stained (with blood) and King William brought down, and there will be heavy cords around their necks bringing them misery.

(14) It would be my choice of good news, awakening early on Monday morning, that King James and the French would come.

(15) And that the deceiving men of haversacks, who burnt our corn and our homes in the winter, would be driven back (as though playing) a ball-game.

Catch more about Lom and The Keppoch Murders here https://calumimaclean.blogspot.com/2013/09/murt-na-ceapaich-keppoch-murder-1663.html