THE DESERTED GAEL'S LAMENT.

The darkness descends

From the wings of the night,
And the mist is encircling
The steep mountain height;
The friends of my childhood
Have from me been torn ;
Alone in this valley

They've left me to mourn..

The birds 'mong the branches
Are singing their lay,
And leaping with joy

'Mong the dew-covered spray;

Their offspring around them
Are happy and gay;
But mine have, by death,

All been taken away.

My brow now is furrowed
And shaded with gloom,
For my help-mate, once cheerful,
Is laid in the tomb;
And three little children,
Our joy and reward,

Now sleep in the churchyard

Beneath the green sward.

When winter, stern tyrant,

Makes all things look bare,

To a kindlier climate

The songsters repair; Returning when Summer Decks valley and leaBut seasons can ne'er bring My friends back to me!

Tha na fàrdaichean blàth
A bha 'g àrach nan sonn,
Bu shuilbhire gàire

'S bu bhàidheile com,

Far am b' fhabharach càirdeas

Do 'n ànrachan lom,

'Nan làraichean fàsail

Air cnàmh gus am bonn.

Cha 'n fhaicear am buachaill
A' ruagail mu 'n chrò ;
No banarach ghuanach,
Le buaraich 'na dòrn;
Bu bhinn leam a duanagan
Uallach, gun ghò,

Le cuailean m'a guaillibh
Mar dhualaibh de 'n òr.

Cha 'n eil clàrsach no sionnsair 'Gar dùsgadh le ceòl;

'S tha mac-talla 'na shuain ann An uaimhibh nam fròg; 'S na laoich a bha lùghmhor Mu stùcan a' cheò, Rinn fòirneart an sgiùrsadh Bho dhùthaich an òig.

Ach sìth do na dh'fhalbh,
Agus buaidh leis na seòid!
Tha m' fheasgar-s' air ciaradh
'S mo ghrian fo na neòil;
Cha 'n fhad gus an crìonar
Mo chiabhan fo'n fhòid,
Far an caisgear gach pian,

'S an téid crìoch air gach bròn.

The homes of our fathers

Are bleak and decayed; And cold is the hearth

Where in childhood we played; Where the hungry were fed And the weary found rest, The fox has his lair,

And the owl has her nest.

No herd-boy's shrill whistle
Is heard in the vale;
No milk-maid at gloaming
Hies out with her pail ;
Where oft I have heard
Her sweet song to the fold-
Her rich golden ringlets,
How fair to behold!

The chanter is silent;
No harper is found
To waken the echoes

From slumbers profound;
The lads, once so buoyant

In innocent mirth,

Oppression has reft

From the land of their birth.

Success to the living,

And peace to the dead;

The gloaming of life

Now encircles my head

In the grave I'll soon rest

With the friends gone before,

Where sorrow and pain

Shall oppress me no more.

FAILTEACHAS BARDAIL.

RANNAN

A chuir Iain Caimbeul, Bàrd na Leideig, a dh'ionnsuidh a charaid Niall Mac Leòid ann an Dùn-éideann. Còmhla ris na rannan, bha badan fraoich, neòinean agus sòbhrach.

Thàinig sinn bho thìr nan àrd-bheann,
Tir a' choibhneis, tir a' chàirdeis,
Dh' fhaicinn fear a dh' fhàg ar n-àite

'S a thoirt na dh' fhàs ann ris gu chuimhn'.

Badan fraoich bho thaobh nam mòr-bheann,
Neòinean bàn, 's an t-sòbhrag òr-bhuidh',
Thilleas Earrach caomh ar n-òige

Ris 'nar còir am measg nan gleann.

Nuair a gheibh thu 'n taod mu d' ghuaillibh,
Stiùir do cheum do 'n tìr 'n iar-thuath so,
Is gheibh thu fàilte nach bi fuar

'S an Leideig uain ri taobh nan tonn.

FREAGAIRT NEILL.

Ciad fàilt' ort fhéin, a bhadain fhraoich
Bho thìr nan aonach àrd,

An tìr a dh' àraich iomadh laoch--
Ge sgaoilt' an diugh an àl-

Tha snuadh mo dhùthcha air do ghruaig ;
Seasaidh tu fuachd is blàths;

'S e mheudaich dhomh cho mór do luach
Gu'n d' fhuair mi thu bho 'n bhàrd.

BARDIC SALUTATIONS.

VERSES

Sent by Mr. John Campbell, Ledaig, along with a sprig of heather, a daisy, and a primrose to his friend and brother bard, Mr. Neil MacLeod, Edinburgh.

We have come from stern Loch Etive,
Land of kindness and good cheer,

To salute an absent native

Of the Highlands we love dear.

Heather sprig from misty mountain,
A sweet daisy wet with dew,
And a primrose from the fountain,
Scenes of boyhood to renew.

When you have a moment's leisure,
Hither come and merry be;
Friends will welcome you with pleasure
In green Ledaig by the sea.

REPLY BY MR. MACLEOD.

A thousand welcomes, heather sprig,
From high-lands dear to me,
That land which nurtured heroes trig-
Though scattered now they be.
My country's hue adorns thy brow;
Both heat and cold thou'lt ward;
But this endears thee most, I trow-
I got thee from the bard.