Elegy to Alexander Son of Donald
But though I have long been awake, more plentiful is my drowsing than my rest; there is a load upon me and a stitch torturing me with pain; 'tis little of the mirth of the countryside that is to be gathered from my conversation at this time; what is lacking from the account, it has left us weary recalling it anew each day.
'Tis the cold blast of Beltane that has left the confusion without health in our minds, as we shed abundant tears for what the fine men have drunk of the brine—our excellent heroes Archibald, and John of the ringleted hair, my beloved: they left nails in our hearts that no leech can ever heal but death.
We got a cold blast thereafter—often does that scourge visit us and ever shall—that left the semblance of weeping on our lashes, as we all sigh, and no shame it is, for our excellent gentleman of consequence, 'twas no easy matter to find better in our neighbourhood, a man meek and urbane, a man courageous without quarrelsome hand.
A man temperate and respected who was hospitable in his bearing and habits, mouth of truth and jollity, thy death is a great loss to the countryside; it makes a great gap among our gentle-folk, their happiness was then dashed to the ground; our support and peacemaker is gone, 'tis the most grievous matter that thy chair is vacant
A man comely to see—that is sad now that thou art lying under the sod; thou wast the goal of a hundred when they had occasion to go upon a journey; healths were to be got in close succession, and the draining of brimming bowls, (and) a wide, bare, well-swept floor where noisy was the sound of high boots.
To tell of thy person, thou wert not insignificant to see on the sward, never would defect of shape be found in thee though thou shouldst be searched from crown to heel; a man hardy and trim and gallant, of firmest tread on the street; thou wast a great discerning chieftain, strong and skilful, not half-hearted in hard contest.
I am tired of the roads, as straight and as flat as the strand: I shall climb to the moor since thy cairn is no memorial of joy; in the print of the foot, where thou didst not succeed in planting it firmly on the ground, death came upon thee all at once—the one God knows how it fell out.
Alas! I pity thy wife at time of retiring and rising and resting, without heart for merry laugh, and thou in the narrow white shroud with no awakening; weak is her shoulder under the load, and a catch in her breath with pain, because she has been left alone, while the sod grows grass on thee in the cairn.
This year the flood overwhelmed us, grievous was the cut given by the teeth of the saw, such is the blighting blast, the hill looks like to be deserted; a curse for ever on the misfortune, it took from us the leaders so early: the manner in which the affliction struck us (was) that thy body was found in the bay.
Thou wast a blessing to the tenantry, 'tis thou wouldst not press them hard for the rent, godly protector of the miserable when they sought relief in their extremity; thou who wast of single-minded purpose, without perverse practice or evil ways, 'tis thou wouldst not reap the harvest on that field where thou didst not sow the corn.
Our loss was not small on the last Wednesday of March, in the lower part of the rock our calamity was very obvious to all, high up on the shore, where thou didst not succeed in coming home to warmth: fleetest foot in those parts and a shoulder that had strength in it to swim.
'Twas a lamentable flitting on Tuesday when we set out, in the morning; there were showers upon cheeks and palms were being beaten in grief; hair was being torn, wretched men plucking it to the ground: in a way that no one would ever wish for thee it was that God wrought thy death.
'Tis the cold blast of Beltane that has left the confusion without health in our minds, as we shed abundant tears for what the fine men have drunk of the brine—our excellent heroes Archibald, and John of the ringleted hair, my beloved: they left nails in our hearts that no leech can ever heal but death.
We got a cold blast thereafter—often does that scourge visit us and ever shall—that left the semblance of weeping on our lashes, as we all sigh, and no shame it is, for our excellent gentleman of consequence, 'twas no easy matter to find better in our neighbourhood, a man meek and urbane, a man courageous without quarrelsome hand.
A man temperate and respected who was hospitable in his bearing and habits, mouth of truth and jollity, thy death is a great loss to the countryside; it makes a great gap among our gentle-folk, their happiness was then dashed to the ground; our support and peacemaker is gone, 'tis the most grievous matter that thy chair is vacant
A man comely to see—that is sad now that thou art lying under the sod; thou wast the goal of a hundred when they had occasion to go upon a journey; healths were to be got in close succession, and the draining of brimming bowls, (and) a wide, bare, well-swept floor where noisy was the sound of high boots.
To tell of thy person, thou wert not insignificant to see on the sward, never would defect of shape be found in thee though thou shouldst be searched from crown to heel; a man hardy and trim and gallant, of firmest tread on the street; thou wast a great discerning chieftain, strong and skilful, not half-hearted in hard contest.
I am tired of the roads, as straight and as flat as the strand: I shall climb to the moor since thy cairn is no memorial of joy; in the print of the foot, where thou didst not succeed in planting it firmly on the ground, death came upon thee all at once—the one God knows how it fell out.
Alas! I pity thy wife at time of retiring and rising and resting, without heart for merry laugh, and thou in the narrow white shroud with no awakening; weak is her shoulder under the load, and a catch in her breath with pain, because she has been left alone, while the sod grows grass on thee in the cairn.
This year the flood overwhelmed us, grievous was the cut given by the teeth of the saw, such is the blighting blast, the hill looks like to be deserted; a curse for ever on the misfortune, it took from us the leaders so early: the manner in which the affliction struck us (was) that thy body was found in the bay.
Thou wast a blessing to the tenantry, 'tis thou wouldst not press them hard for the rent, godly protector of the miserable when they sought relief in their extremity; thou who wast of single-minded purpose, without perverse practice or evil ways, 'tis thou wouldst not reap the harvest on that field where thou didst not sow the corn.
Our loss was not small on the last Wednesday of March, in the lower part of the rock our calamity was very obvious to all, high up on the shore, where thou didst not succeed in coming home to warmth: fleetest foot in those parts and a shoulder that had strength in it to swim.
'Twas a lamentable flitting on Tuesday when we set out, in the morning; there were showers upon cheeks and palms were being beaten in grief; hair was being torn, wretched men plucking it to the ground: in a way that no one would ever wish for thee it was that God wrought thy death.
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