John of Moidart's Lullaby
Mary! the child is my darling, thou art the son of Clanranald's heir, grandson and great-grandson of the manly men — your fame was spread far and wide. I would that these should wax in thee — maturity and growth and beauty of form, comeliness and generosity and shrewdness of speech.
Thanks be to the Most High that thou art male, so that thou mayest increase the race, and that thou mayest be an honourable head of thy name in the good place where thou art this day. Courteous thou shouldst be, fierce and mild as thou chanced to need, plenteous and loyal and generous with thy substance.
I would that others may hear it, when I shall not be there, that John of Moidart is a chief in the place where he is this day, head of a household (?) patronising music, in the hall where the harp is played, and thy friends would be gracious to thee.
As regards thy grandfather and thy grandmother, a tree that I knew how to follow, company dear to me who grew namely, in haughtiness they did not place their trust; ill-will was not attached to their nature, compassionate, worthy, and generous with their substance, renown and good sense and (?) moderation in speech.
In many a kingdom and nation have you added to the number of your friends, (because of) how you did to Prince Charlie, when the rabble was threatening to murder him. That laudable tradition has cleaved to thee, going into danger of soul and body — much renown has that won for thee.
If danger or stress befell thee, (closely) related to thee is the chief of Sleat, who was wont to have the stout warriors of namely battle-stroke when the contest was on the field; the men noble in dust of strife, 'twas the habit of their race to fight for the crown, backwards they would not turn an inch.
The men of Knoydart would draw near to you, men who would attack like a hawk among starlings, 'twas the opinion of your wisest enemies that on account of your courage they had better desist; those who did you wrong would utterly yield, such were the strength of your blows and the bitterness of your thrust, sorely beaten they had to stop.
The great clan and the race that grew namely, sturdy MacDonalds and descendants of Ranald, who were bloody and sword-slashing and manly when they were faced by spoiling; 'tis Clan Ranald would burst like a flood, in time of strife they would make blood gush, anger in their faces and grim their aspect.
Where were they ever to be numbered, as they stood in face of an enemy, any who vanquished Clan Ranald? — on many a field did they make a heap, with their war-cry, boding of ill, heads being split, bodies being slashed, lead ploughing deeply through their blood.
Where were they ever to be numbered, as they stood behind Spanish blades, any who vanquished Clan Ranald? — countenance without weakness, steely of stuff, fearless ones who would stand firm before the troop, with steel manfully slashing gun-stocks, belabouring geldings and those on their backs.
Clan Ranald were brave at Harlaw, when Lachlan the bard incited them, they stood true as steel until the enemy were wishful to stop; the splendid men, a number of them fell, and 'twas no shame for them to be drained of blood, and many a hero died of his wound.
Do you remember the day of the battle of Leny? — the Frasers were in extremity, not one in a hundred of them escaped, and you have retained your possessions until this day. The white-sided ones of keenest thrust who would waulk (lead) cloth thin and thick, madder tweeds with carnation in their woof.
In the days of Alexander and Montrose you were in your battle-array at Inverlochy; keen and confident was Donald, a fierce lion when the chase was on. Your enemies had enough of your play, they rushed in terror into the sea, running pell-mell with the stream.
Many a cloaked and uniformed man had his coat as wet as his foot-gear, learning the swimming he did not know, they lay brooding on the face of the deep; there was no beetle exploring their bodies, for their clothes, thin and thick, were deathly cold and wet, and no wonder.
Another day in Killiecrankie Mackay fled and left his baggage, useful was the deed the horse did for him, he made bad use of the numbers he had. Many a hero of most melodious voice was on Roderick's Field with a well from their bodies, heads and hair waulked in blood.
Another day on Sheriffmuir, occasion of slaughter that nurtured fear, Alan fell in the hottest of the fire, a doughty lion, and manly was his mould. Sad is the pursuit that came over the sea, it left us wounded inside and out. Now that that is settled, we had better stop.
Thanks be to the Most High that thou art male, so that thou mayest increase the race, and that thou mayest be an honourable head of thy name in the good place where thou art this day. Courteous thou shouldst be, fierce and mild as thou chanced to need, plenteous and loyal and generous with thy substance.
I would that others may hear it, when I shall not be there, that John of Moidart is a chief in the place where he is this day, head of a household (?) patronising music, in the hall where the harp is played, and thy friends would be gracious to thee.
As regards thy grandfather and thy grandmother, a tree that I knew how to follow, company dear to me who grew namely, in haughtiness they did not place their trust; ill-will was not attached to their nature, compassionate, worthy, and generous with their substance, renown and good sense and (?) moderation in speech.
In many a kingdom and nation have you added to the number of your friends, (because of) how you did to Prince Charlie, when the rabble was threatening to murder him. That laudable tradition has cleaved to thee, going into danger of soul and body — much renown has that won for thee.
If danger or stress befell thee, (closely) related to thee is the chief of Sleat, who was wont to have the stout warriors of namely battle-stroke when the contest was on the field; the men noble in dust of strife, 'twas the habit of their race to fight for the crown, backwards they would not turn an inch.
The men of Knoydart would draw near to you, men who would attack like a hawk among starlings, 'twas the opinion of your wisest enemies that on account of your courage they had better desist; those who did you wrong would utterly yield, such were the strength of your blows and the bitterness of your thrust, sorely beaten they had to stop.
The great clan and the race that grew namely, sturdy MacDonalds and descendants of Ranald, who were bloody and sword-slashing and manly when they were faced by spoiling; 'tis Clan Ranald would burst like a flood, in time of strife they would make blood gush, anger in their faces and grim their aspect.
Where were they ever to be numbered, as they stood in face of an enemy, any who vanquished Clan Ranald? — on many a field did they make a heap, with their war-cry, boding of ill, heads being split, bodies being slashed, lead ploughing deeply through their blood.
Where were they ever to be numbered, as they stood behind Spanish blades, any who vanquished Clan Ranald? — countenance without weakness, steely of stuff, fearless ones who would stand firm before the troop, with steel manfully slashing gun-stocks, belabouring geldings and those on their backs.
Clan Ranald were brave at Harlaw, when Lachlan the bard incited them, they stood true as steel until the enemy were wishful to stop; the splendid men, a number of them fell, and 'twas no shame for them to be drained of blood, and many a hero died of his wound.
Do you remember the day of the battle of Leny? — the Frasers were in extremity, not one in a hundred of them escaped, and you have retained your possessions until this day. The white-sided ones of keenest thrust who would waulk (lead) cloth thin and thick, madder tweeds with carnation in their woof.
In the days of Alexander and Montrose you were in your battle-array at Inverlochy; keen and confident was Donald, a fierce lion when the chase was on. Your enemies had enough of your play, they rushed in terror into the sea, running pell-mell with the stream.
Many a cloaked and uniformed man had his coat as wet as his foot-gear, learning the swimming he did not know, they lay brooding on the face of the deep; there was no beetle exploring their bodies, for their clothes, thin and thick, were deathly cold and wet, and no wonder.
Another day in Killiecrankie Mackay fled and left his baggage, useful was the deed the horse did for him, he made bad use of the numbers he had. Many a hero of most melodious voice was on Roderick's Field with a well from their bodies, heads and hair waulked in blood.
Another day on Sheriffmuir, occasion of slaughter that nurtured fear, Alan fell in the hottest of the fire, a doughty lion, and manly was his mould. Sad is the pursuit that came over the sea, it left us wounded inside and out. Now that that is settled, we had better stop.
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