As I rise early, full of gloom and grief, pitiful is my tale, and my speech is no lie; if it is a true tale, 'tis the saddest tale ever heard in Innse Gall; 'tis a great tale of little joy, 'tis a tale of grief, without music or melody; 'tis the most miserable tale that ear has heard, of little profit, and lasting is its loss.
'Tis a bitter tale that you could be driven away, our excellent gentlemen without gloom or forbidding look, that you could be expelled, and 'twas not willingly, to the land where that kind were not acquainted; we shall be sad on a hill all alone, 'tis our oppressors will win the stake; we must needs submit to our ill-wishers, when our loyal friends are going far from us.
'Tis the truest tale we can tell that the wheel has dealt us the hard blow, that a black fate has overtaken us with no hope of recovery, that misfortune has come to rest on our heads: concerning the beloved clan — you were the hope and stay of kings when in camp together at time of entering the fray, and would stand steadfast in face of Spanish blades, and your proud spirit would not be abated without the death of the Saxons.
'Tis a pitiful prospect to repair to your dwelling, when it is only a deserted place and bare site: the elegant houses where once there was plenty scattered abroad without stone or post; where once was the band, cheerful and songful, in the great houses of beautiful aspect, a new company will be therein dancing on the floor, filling the bowl with no stint of dram.
Our generous men who were fair of fame and seemly, who were never found guilty of crookedness or fraud, who were manly and stout-hearted, without fulsomeness or excess, without malice or envy, without guile or greed: they are leaving us in depth of winter during sea unrest of evil frown; 'tis the distressing thought of women and children that sorely reached the heart in every bosom.
As was not our wont, we shall not hear report of guns: the hooved stag will enjoy quiet sleep; the little short-legged roe will sleep — she will not hear alarm or uproar in the glen: since Clan Donald of banners and great sails has gone, the handsome clan, well did I know their people; so many went the first time and so many are to depart that we shall not be worth a plack within a year.
The skies have darkened, the stars have darkened, the heat of the sun has gone — it is not there; worldly afflictions and ill-chance of men will come upon us — every man will say, The halter is so tight; hardship is facing us, as bitter as can be, and the land is dear for us, without a plack's remission; the weather has changed, with wind and storm, and the flood has rolled down from the side of the mountains.
Our comely men, gentle and peaceable, in whom was plenty of grace, without striving or narrowness of spirit — 'twas the beauty of your habits to be open-handed yet thrifty, to be active and courageous in adding to your wealth; that you should be selling your gear and place of abode has left your friends sad and heavy: those of them who are present go to-morrow, delaying only till the ship come.
'Tis haughty Germany proved your valour, your valour, you surrounded Alba with the hardness of your blades; for your enemy that you should stand fast was a deadly omen that their heads would be cut and their bones in small pieces. And if valour was our tradition, we have let it from us and our shoulders are weak; we are now slaves if the enemy come; weak is our share of them for our number is scant.
Such is the desire and intention of my mind, I cannot tell it from end to end: every bright and noble hero who went that way I know not how to recount from the beginning of my verses; but great is the loss to this corner of the kingdom in view of the high estate to which you have brought it. And now since you have departed with your fair fame and good sense, God's blessing be with you, protecting your every member.
'Tis a bitter tale that you could be driven away, our excellent gentlemen without gloom or forbidding look, that you could be expelled, and 'twas not willingly, to the land where that kind were not acquainted; we shall be sad on a hill all alone, 'tis our oppressors will win the stake; we must needs submit to our ill-wishers, when our loyal friends are going far from us.
'Tis the truest tale we can tell that the wheel has dealt us the hard blow, that a black fate has overtaken us with no hope of recovery, that misfortune has come to rest on our heads: concerning the beloved clan — you were the hope and stay of kings when in camp together at time of entering the fray, and would stand steadfast in face of Spanish blades, and your proud spirit would not be abated without the death of the Saxons.
'Tis a pitiful prospect to repair to your dwelling, when it is only a deserted place and bare site: the elegant houses where once there was plenty scattered abroad without stone or post; where once was the band, cheerful and songful, in the great houses of beautiful aspect, a new company will be therein dancing on the floor, filling the bowl with no stint of dram.
Our generous men who were fair of fame and seemly, who were never found guilty of crookedness or fraud, who were manly and stout-hearted, without fulsomeness or excess, without malice or envy, without guile or greed: they are leaving us in depth of winter during sea unrest of evil frown; 'tis the distressing thought of women and children that sorely reached the heart in every bosom.
As was not our wont, we shall not hear report of guns: the hooved stag will enjoy quiet sleep; the little short-legged roe will sleep — she will not hear alarm or uproar in the glen: since Clan Donald of banners and great sails has gone, the handsome clan, well did I know their people; so many went the first time and so many are to depart that we shall not be worth a plack within a year.
The skies have darkened, the stars have darkened, the heat of the sun has gone — it is not there; worldly afflictions and ill-chance of men will come upon us — every man will say, The halter is so tight; hardship is facing us, as bitter as can be, and the land is dear for us, without a plack's remission; the weather has changed, with wind and storm, and the flood has rolled down from the side of the mountains.
Our comely men, gentle and peaceable, in whom was plenty of grace, without striving or narrowness of spirit — 'twas the beauty of your habits to be open-handed yet thrifty, to be active and courageous in adding to your wealth; that you should be selling your gear and place of abode has left your friends sad and heavy: those of them who are present go to-morrow, delaying only till the ship come.
'Tis haughty Germany proved your valour, your valour, you surrounded Alba with the hardness of your blades; for your enemy that you should stand fast was a deadly omen that their heads would be cut and their bones in small pieces. And if valour was our tradition, we have let it from us and our shoulders are weak; we are now slaves if the enemy come; weak is our share of them for our number is scant.
Such is the desire and intention of my mind, I cannot tell it from end to end: every bright and noble hero who went that way I know not how to recount from the beginning of my verses; but great is the loss to this corner of the kingdom in view of the high estate to which you have brought it. And now since you have departed with your fair fame and good sense, God's blessing be with you, protecting your every member.