Folk Tales and Fairy Lore/Oran Sìthe, Fairy Song
Mo leanabh mingileiseach maingileiseach,
Bualadh nan each, glac nan lùireach,
Nan each crùidheach 's nan each snàgach,
Mo leanabh beag.
'S truagh nach faicinn féin do bhuaile,
Gu h-àrd, àrd, air uachdar sléibhe,
Còta caol, caiteanach, uaine
Mu d' dhà ghualainn ghil, is léine,
Mo leanabh beag.
'S truagh nach faicinn féin do sheisreach,
Fir 'ga freasdal 'n àm an fheasgair,
Mna Comhnuill a' tighinn dachaidh,
'Sna Catanaich a' cur sìl.
O mhìle bhog, O mhìle bhog,
Mo bhrù a rug, mo chìoch a shluig,
'S mo ghlùn a thog.
'Se mo leanabh, m'ultach iubhair,
Sultmhor reamhar, mo luachair bhog,
M' fheòil, is m' uidhean am bhruidhinn,
Bha thu fo mo chrios an uiridh, lus an toraidh.
Bidh tu 'm bliadhna gu geal guanach
Air mo ghualainn feadh a' bhaile,
Mo leanabh beag.
O bheirinn o bhò, na cluinneam do leòn,
O bheirinn o bhò, gu'm bioraich do shròn,
O bheirinn o bhò, gu'n liath thu air chòir.
O bheirinn o bhò gu'n teirig do lò,
O bheirinn o bhinn thu.
Cha'n ann a Chlann Choinnich thu,
O bheirinn o bhinn thu,
Cha'n ann a Chlann Chuinn thu,
O bheirinn o bhinn thu,
Sìol is docha linn thu—
Sìol nan Leòdach nan lann 's nan lùireach,
B'e Lòchlainn dùthchas do shinnsire.
[My child, smooth-shining, my own one pale,
Smiting the horses with hand of mail,
The horses shod, and the horses fleeting,
My little sweeting.
'Tis sad that I could not see thy fold,
High, high up on the slope of the wold,
A garment slender, napped, o' the green,
Round thy fair shoulders, and a smock's sheen,
My little child.
'Tis sad that I could not see thy team,
And the men tend it, at evening beam,
The women of Conall homeward going,
And the Catanaich sowing.
O thousandfold soft, O thousandfold blest,
Whom my womb bore, who sucked at my breast,
And my knees who pressed.
O 'tis my child, my armful of yew,
Lusty and fat, my soft rush true,
My hope in my talk, my own flesh and blood,
Last year 'neath my girdle, a fruit in the bud,
Thou wilt be this year, fair and neat,
On my shoulder through the township street.
My little child.
O I'd snatch thee from cow, let me not hear thy
woes,
O I'd snatch thee from cow, and sharp be thy nose.
O I'd snatch thee from cow, in due course grow
thou grey,
I'd snatch thee from cow, far off be thy day.
O I'd snatch thee from doom,
McKenzie thou'rt none.
O I'd snatch thee from doom,
Thou art not of Clan Conn.
O I'd snatch thee from doom,
Dearer seed thou, our own,
The seed of Clan Leod of the mail and the brand,
It was the Northland was thy sires' land.]