Smeòrach

by Raonaid Nic an Fhucadair and Flòraidh NicPhàil

Smeòrach a’ ghlinn,
cho ceòlmhor ’s cho grinn,
leis an òran  as binn’fo na neòil.
Anmoch is tràth,
a’ ceilear le gràdh,
an doir’ air a lìonadh le ceòl.

O gach meangan fo bhlàth
’s  o bheanntan gu h-àrd,
a’ drùidheadh  tron iarmailt gu tlàth.
Eunlaith nan speur,
an co-sheirm gu lèir,
a’ togail an fhuinn le bàidh.

Hil liù, hil lió, hil èile,
hil liù, hil lió, na h-eòin.
Hil liù, hil lió, hil èile,
hili ò hì na h-eòin. 

Chuala fiùran  deas òg 
an t-isean gun sgleò.
Dhrùidh e air anam, mar cheò.
Le briathran bha blàth,
rinn e thàladh le gràdh,
gu seòmar fo sgàil nan ròs.

“Ceòl àlainn cho binn,
bidh e agam dhomh fhìn.
Bheir e aoibhneas dom chridh’, a ghnàth.” 
Ach le sgiathan gun saors’
’s gun chòisir nan craobh, 
chrìon a spiorad ’s a shaoghal, gach là. 

Cò a cheannsaicheas ceòl?
Cò nì grèim air na neòil?
Cò chumas srian air gràs?
Leig an t-òigear, mu sgaoil,
a phrìosanach  gaoil.
Thog a mhulad ’s a bhròn , air ball 

’S dhìrich guthan an t-slèibh,
gu siùbhlach dhan speur,
mar theudan cruit-chiùil , an t-sèist.
Mar ghathan na grèin’,
san òr-mhadainn rèidh,
an ribheidean milis air ghleus.

Smeòrach                        Translation by Mark Spencer Turner

Mavis of the glen,
so musical and so elegant,
with the most beautiful song
under the clouds.

Late and early,
chirruping happily,
in a grove filled with music.

From each blossoming branch
and from the lofty mountains,
balmily, breaching the firmament.
Birds of the heavens,
in total harmony,
raising their airs with tenderness.

Hil liù, hil lió, hil eile,
hil liù, hil lió, na the birds.
Hil liù, hil lió, hil eile,
hili ó hì the birds.

A handsome young man heard
the little bird without blemish.
It soaked into his soul, like mist.

With words so warm,
he enticed it with affection,
to a chamber, under the shade of roses. 

“Beautiful music, so sweet,
I’ll have it all for me self.
It’ll always bring joy to my heart.”
But with wings without freedom
and without the choir of the trees,
daily, it’s spirit and it’s world decayed.

Who can conquer music?
Who can cling onto the clouds?
Who can put a muzzle on grace?
The youth unleashed
his prisoner of love.
It’s sorrow and sadness lifted, at once

And the voices of the hillside
swiftly ascended into the heavens,
like the strings of the orchestra, the chorus.
Like rays of sunlight,
on a calm summer morning,
their reeds, sweetly in tune.