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LITERAL TRANSLATION, BY ALEXANDER
STEWART, A. M.

SON of my son; thus said the king;
Oscar, chief of our noble youth!

I beheld the gleaming of thy sword

Like the lightning of the mountains in the storm.
The enemy fell beneath thy hand in the battle.
Like wither'd leaves by the blast of winter.
Adhere close to the fame of thy fathers,
And cease not to be as they have been.
When the victorious Trenmor lived,
And Trathal, the father of mighty heroes,
They fought all their battles with success,
And obtained the praise of every contest.
Thus their renown shall remain in song,

And they shall be celebrated by bards to come.
Oscar! do thou subdue the strong arm of battle;
But always spare the feeble hand.

Be as a rapid spring-tide stream in winter

To resist the powerful enemies of the Feinni;

But be like the gentle breeze of summer

To those that are weak, and in distress.
Such did Trenmor always live,

And such has Trathal ever been,

In their fair steps Comhal trod,

And Fingal always supported the weak.
In their cause would I stretch my hand,

With cheerfulness would I go to receive them,

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A's gheibheadh iad fasga, a's caird,
Fo sgàil dhrillinich mo lainne.
Tàir cha d'rinneas air aon neach
Air laigid a neart anns an strì.
Fuil mo namh cha d'iaras riamh

Na 'm bu mhiann leis triall an sìth.

Ach cuim' an cuireadh rigli nam fàsach
Uaill a cruas a lamh o shean,

A'ni tha lathair glas fo aois

Feuchaibh e nach b'fhaoin mi 'n sin.

Mar thusa, Oscair! bha mi og,
'Nuair sheoil Fainesoilse nall,
An gath greine 'n eidi gaoil
O righ Chraice dh' eighte 'n oigh.
O bheinn Gholbuinn thionnda leam,
'S ro bheag air mo chùl de shluagh,
Chunnas barca breidgheal fo m' rosg
Mar cheathach air osaig a chuain.
'Nuair a dhruid i nall am chòir,
Chunnas oigh a chleibh aird bhain.
Bha osnaich a fuilt air a ghaoith,
A gruai dhearg mar chaor fo dheoir
Thuirt mi, "oigh na maise," ciuin,
Carson osna bhruit a'd' chliabh ?
Am feudar leams' ged' tha mi og
Tearmunn thoirt do oigh a chuain?
Gheibht' a sheasas cath ri m' lainn
Ach tha 'n cridh'sa ard gun scà.
“D'ionnsui theich mi cheinn an tsluaigh
Fhir a's glaine snuadh, 's a's fearr !
D'ionnsui theich mi, o mhic Chumhail!
A lamh a chuidicheas gach feumach!

And they should find shelter, and friendship,
Under the shade of my glittering sword.

No man did I ever despise,

However weak his strength might be.
The blood of my foe I never sought,

If he chose to depart in peace.

But why should the king of the desert

Boast of the strength of his arm in former days?
This which remains, gray with age,

Shews I was not weak in my youth.
Like thee, Oscar! I was young,
When Faineasollis came over the sea,
That sun-beam adorned with love;

The daughter of Craca's king the virgin was.

I then returned from Gulbein hill,

With few of my people in my train;
A white-sailed boat appeared in my sight
Like mist on the blast of the ocean.
When it approached nigh the shore,
I beheld a fair high-bosomed maid.
Her hair wav'd loosely in the wind,
Her rosy cheek was bedewed with tears.

Calm, I said, “daughter of beauty,"

Why heaves that broken sigh within thy breast?

Can I, though young in years,

Defend thee, daughter of the ocean?

Some there may be that can match my sword in battle

But this heart is strong, and void of fear.

"To thee I fled, O chief of men!

To thee of fairest hue and noblest mien!

To thee I fled, O son of Comhal!

Whose hand supports the weak, and needy!

Dh'amhairc righ Chraice orm air àm
Mar ghath-greine air ceann a shliochd.
'Stric a chuala beanntan Ghealamhal
Osnaich shearbh' mu Fhaineshoilse,
Chunnas mi le ceann Shorai,
A's rùnaich easa oigh Chraice.
Tha lann, mar ghath soluis scriosach,
Air slios an armuinn an cònui;
Ach 'sdubh gruamach shuas a mhala,
'Stha fior stoirm na anam eiti.

Bhuail mi tonn a chuain gu sheachna;
Ach o! tha easan air mo thi-sa.'
"Deansa tamh air chùl mo sgeithe,"
Thuirt mi fein, "a geug na maise!
'S mar laige mo lamh na mo mhisneach,
Brisear e o Fhainesoilse.

D'fheudainn do chuir an còs uaingneach,
Ach ni'n cualas gun theich Fionnghal.
'Nuair a bhagras cunnart gu brath
Tach'ream ri stoirm bharr nan sleagh.
"Mhic nam beann tha mi fo scà
A neart a bhoirb-fhir aird nan stoirm,
Fagaidh e mar choill fo ghaoith
Na cuirp taobh ri taoibh sa bhlàr.'
Chunnas leam deoir air a gruaidh,
Ghlac an tiochd san uair mi, 'sgradh.
A nis mar thonn scrathoil thall
Thainig barc' a bhoirb-fhir ris

A'leum gu bras thar an tsàl

Air cùl nam breid ban mar shneachd.
Bha sruth geal ri slios a bharc,

A's onais mara fo ard fhuaim.

The king of Craca beheld me once

As a beam of the sun at the head of his race.

Often did the hills of Gealmal hear
Sad sighs of love for Faineasollis.

I was seen by the chief of Sora,
And he loved the maid of Craca.

His wasting sword, like a beam of light,
Shines always on the warrior' side.

But dark and gloomy is his brow,

And fierce the storm that rages in his soul.

I sought the waves of the ocean to shun him :
But, alas! he still pursues me."
"Rest thou behind my shield,'

I said, "O thou branch of beauty!
And if my strength is equal to my courage,
He shall be repelled from Faineasollis.
I might conceal thee in a secret cave,
But never was it heard that Fingal fled.
Whenever danger threatens,

I meet the storm of the pointed spears."
"Son of the mountains, I greatly fear

The strength of the great and stormy Borbar;
For, like a wood crush'd by the wind, he leaves

The fallen heroes side to side on the field of battle.”
I saw the tears on her cheek,

Pity and love seized me at once.

Now, like a dreadful wave from afar,

Appeared the fierce warrior's vessel,

Bounding swiftly over the sea,

Behind her snow white sails.

A white stream rolled by her side,

The murmur of the toiling ocean is heard afar.