For the first time, the work of Gaelic poet Murdo MacFarlane is available in one volume, capturing a bilingual volume of his poems and songs. It spans topics ranging from war, emigration, heritage, language, philosophy and more, and you can read an exclusive extract in both Gaelic and English below on Books from Scotland.

Doras Gun Chlàimhean
By Murdo MacFarlane
Published by Acair Books

Thig E A-Nochd

Thig e a-nochd neo ’n ath oidhch’
Ach an treas oidhch’ co-dhiù thig e,
Nach tuirt e na litir
Dùil mun a’ Bhliadhn’ Ùir bhith ris;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

Mòine chuir mi mun teine
’S rinn an coire le bùrn chur air,
Feitheamh fosgladh an dorais
’S toirt a-steach na Bliadhn’ Ùire leat;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

Deir a’ chlann anns a’ mhadainn,
“Cà’il ar n’athair?” neo “An tàinig e?”,
Cuin a dh’ìnnseas mi ’n fhìrinn
An-diugh neo a-màireach neo an-dràsta dhaibh?
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

’S cruaidh bha cìreadh na gainneimh
’S an sàl bhith ga fhàsgadh leam
Chèile-ghràidh nad fhalt buidhe
’S anns an fheamainn air d’ bhàthadh thu;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

Fuar, fuar bha do bhilean
’S blas an t-sàil dhiubh nuair phòg mi iad,
Fliuch fod cheann bha do thubaid
’S tu gun bhoineid ’s gun bhrògan ort;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

Cuig a chaomhain thu, chogaidh
Ar fir ann ad bhlàr-fhuilteach?
Fallain, slàn leigeil dhachaigh
’S aig an dorsan gam bàthadh?
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

Tha na Biastan nan cadal
Mar ’n dèidh crìch bhios na leòmhannaibh,
Raoir an cìocras do shàsaich
Air ur fuil ’s air ur feòil-n’ iad;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

’S tearc sùil le rosg thioram
Bho Nis gu ruig Ùig nam beann,
Is gu crùnadh na crìche
Gur e madainn bliadhn’ ùir’ a bh’ann;
Gur mise nach do shaoil
Gur ann thigeadh tu, a ghaoil,
An ciste chinn-chaol nan clàr,
Neo d’ fhaotainn am measg nam fear chalm,
Bàit’ aig na Biastan an Tolm.

He Will Come Tonight
He will come tonight or tomorrow night,
He will be here by the following night anyway,
Didn’t he say in his letter
To expect him home around New Year;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

I put peats on the fire
And hung a kettle of water on it,
Waiting for the door to open
And to celebrate the New Year with you;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

The children say in the morning
“Where is our father?” or “Did he come home?”
When will I tell them the truth,
Today, or tomorrow or just now?
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

It was distressing combing the sand
And wringing the seawater
From your fair hair, my beloved husband,
As you lay in the seaweed drowned;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

Cold, cold were your lips
Which tasted of seawater as I kissed them,
Your naval collar was wet under your head,
You had neither a cap nor shoes on;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

Why, war, did you spare our men
In your bloody battles?
Permitting them to come home healthy and safe
And drowning them on their own thresholds;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

The Beasts are asleep
As lions are after the kill,
Last night their voracity was satisfied
By your blood and your flesh;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

Scarce is there a dry eye
From Ness to Uig of the hills,
And to crown it all,
It was a new year’s morning;
I did not ever think
That you would come home, my love,
In a narrow, wooden coffin,
Or that I would find you among the brave men
Drowned at the Beasts of Holm.

Moladh Leòdhais
Tha, mo thruaighe,
na fhàsach, tìr àillidh mu thuath,
Tir àrach nam bàrd is bu tearc dh’àicheadh a sluaigh,
Bheireadh buaidh às na blàran agus lòn às a’ chuan
’S nam biodh Freasdal nar fàbhar, lìonadh àiteach is buain.

Tha gabhail gu làitheil an-diugh a dh’àitean gu fìor
Seadh, fàisneachd an fhàidh mu fhàsach na tìr,
An tìr a dh’àraich ’s a dh’àlaich ’s na thàrmaich clann Leòid,
Tha luchd-àitich a’ fàgail air bàta na smùid.

Thug an tràlair an t-iasg bhuainn, sgrìob le lìontan an grunnd,
Is sgrios iad am biadh ud bha riamh aig a’ chlann,
’S tha am bradan tha ’g àlach ’n cois shàmhach nan allt,
Chan fhaod tighinn nan àrainn ach gallach ro Ghalld’.

Ged is èiginn dhuinn d’ fhàgail, thìr àillidh ar gaoil,
Cha tèid gus am bàs dhuinn, ar gràdh dhut fa sgaoil,
Tha ar cridhe na dheannan ’s ar n’anam fo ghruaim
’S do bheanntan ’s do chladaich à sealladh dol bhuainn.

Seall air iomadh cnoc àrd ’s air gach tràigh agus roinn
Ar màthraichean cràite an dèidh slàn leigeil leinn,
Ri smèideadh len làmhan ri àlach an cuim
’S gur e ’n smuaintean, “Gu bràth am bi an t-àlach ud cruinn?”

Slàn, slàn leis a’ mhòintich, cnoc, còmhnard is tràigh,
’S gach allt aig eil crònan ann an Leòdhas mo ghràidh,
Guma slàn leis gach murain, gach còis agus bàgh,
Is cinnteach mas beò mi bheir mi Leòdhais dhut gràdh.

Soraidh slàn leis a’ chèilidh san èisteadh tric sinn
Ri òrain is sgeula ’s le chèile sinn cruinn,
’S cruaidh sgapadh, ach, ’s fheudar thìrean cèin far nach cluinn
Sinn cànan ar màthar, neo nualan nan tuinn.

Mura h-eil e san òrdugh pilleadh beò dhomh an dàin,
Mo shoraidh rim bheò leat, a Leòdhais ’n tràigh bhàin,
Slàn uiseag led òran ’s le smeòrach nan geug
’S lem luchd eòlais na’ s beò dhiubh ’s len dustsan a dh’eug.

Bu bhrùideil na bhrùid mi, mi gnùst air an làr
Ma nì sileadh mo shùil thu deur-dhrùidhteach an-dràst’,
Is mi air bàta na smùide, ’s taigh m’athar is mo mhath’r
Gam fhaicinn a’ cur cùl riutha ’s gu luath dol às m’ fhàir.

Chaidh i sìos leinn ma Bhòstadh, ’s tha mo dheòir dol gu làr
Faicinn thaighean is ceò ast’ le mòine nam blàr,
Siud ag ùrachadh gòraich na h-òige dhomh an-dràst’
’S nach fhaighear nis sòlas bha agam nam phàist.

Gun deach thu às m’ fhàire a Bhràighe na h-Aoidh
Mo shoraidh gu bràth leat mur faic mi thu a-chaoidh,
Oir tuilleadh cha tàrlaidh le gàgail san oidhche
Mi ’n fhaoileag mar b’àbhais’ aig Loch Bhràigh na h-Aoidh.

Nis tuilleadh cha chluinn mi tuinn àrda a’ chuain
Air Tràigh Mhealaboist na sràide bhiodh nan cabhaig gu suain,
Cha chluinn mar a b’àbhais’ ’s ro fhada bho thuath
’S ged a dh’èistinn le aire chan aithnich mi an fhuaim.

In Praise of Lewis
Desolate, alas, is the lovely isle to the north,
A land which nurtured poets, a place few of its folk would renounce,
Producing crops from the fields and food from the sea,
Providence being on our side, were the rewards of planting and harvesting.

Each day people are on their way to places,
Yes, the prophecy of the seer about the depopulation of the land,
The soil that nurtured and bred and produced MacLeods,
Inhabitants are leaving on the steam ship.

The trawler swept away our fish, razing the seabed with their nets,
Destroying the food our children always had,
And the salmon that breeds in the peaceful depths of the streams
No-one can go near you except …. Lowlanders.

Though we must leave you, our beloved and beautiful isle,
Not until death will our love for you be lost,
Our hearts are broken and our souls are bereft
As your hills and shores disappear from our view.

Look, atop high hills, and on shores and rhinns
Are our anguished mothers, having said goodbye to us,
Now waving at their beloved children
Thinking, “Will that generation ever be together again?”

Farewell, farewell to the moor, hill, lowland and beach,
Farewell to every murmuring brook in my beloved Lewis,
Adieu to every marram blade, every hollow and bay
For as long as I live I will love you always.

Farewell to the cèilidh where we often would listen
To songs and tales as we were gathered together,
Parting is hard but we must travel to foreign lands
Where we won’t hear either our mother tongue or the sound of the waves.

If it isn’t ordained that I should ever return here,
My lasting farewell to you, beloved Lewis of the white beaches,
Goodbye to you, lark of the songs, and to the thrush on the branch
Farewell to my living kith and kin, and to the remains of the departed.

My torment was brutal as I lay moaning on the floor,
Little wonder that my weeping eyes should move you to tears now,
I was on the steamboat and from my father and mother’s house
They watched me leaving and quickly going from view.

The boat carried us down past Bosta and my tears fell to the floor
As I looked at houses with peat smoke from their chimneys,
Awakening thoughts of foolish youth for me just now,
Gone is the joy I had as a child.

You disappeared from my view o Branahuie,
Farewell forever, should I never see you again,
For never again in the night will I hear the cackle
Of the seagull as I used to at the loch at Branahuie.

Never again will I hear the roar of the waves
As they rushed to the shore on Melbost Beach,
I will not hear them as I used to, I’ll be too far away
And though I may listen intently I won’t recognise their sound.

Doras Gun Chlàimhean by Murdo MacFarlane is published by Acair Books, priced £20.