Is beag a shaoil leam thar nan tonn

Gu'm feumainn dol a dh'iarraidh m' uaigh'. Mo chéile, m' annsachd, mo bhean ghaoil! Tha nis gu tosdach, balbh san ùir, Bu shona sinn 'n uair bha sinn saor O fhoill, o fhòirneart, a's o thnù. "Ar còignear mhac, mar ghallain ùr,

'S a' ghleann so dh' altrum thu le gràdh, Ach anns an àrfhaich thuit dhiubh triùir, 'S tha dhà air mhaireann treun mar bha. "Tha mic mo rùin gun chliù, gun duais, Ach lotan ruadh nan sleaghan trom; Gidheadh le saothair 's fallus gruaidh

Fhuair sinn ar teachd-an tir o'n fhonn. "Neo-thorach, cruaidh ged bha an raon

Bha 'màl ro shaor 's ar maighstir grinn; 'N sin fada uainn bha gruaim a' mhaoir, 'S am fàrduich chlùthmhoir chòmhnuich sinn. "Ach, O, mo chreach! ar n-uachd'ran dh'eug, A's mar ris thréig toilinntinn mi;

Oir thàinig maighstir cruaidh 'n a dhéigh
"Tha'g éigneach' bhochd a's nochd o'n tir.

"Tha 'm mál a tha e 'toirt o 'thuath

'G a struitheadh luath a réir a mhiann; A shògh a's aighear rinn gach uair Ar gàirdean a riasladh gu dian.

"A thìr mo ghràidh gach beannachd leatBeannachd mo chridh tha cràiteach, goirt; Daingean gu'n robh thu 'n sìth 's an neart, A's gainne ghaisgeach ni'n robh ort.

"'N uair 'bhrùchdas do naimhdean mu'n cuairt Biodh do bhratach a' srannraich 's a' ghaoth, 'S na miltean le'n stàilinnean cruaidh

A' còmhrag le neart air an taobh.

"Mo chaoirich ionaltraibh-se gun sgàth, 'Ur gineil o'n t-sionnach bidh saor; Luchd mi-rùin stiùraidh sibh gach là Air sgàth am buannachd shaogh'lt'.

"For their own sakes, shall pen your straggling flocks
And save your lambkins from the rav'nous fox.
Feed on, my goats: another now shall drain
Your stream, that heal disease, and soften pain.

"No stream, alas! shall ever, ever flow

To heal your master's heart, or soothe his woe.
But, hark! my sons loud call me from the vale;
And, lo! the vessel spreads her swelling sail.

"Farewell! Farewell!"-Awhile his hands he wrung,
And, o'er his crook, in silent sorrow hung:
Then, casting many a ling'ring look behind,
Down the steep mountain's brow began to wind.

SPRING.*

With the dawning of Spring the song shall arise,
As the herbs spring anew under kindlier skies;
All nature is glad, gone the source of her woe-
Hear how sweetly the strains of the choristers flow.

The Winter has passed from the climes of the North,
Instead of its chill breath the warmth issues forth;
The hail-stones, so frigid in bleak other days,
Are dissolved in the heat of the bright solar rays.

The sun is now sending his radiance abroad,
From the East to the West on his high azure road;
While the primrose, that erst was concealing its head,
Is decking with beauty the mountain and glade,

The authorship of this Poem has been attributed to Dr. N. M'Leod in consequence of our supposing that the initials, “O. T." were but a mistaken transposition of "T. O." the well-known signature of Dr. M'Leod. We had a communication from Mr John White, Easdale, certifying that "Spring" is the production

'A ghobh'raibh breac o'n tric a fhuair
Mi cuachag bhliochd gun mhoit, gun sgraing,
A dh' fhògair easlainte o m' ghruaidh,

A's leis an d' fhàs mo chlann gun mheang.
"Ach iocshlainte cha bhlais mi choidhch'
A sgaoileas cràdh mo chridhe 'n céin;
Ach sguir, mo chlàrsach, sguir a d' chaoidh,
Tha glaodh mo mhac ga m' ghairm o'n bheinn.
Tha glaodh mo mhac ga m' ghairm o'n bheinn,
Na siùil tha togta ris an luing;

Slàn le m' bheanntan, slàn le m' ghlinn,
Mac-talla choidhch' mo ghuth cha chluinn!"
Ag osnaich 's a' suathadh a làmh,
Sheall air gach àite car greis;

'S o'n aonach a' teàrnadh gu tràigh

B' iomadh sùil 'thug an t-àireach air ais.

AN T-EARRACH.

'An toiseach an Earraich bidh an t-òran a' fàs
Mar chinneas na lusan am broilleach a' bhlàis;
Tha nådur fàs ait, dh' fhalbh aobhar a bhròin,—
Nach cluinn thu na ceileirean 'sheinneas na h-eòin.

Tha 'n Geamhradh air teicheadh o'n Deas chum an Tuath,
'S an àite fuachd feannach am blås 'faotainn buaidh;
'S na buidhnean chlach-mheallain bha sgaiteach o chéin,
Air leaghadh gu tlàs ann an deàrsa na gréin'.

Tha 'ghrian nis a' sgaoileadh a gàirdean a mach—
O'n Ear gus an Iar tha i'g iarraidh mar theach;
'S an t-sobhrag bha greis uainn a' folach a cinn,

Le caomh mhais' tha 'breacadh a' mhonaidh 's na glinn.

of his brother, the late Mr Robert White. Through the kindness of Mr Peter M'Naughton, Tullipourie, by Dunkeld, a gentleman to whom we are indebted for many other literary favours, we are enabled to give this English translation of "Spring," which we are sure will be very gratifying to the friends of the author.

But Spring, though the battles of elements all
Have passed from the Highlands and plains of the Gall,
Yet think not of slumber, but stern vigils hold,
Lest they come like the ravens to ravage the fold.

The strong healthy ploughman is tearing the steep,
Overturning the sward in the furrow so deep;
The sower steps smartly dispensing the seed,
While after him closely the harrows succeed.

The bloom-buds of Autumn's fruit swell on the tree,
And the green hue of Spring tinges forest and lea ;
The ant-hill is stirring-the flies, with delight,
Disport in the beams that are shining so bright.

The thistle is stretching its spiky leaves out,
Defying the Winter to put it to rout.
No wonder the grass grows so rankly and full,
There's a sun in the heaven, and one in the pool.

The woods in the tempest that leaflessly sighed,
Are covered with blossoms, and leaves on each side.
'Tis pleasant aloft through their umbrage to peer,
While the hum of the honey-bee sounds in my ear:

In the Awe the fishes that ceaselessly play,
Are seeking the flies in the waterfall's spray;
From the rock the otter is eager to spring,
From the depth of the pool the salmon to bring.

The goat is essaying to rise on the steep,
While teaching her young one so agile to leap;
The lamb round the bushes aye sportively runs,

While its dam for it seeks by the brinks of the linns.

Round the high peaks of Cruachan the birds are in flight,—
The strong-pinioned eagle, the raven, the kite;

In my ears the lowing of red-deer is heard,
And the song of the maiden a milking the herd.

The sun now has set on the bright vernal day,
And gone to deliver the charms up to May;
I see Summer coming o'er mountain and tarn,—
There is joy in the valleys and woods of Muc-carn!

Ach Earraich, ged chaidh uait na baideil air chall,
'S a dh'fhàg iad an Ard-thir a's còmhnard nan Gall,
Dean faicill mar ghaisgeach, na smuainich air suain,
Mu'm pill iad mar fhithich a mhilleadh nan uan.

Tha'n t-airean gun euslain a' reubadh nan cnoc, 'S a' tionndadh nan neòinean 'measg ùir anns a' ghlaic; Fear eile gu surdail a' sgapadh an fhrois,

Agus each a's cliath-chliata nan deann aig a chois.

Tha bàr-gucag an Fhoghair ag at air a' chraoibh,
A's lìth uain' an Earraich a' sgaoileadh gach taobh ;
Tha 'n tom-sheangan a' gluasad, 's a' chuileag gu mear,
A' dannsadh 's a' ghrian-ghath tha 'sìneadh o'n Ear.

Tha 'm foghnan a' sìneadh a shleaghan a mach,
'Toirt dùlan do'n Gheamhradh ris pilleadh gu 'theach.
Cha 'n ioghnadh leam idir mar chinneas am feur,
Tha grian anns an linne, 's aon eile 's an speur.

Tha 'choill a bha lomnochd a' feadail 's a' ghaoith
'Ga còmhdach le duilleach, a's blàthaibh gach taobh.
Is taitneach an sealladh bhi 'g amharc a suas,
A's srannan an t-seillein a' seirin ann am chluais.

'S an Atha na h-éisg tha ri mire gun chlos,
A' sireadh nan cuileag taobh geal-bhuinne cas;
'S beist donn air sgòrr creige air chrith gu bhi shìos
An doimhneachd 'an aigein thoirt bradain a nìos.

Tha ghobhar a' faochnadh ri aodan a' chnaip,
A' teagasg d'a minnean an ealain air streap;
Agus uan a' sìor mhireag mu'n cuairt air a' phreas,
'S a mháthair ga shireadh mu bhruachaibh an eas.

Air àrd uilinn Chruachain tha gluasad nan eun—
Am fitheach, an croman, 's an iolaire threun;

'S gu m' chluasaibh tha 'tighinn àrd lagan an fhéidh, Agus ceòlan na h-ainnir 's i 'leigeil na spréidh.

Tha ghrian nis air luidhe air Earrach an àigh, 'S e le aoidh 'dol a liubhairt an ǎil suas do'n Mhàgh; Chi mi 'n Samhradh a' tighinn air uilinn nan cărn, 'S gàir ait anns na gleannaibh 's an coille Mhuc-câàrn!