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Author: * Cinaedh Cruithni -
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Date: Jun 4, 2006 - 22:45
Arran of the many deer,
ocean touching its shoulders;
island where troops are ruined,
ridge where blue spears are blooded.
High above the sea its summit,
dear its green growth, rare its bogland;
blue island of glens, of horses,
of peaked mountains, oaks and armies.
Frisky deer on its mountains,
moist bogberries in its thickets.
cold waters in its rivers,
acorns on its brown oak-trees.
Hunting dogs and keen greyhounds,
brambles, sloes of dark blackthorn;
close against the woods its dwellings;
stags sparring in its oak-groves.
Purple lichen from its rocks,
faultless grass on its greenswards;
on its crags, a shielding cloak;
fawns capering, trout leaping.
Smooth its plain, well-fed its swine,
glad its fields - believe the story!-
nuts upon its hazels’ tops,
the sailing of longships past it.
Fine for them when good weather comes -
trout beneath its river banks;
gulls reply round its white cliff -
fine at all times in Arran.
translated from the Gaelic by Thomas Owen Clancy
From: The New Penguin Book of Scottish Verse; edited by Robert Crawford and Mick Imlah
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Arran (12th century anonymous)
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