Cha do shaoil leam, le m’ shùilean,
Gum faicinn gach cù mar a thà,
Mar spùtadh nam faoileach
’N am nan luibhean a sgaoileadh air blàr;
Thug a’ chuibhle car tionndaidh,
’S tha iomadh fear gu h-aimcheart an càs,
A Rìgh, scall le do chaoimhneas,
Air n fir th’ aid na nàimhdean an sàs!

Is mòr eucoir ’n luchd-orduigh
An fhuil ud a dhòrtadh le foill;
Mo sheachd mallachd air Mhoirear Deòrsa,
Ghuair e ’n là ud air ordugh dhà féin;
Bha an dà chiud air a mheóircan,
Mar an gìogan gun tròcair le foill
Mheall e sinne le ’chomhradh,
’S gun robh ar barail rop-mhòr air r’a linn.

Ach fhad’ ’s is beò sinn r’ar latha
Bidh sinn caoi na ceatharin’ chaidh dhinn,
Na fir threubhach bha sgairteil
Dheanadh teugmhail le claidheamh’s le sgiath;
Mur bhiodh siantan ’nar n-aghaidh
Bha sinn sìos air ar n-adhairt gu dian,
Us bhiodh luchd-Beurla ’nan laighe
Tò air cheann, b’è sud m’aighear ’s mo mhiann.

Och nan och! ’s mì fo sprochd,
’S mì an dràsda ri h-osnaich leam fhìn,
Ag amharc feachd an dubh-rosaich
’G itheadh feur agus cruithneachd an fhuinn;
Rothaich iargalt us Cataich
Tighinn a nall oirnn le luchd chasag us lann,
Iad mar mhìol-choin air acras
Siubhal chrìochan, chàrn, chlach, agus bheann.

Mo chreach! tì air an tàinig,
Rinn sibh nis clàr réidh dhith cho lom.,
Gun choirce gun ghnàiseach
Gim sìol taight’ ann am fàsach no ’m fonn;
Prìs na circ’ air an spàrdan,
Gu ruige na spàinean thorit uainn,
Achy sgrios na craoibhe f’a blàth dhuibh,
Air a críonadh f’a bàrr gus a bonn.

Tha ar cinn fo na choille,
’S èginn beanntan us gleanntan thoirt oirnm,
Sinn gun sùgradh, gun mhacnus,
Gun èibhneas, gun aitneas, gun cheòl;
Air bheag bìdh no teine
Air na stùcan air an laigheadh an ceò,
Sinn amr Chomhachaig eile
Ag èisdeachd ri deireas gach lò. (14)

I never thought that my vision,
Would see things as they are now,
As when the tempests in springtime
Have laid all the wild flowers low;
Fortune’s wheel has turned on us,
And many a man is unjustly in peril,
O God, look with your kindness,
On the men in the hands of our enemies!

Great was the wrong of our leaders
Blood and blood feud through their guile;
My curse upon Lord George Murray,
Pure devouring killing off for today
yonder slaughter black gold buried us;
Two choices were at his disposal,
As a thistle without mercy draws blood
Honeyed us with speech
It is without slaughtered opinion great rope on to a generation.

But as long as we live until our days’ end
We’ll lament the men that we lost,
The gallant and brave-hearted men
Fine fighters with sword and with shield;
Had the gales not been in our faces
We would have gone forward down in keen charge,
And the English now would be lying
Dead in heaps, if it were my own heart’s desire.

Alas this, alas! I am saddened,
As I sigh by myself all alone,
Watching the host of black Rosses
Eating the grass and the wheat of the land;
Impudently rolling over the people of Caithness
Coming towards us with people and sword
Like ravening grey-hounds on bodies
Scouring the permafrost, graveyards, rocks, and hillsides.

Woe is me! The land you’ve entered now,
You have swept flat and bare,
Without oats without crops standing,
Without choice seed in desert or ground;
You’ve taken the hens from the henroosts
Even our spoons you have stolen,
You are cursed destruction like a splitting tree,
Withered pine from top to bottom.

We are now outlaws
And must take to the glens and hills,
Without diversion, Without sport,
Without Happiness, without pleasure, without song;
With little food or fire
On the rocks where the cold mist lies,
Like to another Barn-Owl
Hearing each day a story of woe. (14)