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The Old Dog...
An d� thuirt m'athair riumsa
"Bi falbh is b�th an seann ch�;
Tha nis an cuilean air f�s m�r,
'S tha aon gu le�r bith ann diubh."
Cha do dh'fhalbh mi de�nach,
'S ann a dh'fhalbh mi br�nach;
An seann ch� bochd is e de'n beachd
E bhith dol chun na m�intich.
Do lean e mi gun iarraidh;
Sud chun a chladaich s�or sinn.
O 's dall tha daoine 's coin air cuin
A dh'fhaodas tigh'nn a' chrioch orr'!
Bha'n gn�omh am' sh�ilean gr�ineil,
'S an aghaidh mo ghn� 's mo ch�ile;
An seann ch� bochd, anns nach robh lochd,
'S mise dol g'a b�thadh.
Nuair a lorg mi d�irneag,
'S nuair a shnaim mi r�p oirr'
Bha s�ilean s�imh an t-seann choin bhochd
"Carson tha so?" ri fe�rach.
Is math g'eil foluicht' bhuainne
'S gun cheileadh uatsa 's uamsa
An t-�m ri teachd, a sheann ch�in bhochd,
No bhiodh ar beatha truagh dheth.
Tha 'm b�s an gn� gach be�, 's tha 'd
'Gam bre�th le dul mu'n sg�rnan,
Is luath no mall, a sheann choin bhochd,
An dul ud, druidear oirnne.
Ged's fiosraich mis' an dr�sda
Air cho dl�th 's tha 'm b�s dhuit,
Tha cheart cho dall mi, sheann choin bhochd,
Air m' �m 's tha thus' an tr�th so.
Ach chan eil thus air d'bhuaireadh
Mar tha mis' le smuaintean
Mun am ri teachd, a sheann choin bhochd,
'S cha cheisd taobh thall a h-uaigh dhuit.
No cuid tha 'n t-olc cho l�idir,
'S gun saltradh math bho sh�il e;
'S carson bhiodh fuath ri toirt na buaidh,
'S ri cur na ruaig air gr�dh tric.
Ar bith 's ar beath' gu dearbh tha
Mar ghe�rr-r�is reult an earbuill
A sgeitheas tiota dubh na h-oidhch',
'N sin shluigeas i gun lorg oirr'.
Mar so bidh tric mi me�rach,
ma 's glic dhomh so na g�rach,
Saoil thus an saor-thoil a bheil feum
Ma tha gach ceum roimh-�rduicht?
No a bheil ann an l�mhaibh
Mhic-an-duine air fh�gail
Seadh, falmadair a bheatha f�in
Gu sti�ireadh far an �ill leis?
'N sin sguir mi ris a ch�mhradh,
'S chuir an l�imh a sp�g e ...
Mar gum biodh an seann-ch� bochd
A leigeil sl�n ri m' bhe� leam.
Nuair dhruid mi s�os mu chluasaibh
An dul, 's a theannaich cruaidh e,
Bu chianail sgal an t-seann choin bhochd,
'S 'ga fhreagairt gach creag ghruamach.
'N sin thuirt mi ris gu b�igheil,
"A chaoidh cha bh�th am b�rd thu;
An iochd a phlanndraich Dia am uchd,
Cha d�an cuain a bh�thadh."
'N sin dh'fh�g mi chlach 's an r�p oirr',
'S na tuinn gun iochd sh�os foidhpe.
'S e beachd an t-seann choin bhochd a nochd
Gur nighean truais tha 'n tr�cair.
Translation
Yesterday my father told me "Go and
drown the old dog.
The puppy has grown up now, and one
of them is enough."
I didn't go willingly, in fact I went sadly.
The poor old dog, and him thinking
he was going to the hills.
He followed me without question; there
we went down to the
shore.
Oh ignorant are men and dogs about
when their end may
come upon them.
I saw the deed as loathsome, quite against
my nature and
my inclination;
the poor old dog, which had no fault, and me
going to drown it.
When I searched out a stone, and when
I tied a rope to it,
the gentle
eyes of the poor old dog were asking
"what's this for?"
It's good that it has been hidden from us,
and that it should
be concealed from me and from you,
the time to come,
poor old dog, else our life would
be sad for it.
Death is in the nature of all living things,
and they are born
with nooses round their necks,
and sooner or later,
poor old dog, that noose, they will
pull it tight on us.
Although I am aware now of how close
death is to you,
I am just as ignorant, poor old dog, of my
time as you are
just now.
But you haven't been bothering yourself with
thoughts,
as I have, about the time to come, poor old dog,
and you aren't concerned about what's
beyond the grave.
Nor about why evil is so powerful that it treads
good under
its heel;
and why should hate win the victories and inflict
defeats on
love often.
Our existence and our lives are truly like the
short
courses
of
shooting stars that briefly interrupt the black
of night,
which then swallows them up without trace.
Thus I'm often pensive, whether this be wise of me
or silly,
I wonder if free will has any basis if every step is
pre-ordained?
Or whether it is indeed left in the hands of a
son of
man to steer the rudder of his own life where he
would like?
Then I stopped talking, and he put his paw in
my hand
as if the poor old dog were bidding me farewell
for ever.
When I pulled the noose down around his ears,
and tightened
it hard,
the poor old dog's howl was pitiful, echoing
from every
gloomy rock.
Then I said to him joyfully "The poet will never
drown you,
the mercy that God planted in my breast, no sea
shall drown it."
Then I left the stone with the rope on it, the
pitiless waves
down
below it. Tonight the poor old dog thinks that
compassion is the
mother of mercy.
�1999-Raine
[email protected]
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