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Òran na
h-aoise Och! Och! ‘S i’n aois a nì iomadh caochladh Is beag a shaoilinn an làithean m’òige Nuair dh’innseadh càirdean na bh’ann san dàn dhomh ‘S ann dhèanainn gàireachdainn air an leòireas ‘S e’n aois a’bhèist a bheir iomadh èis oirnn Ged tha sinn spèiseanda agus spòrsail Le cion na lèirsinn cha dèan mi leughadh ‘ Gur tric mi rùrach air feadh nan cùiltean An nì tha dlùth dhomh is far’m bu choir dha Leis mar tha m’inntinn Chan fhàg mi sion gun a chur an òrdugh Le taic na luatha bidh crithean fuachd orm Is teine guail air a dhèanadh ròsadh Càch a’glaodhaich mu fhàileadh m’aodaich Is m’fheòil gu slaobach ‘s nach dèan mi ‘mhothaich’nn Mo chasan crùbach, cha lùb mo ghlùinean Cha dèan mi sùgradh am measg na h-òigridh Nuair bhios gaoth tuath ann, bidh smuig den fhuar-uisg A’gabhail cuairtean mu bhàrr mo shròine Sibhse ‘illean tha làidir, lùghmhor Air feadh na dùthcha, is aig gach còmhail Creidimh mise gun sguir an sùrd ud Am beagan ùine, nuair thig an lòine Ged ‘s tric le dèideadh bha mi gam lèireadh Spìon mi na bèistean bha toirt dhomh dòrainn Ach far eil cuislean, is feòil, is fèithean Cha dean e feum dhomh a dhol ga
stròiceadh Bu bheag do strì leam dol
dhionns’ an t-Sìthein Air m’ais, is sgrìob a thoirt do Lag an Dòbhrain ‘S gur gann gun dìrich mi Bealach Gòdhaidh Bidh cuid ri bòilich a liuthad òg-bhean Bha deas gum pòsadh sa thug an gràdh dhaibh Ach chuir iad rùn ann
an trusadh stòrais ‘S i sud an seòrs’ tha nan
culaidh ghràin leam Le Aonghas
Macphàil, Eilean Idhe |
The song of Age Och! Och! Age makes many changes Little did I think
when I was young When friends told me
what was in store for me I would laugh at their
exaggeration Age is the beast that
will obstruct us Though we are hopeful
and fit With my eyesight
failing I can’t read And without spectacles
I can’t see much I often search in all
the corners For the thing that is
close to me where it should be Because of my mind now
with forgetfulness I can’t leave anything
out of place Beside the ashes, I
shiver with cold And a coal fire that
would make anyone rosy Others shouting about
the smell of my clothes And my flesh is dowdy,
and I don’t notice. My legs are crippled,
my knees won’t bend I can’t go courting
among the young folk When there is a north
wind, there is a drop of water Travelling
about on the tip of my nose. You boys who are
strong and full of power About the country, and
at every gathering Believe me that
happiness will stop In a short time, when
the arthritis strikes! Though I used to often
suffer with toothache I pulled out the
beasts that were giving me trouble But as for arteries,
and flesh and veins It does no good to
tear them apart. It was no struggle for
me to go to the Sithean Come back and then go
to Lag an Doran Now there is a wheeze
in my pipes And I can hardly climb
the Goay pass. Some boast of the
number of young women Who were ready to
marry them and gave them love But they put their
desire in gathering wealth Those are the kind
that I really hate! By Angus MacPhail,
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