Opening the anthology at random

The anthology this time is The new Penguin book of Scottish verse edited by Robert Crawford and Mick Imlah, a treasure-trove of poems from over 1450 years in languages including Old Norse, Old French, Latin, Welsh, Gaelic, Scots, and English. From this embarrassment of choice here's the one that met my eye when I opened the book randomly during a wakeful period last night. The translation from the Gaelic is by Derrick Thomson. I wish I could read it in Gaelic (Tha mise fo mhulad san am, / Chan olar leam dram le sunnt, / Tha durrag air ghur ann mo chail / A dh'fhioosraich do chach mo ruin ...)

Oran Eile (Another Song)

Overburdened with sorrow now
l can drink no dram with joy,
a maggot broods in my mind
telling my secrets to all:
no longer I see in the street
the girl with the gentlest eyes,
and so my spirits have fallen
like leaves from the foliage of trees.

O maiden of ringletted hair,
my longing for you is deep;
if you've chosen a pleasant lot
my blessing I give for all time;
I am sighing since you are gone
like a wounded hero who lies
on the field of battle, undone,
who will enter the fray no more.

I'm a fugitive strayed from the flock,
I can give no woman my love;
your sea-voyage under your coif
brought swift-flowing tears from my eyes.
Would I had never seen
your beauty, your sense and good name,
sweet kindness that came from your lips
more melodious than music's peal.

Every ass who hears of my plight
thinks I'm fearful by nature now,
saying I'm only a bard
who can't make a decent song -
my grandfather paid up his rent
and my father carried a pack;
they would put horses in plough –
I could shape my staves just as well.

My spirits have long been low,
music doesn't lift my heart,
in distress like one lost at sea
tossed on the waves in mist.
Missing your sportiveness now
has changed the fair face of my sky,
without joy or gladness or pride,
eagerness, virtue or strength.

No ode to beauty comes forth,
I can't put a poem in place,
I cannot pick out a tune,
I hear no young laughing cry,
no longer climb in the hills
with zest as at one time I did,
I must journey to final sleep
in the hall of the poets who are dead.

Uilleam Ros / William Ross (1762-1790)