Na Fir-Chlis
Bha mise sa Chnoc-Sìth’ o chunnaic mi thu ’n dè
’S tha aithris neo-àbhaist’ ri cur ann an sgeul
Mu na h-ainglean mallaichte, mur b’ e gràs Dhè;
Na Fir-Chlis, na loisgich, a theab tuiteam on speur.
Chaidh teine ’s an àil’ a’ lasadh gu geur
Le dealanach, sradagan, losgadh is leus.
Dhòrt na Fir-Chlis fuil theth às gach fèith,
’S nochd am manadh air olc: crotal-ruadh air na slèibh.
Chìthear mar mhallachd aig èirigh na grèin’
Fuil nan sàr-mhilidh, is fianais an creuchd:
Ach bheir blàr nan clis-threun ùr-fhadadh is dèin’
Do bhàrdachd nam filidh air sgrìobhadh fo’ n seun.
Ach is mairg do dhream le dà-shealladh mar gheas
Oir cluinnear gu sìorraidh mac-talla is èigh
Nam Fir-Chlis, leth-uilc, a’ milleadh ’s an cleas
’S cha tig a chaoidh iochd orr’, le cuireadh bho’ n eug.
‘The Nimble Ones’: The Northern Lights
I have been at the fairy-knoll since we met yesterday
And of that I have a strange tale to relate
Of the angels who, had God not had mercy, were damned;
The Nimble Ones, fiery ones, who almost fell from the skies.
There was fire in the air, blazing fiercely,
Lightning bolts, sparks, flaming and flickering.
The Nimble Ones spilled hot blood from every vein,
And their presage of evil appeared; crimson lichen on the hillsides.
At sunrise you may witness this, like a curse,
The blood of the arch-warriors, proof of their wounds:
But the battle of the nimble fighters rekindles and intensifies
The bards’ poetry, composed under their spell.
Yet woe betide those born with the sorcery of second-sight,
For they will for ever hear the echoes and cries
Of the Nimble Ones, the half-evil ones, playfully despoiling,
Who will never receive clemency, in the form of death’s call.
Sandy NicDhòmhnaill Jones
From Crotal Ruadh—Red Lichen (Acair, 2016, republished by Acair in 2019)
