E P I T A P H on a L A D Y ,
In the Pariih-Church of Glenorchay, in North-Britain.
- A N fho na luigh ta fan I n n i s
Bean bu duilich leom bhi ann
Beul a cheuil, is Lamh a Ghrinnis,
Ha iad ’niofhe Iho nan tamh.
2. Tuill’ cha toir am Bochd dhuit beannachd :
An lom-nochd cha chluthaich thu nis mo’
Cha tiormaich Deur bho fhuil na h’Ainnis:
Co tuill’ G L a g g ! a bheir dhuit treoir b
3. Chan fhaic ihin tuille thu fa choinni.:
Cha fuidh lhin tuille air do Bhord :
D’fhalabh uain fuairceas, feirc is modhan
Ha Bron ’s bi-mhulad air teachd oiru.
In Englijh.
1. T O W Ihe lies here in the duft, and here memory fills me I
J w i t h grief: Blent is the tongue o f melody, and the!
hand of elegance is now at reft.
2. No more ihall the poor give thee his blefiing : nor fhall 1
the naked be warmed with the fleece of thy flock. The tsar
fhalt thou not wipe away from the eye of the wretched. Where I
now, O Feeble, is thy wonted help!
3- B
3, No more, my Fair, fhall we meet thee in the focial hall: no
jore fhall we fit at thy hofpitable board. Gone for ever is the
wnd of mirth: the kind, the candid, the meek is now no more,
/fho can exprefs our grief! Flow ye tears of Woe !
I Y OU N G L A D Y ’s L A M E N T A T I O N
on th.e D e a t h o f her L o v e r .
Tranflated from the Galic.
GLOOMY indeed is the night and dark, and heavy a'lfo
is my troubled foul: around me all is filent and ftill: but
teep has forfaken my eyes, and my bofom knoweth not the balm
kfpeace. I mourn for the lofs of the dead— the young, the beauteous,
pefrcw, alas ! lies low.— Lovely was-thy form, O youth ! lovely
nd fair was thy open foul !— Why did I know thy worth ?— Oh !
shy muft I now that worth deplore ? j
Length of years feemed to be the lot of my Love, yet few and’
leeting were his days of joy.— Strong he flood as the tree of the
ale, but untimely he fell into the filent houfe. The morning Sun
for thee flourifh as the lovely rofe— before the noon-tide heat low
hou droop’g; as the withered plant.
What then availed thy bloom of youth, and what thy arm of
pength? Ghaftly is the face of Love— dim and dark the foul-expelling
eye— The mighty fell to arife no more !
I Whom now fhall I call my friend? or from whom can I hear the
found of joy ? In thee the friend has fallen— in thy grave my joy is
laid.—