Ii. Aimsire. Seasons. 61. The Virg
*
"Carmina Gadelica, Volume 1", by Alexander Carmicheal, [1900],
p. 144
p. 145
An Oigh Agus An Leanabh [61]
The Virgin And Child
p. 144
p. 145
Chunnacas an Oigh a teachd,
Criosda gu h-og 'na h-uchd.
A Mhoir Oighe, agus a Mhic,
Beannaich an taigh agus a luchd.
Beannaich am biadh, beannaich am bord,
Beannaich an dias, an triall 's an stor.
An trath bha oirnn an raithe gann,
Is tu fein, Oighe, bu mhathair dhuinn.
Is gil thu na ghealach earra-gheal
Ag eirigh air an tulaich.
Is gil thu na ghrian cheit-ghil,
Fo eibhneas subhach.
Bho nach faod am bard fuireach,
Cuiribh uilim 's a bhalg le beannachd.
Mise gille Mhic De an cois an doruis,
A uchd De, eirich fein is fosgail domh e.
Behold the Virgin approaching,
Christ so young on her breast.
O Mary Virgin! and O Holy Son!
Bless ye the house and all therein,
Bless ye the food, bless ye the board,
Bless ye the corn, the flock and the store.
What time to us the quarter was scarce,
It is thou thyself, Virgin, who wast mother to us.
Thou art brighter than the waxing moon
Rising over the mountains.
Thou art brighter than the summer sun,
Under his fullness of joy.
Since the bard must not tarry,
Place ye alms in the bag with a blessing.
Servant am I of God the Son on the threshold,
For the sake of God, arise thyself and open to me.
"Carmina Gadelica, Volume 1", by Alexander Carmicheal, [1900],
p. 144
p. 145
An Oigh Agus An Leanabh [61]
The Virgin And Child
p. 144
p. 145
Chunnacas an Oigh a teachd,
Criosda gu h-og 'na h-uchd.
A Mhoir Oighe, agus a Mhic,
Beannaich an taigh agus a luchd.
Beannaich am biadh, beannaich am bord,
Beannaich an dias, an triall 's an stor.
An trath bha oirnn an raithe gann,
Is tu fein, Oighe, bu mhathair dhuinn.
Is gil thu na ghealach earra-gheal
Ag eirigh air an tulaich.
Is gil thu na ghrian cheit-ghil,
Fo eibhneas subhach.
Bho nach faod am bard fuireach,
Cuiribh uilim 's a bhalg le beannachd.
Mise gille Mhic De an cois an doruis,
A uchd De, eirich fein is fosgail domh e.
Behold the Virgin approaching,
Christ so young on her breast.
O Mary Virgin! and O Holy Son!
Bless ye the house and all therein,
Bless ye the food, bless ye the board,
Bless ye the corn, the flock and the store.
What time to us the quarter was scarce,
It is thou thyself, Virgin, who wast mother to us.
Thou art brighter than the waxing moon
Rising over the mountains.
Thou art brighter than the summer sun,
Under his fullness of joy.
Since the bard must not tarry,
Place ye alms in the bag with a blessing.
Servant am I of God the Son on the threshold,
For the sake of God, arise thyself and open to me.
