Fuadach nan Gàidheal

Henry Whyte, aka Fionn
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Altra versione inglese (forse più letterale) trovata qui
I mourn for the Highlands, Now drear and forsaken;
The land of my fathers, The gallant and brave;
To make room for the sportsman Their lands were all taken,
And they had to seek out New homes over the wave.
I am so sad
Mourning for the state of the country
And the old thrifty people
Who were worthy and courageous.
Landlords evicted them
Far over the seas;
Their lands were taken from them
And given up to the deer.
Where once smiled the garden, Rank weeds have their station.
And deer are preferred To a leal-hearted race.
Oh, shame on the tyrants Who brought desolation,
Who banished the brave And put sheep in their place.
That was a matter of shame,
To see strong people
Being evicted over the ocean
Like useless debris;
And the beautiful land
Occupied by Cheviot sheep.
There are nettles in the garden
And the ruins covered with grass.
Oh ! where are the parents And bairns yonder roaming
The scene of their gladness Is far o'er the main ;
No blithe-hearted milk-maid Now cheers us at gloaming ;
The herd-boy no longer Is seen on the plain.
Where there were many men
With their wives and families,
There are only hornless sheep
To be found in their place.
You cannot see in the cattle-fold
The milkmaid with her fetter,
Or the white-shouldered cattle
And the fair-haired herdsman.
The lark is still soaring, and sings in his glory,
With no one to listen His sweet morning lay;
The clansmen are gone-- But their deeds live in story--
Like chaff in the wind, they were borne far away.
The lark is in the skies
Singing her tuneful song,
With no one listening to her
As she climbs higher.
The people will never return, never return,
Who were hearty and genial;
Like chaff on a windy day
They were dispersed for ever.

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