Hallaig

This poem, by Sorley Maclean (1911-1996) has the village of his youth in mind. It is no longer inhabited. Hallaig used be located on the southeastern point of the island of Raasay, just east of Skye. The italicised lines are in Gaelic, the English translation is by Sorley MacLean himself.

'Tha tìm, am fiadh, an Coille Hallaig'		'Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig.'
Tha bùird is tàirnean air an uinneig trom faca mi an Aird an Iar 's tha mo ghaol aig Allt Hallaig 'na craoibh bheithe, 's bha i riamh		The window is nailed and boarded through which I saw the West and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig, a birch tree, and she has always been
eadar an t-Inbhir 's Poll a' Bhainne, thall 's a-bhos mu Bhaile Chùirn: tha i 'na beithe, 'na calltainn, 'na caorann dhìreach sheang ùr.		between Inver and Milk Hollow, here and there about Baile-chuirn: she is a birch , a hazel, a straight slender young rowan.
Ann an Sgreapadal mo chinnidh, far robh Tarmad 's Eachann Mòr, tha 'n nigheanan 's am mic 'nan coille a' gabhail suas ri taobh an lòin.		In Screapadal of my people, where Norman and Big Hector were, their daughters and their sons are a wood going up beside the stream.
Uaibhreach a-nochd na coilich ghiuthais a' gairm air mullach Cnoc an Rà, dìreach an druim ris a' ghealaich - chan iadsan coille mo ghràidh.		Proud tonight the pine cocks crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra, straight their backs in the moonlight - they are not the wood I love.
Fuirichidh mi ris a' bheithe gus an tig i mach an Càrn, gus am bi am bearradh uile o Bheinn na Lice fa sgàil.		I will wait for the birch wood until it comes up by the Cairn, until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice will be under its shade.
Mura tig 's ann theàrnas mi a Hallaig, a dh'ionnsaigh sàbaid nam marbh, far a bheil an sluagh a' tathaich, gach aon ghinealach a dh'fhalbh.		If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig, to the sabbath of the dead, where the people are frequenting, every single generation gone.
Tha iad fhathast ann a Hallaig, Clann Ghill-Eain 's Clann MhicLeòid, na bh' ann ri linn Mhic Ghille Chaluim: chunnacas na mairbh beò -		They are still in Hallaig, Macleans and Macleods, All who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim: the dead have been seen alive - 'Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig.'
na fir 'nan laighe air an lèanaig aig ceann gach taighe a bh' ann, na h-igheanan 'nan coille bheithe, dìreach an druim, crom an ceann.		the men lying on the green at the end of every house that was, the girls a wood of birches, straight their backs, bent their heads.
Eadar an Leac is na Feàrnaibh tha 'n rathad mòr fo chòinnich chiùin, 's na h-igheanan 'nam badan sàmhach a' dol a Chlachan mar o thus.		Between the Leac and Fearns the road is under mild moss and the girls in silent bands go to Clachan as in the beginning.
Agus a' tilleadh às a' Chlachan, à Suidhisnis 's à tìr nam beò; a chuile tè òg uallach, gun bhristeadh cridhe an sgeòil.		And return from Clachan, from Suisnish and the land of the living; Each one young and light stepping, without the heartbreak of the tale.
O Allt na Feàrnaibh gus an fhaoilinn tha soilleir an dìomhaireachd nam beann chan eil ach coimhthional nan nighean a' cumail na coiseachd gun cheann.		From the Burn of Fearns to the raised beach that is clear in the mystery of the hills, there is only the congregation of the girls keeping up the endless walk,
a' tilleadh a Hallaig anns an fheasgar, anns a' chamhanaich bhalbh bheò, a' lìonadh nan leathadan casa, an gàireachdaich 'nam chluais 'na ceò,		coming back to Hallaig in the evening, in the dumb living twilight, filling the steep slopes, their laughter in my ears a mist,
's am bòidhche 'na sgleò air mo chridhe mun tig an ciaradh air na caoil, 's nuair theàrnas grian air cùl Dhùn Cana thig peileir dian à gunna Ghaoil;		and their beauty a film on my heart before the dimness comes on the kyles, and when the sun goes down behind Dun Cana a vehement bullet will come from the gun of Love;
's buailear am fiadh a tha 'na thuaineal a' snòtach nan làraichean feòir; thig reothadh air a shùl sa choille: chan fhaighear lorg air fhuil rim bheò.		and will strike the deer that goes dizzily, sniffing at the grass-grown ruined homes; his eye will freeze in the wood; his blood will not be traced while I live.