. A birthday book : in Gaelic and English : selected from "Ossian", Sheriff Nicolson's "Proverbs," and other sources. pionnadh an laoich,Ged sgaoil e mar dhuilleach an cath ÌAn diugh ge treun air an raon,Bheir an daol am màireach buaidh air. Gaul. Proverb. Many a wave will break on the shore ere that ioma tonn a thig air cladach mu n tachair sin. These my people are my rock of strength,From which the eagle wing is fully spread,When I go forth to smite, and win renown. Mo shluagh so mo charraigean treun,On sgaoilear sgiath iolair gu cùl, N uair a shiùbhlas mi niach gu beum, us mi gla
. A birthday book : in Gaelic and English : selected from "Ossian", Sheriff Nicolson's "Proverbs," and other sources. pionnadh an laoich,Ged sgaoil e mar dhuilleach an cath ÌAn diugh ge treun air an raon,Bheir an daol am màireach buaidh air. Gaul. Proverb. Many a wave will break on the shore ere that ioma tonn a thig air cladach mu n tachair sin. These my people are my rock of strength,From which the eagle wing is fully spread,When I go forth to smite, and win renown. Mo shluagh so mo charraigean treun,On sgaoilear sgiath iolair gu cùl, N uair a shiùbhlas mi niach gu beum, us mi glacadhdhomh iein mo chliù Temora lowly and act gu h-iosal, us diòl gu h-uasal. Like a breeze across his soul in grief, came the maidens gentle remembrance of the land of hills—Her peaceful dwelling by the stream of glens. Mar oiteig air anam le bròn thàinig guth caoin na h-òigh,A mosgladh cuimhne talaimh nam beann,A caomh-chòmhuidh aig sruthan nan gleann. Temora Its an ill wind with which no one can ole a ghaoth leis nach seòl cuid-eigin. 122. Like thunder was the tread of the chief, When falls a soft, warm shower On fields of summer—dark and calm. Mar thorrunn bha farum an uair thuiteas an t-sian gu tlath,Air raoin-shamhraidh—dorch us ciuin. Fingal They are far behind that cannot follow. Tha iad fad air dheireadh nach urrainn leanailt. There is joy to my soul in battle din of hosts is melody to me ;I come of the race of cleaving-strokes—Hundreds did notdaunt my sires. Tha solas air m anam s an binn learn fuaim còmh-strì an mise de shliochd nam beum, cha robh eagal nan ceudair mo shinnsre. Fingal a man has gone to the wood for a stick to beat ioma fear a chaidh don choille air son bata d a dhruimfhein. ? Yield thee, be not headstrong, —I yielded never, nor will ever day will never dawn till doom, that b
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookpublisherlondo, bookyear1885
