Chan i seo an dùthaich dha'n dùthchas dhut bhith tàmh:
Chuir stoirm is gailleann faoiltich thu air faondradh thar an t-sàil;
Dh'fhàg thu cridhe brùit' againn thu dhol a-null cho tràth
A dh'ainneoin ar cuid cungaisich, cha d' chum sinn thu bhon bhàs.

Tha itean bòidheach ciatach ort cho dubh ri fiamh na teàrr
Is broilleach mar an sneachda bhios 'na stac air feadh nan càrn;
Tha spògan beaga rìomhach ort cho mìn ri canach blàir
Is dhearbh iad dha mo shùilean gum bu dùthchas dhut bhith snàmh.

Rinn mi uaigh bhòidheach dhut bho fhòirneart air do dhìon
Is rinn mi ùrnaigh shoisgealach, oir toil leam ceòl nan ian;
Nuair thig an latha sònraichte chaidh òrdachadh le Dia,
Bidh thusa snàmh gu sòlasach air bòc-thuinn a' Chuain Siar.

The Stray Bird

This is not the country where it's in your blood to stay:
Storm and wolftime gale have sent you off your ocean's course;
You've left us broken-hearted that you passed away so soon
Despite all our attempts to help, we failed to keep you from death.

You have fine and splendid feathers as black in hue as tar
And a breast like the snow that piles up on rock-strewn slopes;
You have lovely little talons as smooth as cotton in the marsh
And they have proven to my eyes that swimming's in your blood.

I've made a lovely grave for you to save you from attack
And I've said a prayer from the gospel, for I love the music of birds;
When it comes to that special day which God has ordained,
You'll be swimming happily on the great Atlantic waves.