This was the first piece of poetry written by the great Màiri Mhòr nan Òran of the Isle of Skye. One of the most prolific land and language activists of the nineteenth century. She wrote this while serving time in prison for a crime she swore she did not commit. In another of her songs, Eilean a’ Cheò, she tells us that it was the anger and shame she felt for this injustice that brought her poetry to life. 

Tha mi sgìth de luchd na Beurla,

Tha mi sgìth dhiubh cheart da-rìribh;

’S ann leam fhèin gur fhada ’n cèilidh; 

Tha mi sgìth de luchd na Beurla

Chunnaic mise ann am bruadar, 

Saighdearan a’ tighinn mun cuairt domh, 

Caiptean Turner ’s dà mhnaoi-uasail, 

’S ghabh mi uabhas ’s rinn mi èirigh. 

Chuir iad mi air leacan fuara,

’S chuir iad bòrd fom cheann mar chluasaig, 

’S b’ fheumail cogais shaor dhomh ’n uair sin – 

Chùm i suas mi ’s rinn i m’ èideadh

Bu mhath dhòmhsa mar a thachair, 

Nach robh chogais ga mo thachdadh, 

Siud an nì a chùm an taic rium, 

Nuair a thachair dhomh bhith m’ èiginn

Tha ar dùthaich air a truailleadh,

Leis a’ ghràisg tha tighinn mu thuath oirnn;

Chan eil creutair bochd a ghluaiseas,

Nach tèid a chuaradh ’s a reubadh

Cha b’ e siud a bha mi faicinn,

Aig na daoine còir’ a chleachd mi, 

Ach bhith blàth ann an caidreamh,

’S a bhith cumail taic ri chèile

Tha iad a-nis air am fuadach,

Aig an nàimhdean thar nan cuantan, 

Chan eil geum aig mart air buaile, 

’S chan eil buachaille nan dèidh ann

Gum b’ iad siud na daoine còire,

’S ann nam measg a gheibht’ a’ chòisir, 

Far am b’ àbhaist daibh bhith còmhnaidh, 

’S ann tha ròidean aig na fèidh ann

Far an robh mòran dhaoine,

’S ann a tha e ’n-diugh fo chaoraich, 

Cìobair am mullach gach maoile,

Coin san aonach ’s iad ag èigheach

I am tired of the English speakers,

I truly am tired of them;

On my own the time is long; 

I am tired of the English speakers

I saw in a dream,

Soldiers closing in around me,

Captain Turner and two noblewomen,

I got a fright and I rose

They set me on cold slabs,

And they put a board under my head as a pillow,

A free conscience was useful to me then – 

She held me up and she clothed me

It was as well for me with what happened,

That my conscience wasn't choking me,

That was what kept me going

when I was in need

Our country is polluted,

With the rabble that is coming north upon us;

There is not a poor creature that moves,

That will not be tormented and torn

That was not what I saw,

In the good people I have known,

But to be warm in embrace

And to support one another

They have now been exiled

By their enemies across the seas, 

There is no bellow from a cow in the fold,

And there is no herdsman after them

They were the kindest of people,

The best company was found amongst them,

Where they used to reside,

The deer now have paths

Where there were many people,

Today is full of sheep, 

A shepherd on the top of every hill,

Dogs on the moor, barking