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ʼS truagh nach do dh’fhuirich mi tioram air tìr,

ʼN fhìrinn a th’ agam nach maraiche mi,

ʼS truagh nach do dh’fhuirich mi tioram air tìr,

Rim mhaireann cha till mise sheòladh.

Sin agaibh an t-sèist aig òran ainmeil. Tha an t-ùghdar ag ràdh nach e maraiche a tha ann.

An t-seachdain sa chaidh, bha mi ag innse dhuibh mu shealg nam mucan-mara. An toiseach, bhathar a’ sealg nam mucan anns na cuantan faisg air Graonlainn. Nuair nach robh gu leòr dhiubh air fhàgail anns a’ cheann a tuath, thug na companaidhean seilg sùil air a’ chuan a deas, timcheall South Georgia. Seo an dàrna rann:

Ruith na muic-mhara ri gailleann sa chuan,

Mo mheòirean air reothadh a dh’aindeoin bhith cruaidh,

B’ fheàrr a bhith ʼn-ceartuair air acair air Chluaidh,

Na bhith dìreadh nan crann an South Georgia.

Bha am fear a sgrìobh an t-òran a’ sealg nam mucan-mara ann an South Georgia tràth anns an fhicheadamh linn. B’ esan Dòmhnall Iain Mac a’ Mhaoilein, Dòmhnall Iain Thormoid Ruaidh. Bhuineadh e do Chille Pheadair ann an Uibhist a Deas. Chaidh e gu muir airson a bheòshlaint a dhèanamh.

Ach cha do chòrd e ris. Bha e gu math fuar is garbh air bòrd soitheach timcheall South Georgia. Seo an treas rann dhen òran:

Dìle bhon t-sneachd ʼs tu gun fhasgadh on fhuachd,

D’ aodann ga sgailceadh le fras bho gach stuagh,

ʼN t-airgead am pailteas ʼs gun dòigh a chur bhuat,

ʼS e sìor losgadh toll ann ad phòca.

Anns an rann mu dheireadh, cluinnidh sibh am facal ò¾±²Ô²õ±ð²¹³¦³ó. Ann an grunn dualchainntean, tha sin a’ ciallachadh boireannach faoin no gòrach. Ach tha an t-ùghdar a’ gabhail ‘ò¾±²Ô²õ±ð²¹³¦³ó’ air fhèin.

Nuair gheibh sinn fòrladh ʼs nuair ruigeas sinn tràigh,

Falbhaidh an ò¾±²Ô²õ±ð²¹³¦³ó sa còmhla ri càch,

Chosg mi de dh’airgead air cunntair a’ bhàir,

A cheannaicheadh trì taighean-òsta.

Fhad ʼs as aithne dhomh, cha do cheannaich Dòmhnall Iain taigh-òsta sam bith. Ach, mar a gheall e, dh’fhàg e seòladh nan cuantan agus sealg nam mucan-mara. Fhuair e obair mar phoileas air talamh tioram ann an Lunnainn. 

It’s a pity I didn’t stay dry on land,

It’s true that I’m not a mariner,

It’s a pity I didn’t stay dry on land,

As long as I live, I won’t return to sailing.

That is the chorus of a famous song. The author says that he is not a mariner.

Last week, I was telling you about whaling. To start with, whaling was occurring in the oceans near Greenland. When there wasn’t enough of them left in the north, the whaling companies turned their attention to the southern ocean, around South Georgia. Here is the second verse:

Chasing the whale in a storm on the ocean,

My fingers frozen in spite of their being toughened,

I’d prefer just now to be at anchor on the Clyde,

Than climbing the masts in South Georgia.

The man who wrote the song was whaling in South Georgia early in the twentieth century. He was Donald John MacMillan, Donald John son of red-haired Norman. He belonged to Kilpheder in South Uist. He went to sea to make his living.

But he didn’t enjoy it. It was very cold and rough on a ship around South Georgia. Here is the third verse of the song:

Soaked from the snow, and you without shelter from the cold,

Your face slapped by a shower from every wave,

Plenty of  money and with no way to spend it,

And it forever burning a hole in your pocket.

In the final verse, you’ll hear the word ò¾±²Ô²õ±ð²¹³¦³ó. In a few dialects, that means a foolish or silly woman. But the author calls himself an ‘ò¾±²Ô²õ±ð²¹³¦³ó’.

When we get leave and we reach shore,

This fool will go along with the rest,

I’ve spent enough money at the counter of the bar,

To buy three hotels.

As far as I’m aware, Donald John didn’t buy any hotel. But, as he promised, he abandoned sailing the seas and whaling. He got work as a policeman on dry land in London.