This poem, by dear old family friend, Donald John MacDougal (Domhnall Iain Tair) was presented to Mòd Nàiseanta Rìoghail, (Royal National Mod) in 1968 in Dunoon and being the best poem of that year, Donald was crowned Bard of the Mod.

Here is the original Gaelic and non-litteral translation in Beurla

Druim An T-Saoghail

Fo anart mairbh na h-iarmailt, fuar, gun ghuth,

Tha'n fhairge marbh-ghlas sinte. Crom os cionn

A'chuain a'bheinn mar chaileach aosda 'gal:

Tha'n cruinne-ce a'deanamh faire. Bron

Gach neach a thainig riamh air talamh, bron

Tach treig sinn gus an treig gach ni sinn, bron

A'bhais a'sgaoileadh tamhasg-geal mar cheo

Mun cuairt. O fuar air m'aodann bron a'bhais,

Ceo uaigneach thar na mara. Am feasgar so

Tha mi 'nam shidh' air creig aig beul a'lain,

Ag amharc teanga 'cheo a'rannsachaidh

Feadh farsuinneachd mor uamhasach a'chuain,

'S ag imlich sgriob chaol mhealltach chuairt na speur.

A mach air cul a'chearcaill ud tha 'grian

A'dearrsadh sios air achadh cubhraidh blath,

Far bheil tri fochead mile dealan-de

A'clis-leum, agus faileadh glan and fheoir

Mar cheol ag eiridh suas. Tha sin an siud,

O sith nach d'fhairich cridhe duine riamh.

Tha mise 'feitheamh aiseag. Tha mi sgith.

Aon lath nochdaidh siuil air druim a'chuain,

A'long 'tha 'dol 'gam thoirt gum' dhachaidh bhuan.

The Rim

Under the sky's great winding sheet, the sea

Lies dead. The hill, a stopped old woman, weeps

Above the water. Quietly the earth keeps wake.

The grey thought comes, a spectre from the sea.

The thought that seeps into each human heart,

The thought we clutch when we can no more clutch.

chill, chill upon my face the touch of death,

Grey though condensed from this broad pensive stretch

Of sea. My eyes go out across the miles

And miles and miles of leaden water to

The very rim, the faint deceptive line

That circumscribes our outstretched acreage

Of woe. Long searching tongues of mist reach out

and lick the line, erase the pencil work.

There is no line. Beyond, beyond there lies

A sun-warmed land where colours flicker from

A million wings, where music softly bears

the lingering smell of grass. And peace is there,

A peace the heart of man has never known.

I'm old and tired. a ship will one day come

for me. White visionary sails will leap

Across that rim, and stiffen to the breeze,

And bear down swiftly towards me. I shall say

Goodbye to all my fiends and step aboard.