An cuala tu 'n glaodh sin a dh'éirich gu h-àrd- An acain, an caoidh, a's na h-osnaichean cràidh ? Am faca tu deuran a' chiomaich gu trom Mar fhrasan nan speuran a' sileadh air fonn ? O! 'm faca tu cò bha 'na seasamh r'a thaobh, A' coimhead air dòlasan cràiteach a gaoil- A' bualadh a h-uchd agus deòir air a gruaidh, Gun chomas a céile a shaoradh o thruaigh'? Ach dh'éirich an glaodh ud gu righ-chathair Dhé, 'S bhrist Angeal na saorsa na cuibhrichean geur- Tha Daorsa a nis ann an daorsa i féin-
Tha mhàthair 's a maothran a' mireadh le chéil'! 'Nis séidibh an trompaid-biodh an tiompan air ghleus, Tha buaidh le Iehobhah-tha 'phobull gu léir
O shàrachadh cruaidh an luchd-foireignidh saor; Oir 's i 'n àithne a chualas, "Biodh ciomaich f'a sgaoil."
"THA M'ATHAIR AIR AN STIUIR." Dh'éirich an fhairge, 's shéid a' ghaoth, A's b'aobhar oillt an fhuaim, Don' h-uile aon san eithear fhaoin Air faontra' feadh a' chuain.
Ach mac an sgiobair, balachan maoth, Chual' e gun gheilt an toirm; Fiamh aiteis àrd gu'n robh 'na ghnùis, Gun smuairean air roi'n stoirm. Dh'fheòraich aon do'n sgiobadh dheth C'arson bha e cho ciùin?
"Cha 'n eagal domh-sa," fhreagair e, "Tha m'athair air an stiùir."
Mar so, 'n uair dhìobras sòlas sinn, 'S an crìdh' le dòlas làn,
Tha acair dhaingean ann nach tréig, 'S e Dia is Dia amhain.
R'ar n-ùrnuigh cromaidh Dia a chluas, A's fuasgladh luath bheir dhuinn ;
Ar deòir gu aiteas tionndaidh e- Gu aoibhneas fàth ar teinn.
Then upward look, howe'er distress'd, Jesus will guide thee home,
To that blest port of endless rest, Where storms shall never come.
A CRADLE-HYMN.
Hush my Dear, lie still and slumber, Holy Angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number, Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home thy friends provide ; All without thy care and payment, All thy wants are well supplied. How much better thou'rt attended Than the son of God could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee?
Soft and easy is thy cradle :
Coarse and hard the Saviour lay ; When his birth-place was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.
Blessed Babe what glorious features, Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must he dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight! Was there nothing but a manger Wicked sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord!
Soft my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard : 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arm shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abused their King: How they served the Lord of glory Makes me angry while I sing.
'Measg àmhgharaibh an t-saoghail thruaigh Earbaibh á Dia nan dùl,
Ag ràdh an là na gaillinn chruaidh, "Tha m' Athair air an stiùir."
LAOIDI ALTRUIM.
Bà! mo leanabh, caidil sàmhach, Ainglean àghmhor 'bhi ort teann! Driùchdadh beannachdan gun àireamh As na h-àrdaibh air do cheann.
Caidil 'eudail! cha'n 'eil éis ort; T' fhàrdach, t'éideadh, a's do lòn Solaraidh do chàirdean féin duit, 'S cha'n iarr éiric uait, no òr. 'S fearr do ghiullachd agus t'àilleas Na bha căramh caomh Mhic Dhé, 'N uair a thùirling e o'n àirde—
'Dh'fhàs 'na phàisdein mar thu féin. Tha do chreathall socrach, blåth fo’d— Bha do Shlànuighear gun ghleus; 'S ann a rugadh e 'an ståbull, 'S bi a leaba státa feur.
Leanabh gràsmhor a chruth àluinn !
Mac an Ard-righ, gnùis na sgéimh ! 'Measg nam brùid a' gabhail fàrdaich, Fath chur cràidh air sluagh nan nèamh !
Nach robh ionad ach a' phrasach Aig na peacaich bhaoth, gu dìon A chur air an aoidhe mhaiseach ?- Feuch mar mhaslaich iad an Triath!
Cuist, a ghràidh cha d'thug mi gràchd ort, Ged bha fonn mo dhàin car searbh ; 'S i do mhàthair a ta làmh riut, 'S ni a gàirdeana do thearm'.
Ach air cuimhneachadh an sgeòil domh, Mar bha Righ na glòir' an teinn, Aig na h-Iudhaich mar fhear dò-bheairt, 'S e chuir dorran orm 's ini 'seinn.
Lo, he slumbers in the manger, Where the horned oxen fed; Peace, my darling here 's no danger, Here's no ox beside thy bed.
'Twas to save thee, child, from dying- Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans, and endless crying,
That thy blessed Redeemer came.
May'st thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him all thy days! Then go, dwell for ever near him, See his face, and sing his praise. I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire : Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.
Child.--I saw the glorious sun arise From yonder mountain grey; And as he travelled through the sky The darkness fled away.
And all around me was so bright- I wished it would be always light.
But when his shining course was done, The gentle moon drew nigh,
And stars came twinkling, one by one, Upon the shady sky :-
Who made the sun to shine so far, The moon and every twinkling star?
Mother. 'Twas God, my child, who made them all By his Almighty skill:
He keeps them, that they do not fall, And guides them as he will ;- That glorious God, who lives afar, In heaven beyond the highest star.
Child.-How very great that God must be,
Who rolls them through the air! Too high, Mamma, to notice me, Or listen to my prayer!
Faic 'na chadal e 'sa' phrasaich
Am fochar dhamh a' cnàmh an cìr: Fois, a rùin, cha 'n fhàth dhuit caisleach', Cha 'n 'eil daimh an còir do chinn-s'.
'S ann gu thus', a ghráidh a dhìon
O bhàs, o phian, o ghul, 's o ghruaim; O lasair bhuan, 's o ghlosgan fhiacal, 'Thàinig Iosa Criosd a nuas.
Gu ma beò dhuit dh'fhàs air eòlach, 'S a chur dòchas ann gach là ! 'N sin gu siorruidh ni thu còmhnuidh Làmh ris féin 'an tìr an àigh.
Bheirinn mìle, mìle pòg dhuit
Leis an dòchas th'air mo mhiann ; Chaoidh cha 'n iarradh màthair sòlas 'S mo na h-òigridh bhi aig Dia.
Leanabh.-Chunnaic mi ghrian ag éiridh suas O chùl nam beanntan garbh; 'S mar thriall i suas gu àird' nan speur, Gu'n d' theich an dorch' air falbh. 'N sin thaom an solus mach mu'n cuairt, 'Cur air gach machair mais' a's snuadh.
Cho luath's a chriochnaich is' a réis
Gu'n d' éirich 'ghealach chaoin;
'S na déigh-s' gu'n d' thaisbean anns an speur Na reultan, aon a's aon:
Cò rinn a' ghrian, 's a' ghealach féin,
'S na reultan àillidh ud gu léir.
Mathair. 'S e Dia, mo ghaol, le 'neart ro threun
'Rinn iad gu léir an tùs:
· Leis ghleidheadh iad o thuiteam sìos, A's riaghladh iad 'nan cùrs' ;-
'N Dia glòrmhor àrd 'tha 'gabhail tămh Os ceann nan reultan shuas air nèamh.
Leanabh.-Cia mòr an Dia sin ann an neart "Tha 'gluasad feachd nan speur !
Ro àrd tha e gu toirt fa'near Aon ghearan 'thig o m' bheu !
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