Rinn e’n leaba so cùbhraidh dhomhs.—M’Gregor.
This is the epitaph which I wish to place on my grave-stone, which cannot properly be translated.
Because Jesus, my run,
Was asleep in the uir (dust),
This bed he perfumed to me.
How often such expressions as the following are heard from the lips of mothers, and are still more powerful when they come from the lips of a father:—O! a ruin, gabh mo chomhairle (O my child, take my advice); Mo runan beag (My wee dear boy); Mo runag bheag (My wee dear girl); and, used as an adjective, Runach, mo bhalachan runach (My wee loving boy); Mo chaileag runach (My wee loving girl). We have another word, which is the sweetest in the language and full of melody, Luaidh, the dh being almost silent. It literally means “mention,” “to make mention;” but when used as a noun it means “a beloved person,” “an object of praise,” “an object on which to expatiate or to talk about by way of praise.” How powerful from the lips of parents or friends—Mo luaidh, a luaidh nan gillean (thou dearest of lads); a luaidh nan nighean (thou dearest of girls).
It adds greatly to the force of these epithets when used along with mo chridhe (my heart), as a ghraidh, a ghaoil, a cheist, eudail, a run, a luaidh mo chridhe. Any one of these epithets used along with mo chridhe, from the lips of an affectionate mother, is as much calculated to soften the heart, and to bring tears from the eyes, as any sounds that can come from the lips of a human being. And equally strong, if not more so, a laoidh mo chridhe (thou calf of my heart). Do not laugh at us, ye Lowland mothers—ye have your ain “wee lammies,” and we have our ain “wee calfies,” and recollect that our calfies are bonnier than yours. And, besides, I suppose it is seldom you give milk to the ewe’s lammies; that is not, however, the case with our mammies—they frequently give milk to the cow’s calfies, and hence it cannot but occur to them that each has a calfie of her own to give milk to. The proper pronunciation of this word is impossible for an Englishman to come to, and might be called the shibboleth. There is no sound in the Gaelic that has more of that melody that subdues and softens. The tongue has scarcely anything to do but merely to touch the upper teeth in pronouncing the l, and then to withdraw, and, remaining passive, the sound is made by the gullet, and is as if it proceeded from the heart.
For “my sweet lammie,” we have m’uanan, m’uanag mhilis, masculine and feminine. For “darling,” “my darling,” we have chiall, mo chiallan, mo chiallag—both in the diminutive masculine and feminine; and let it be borne in mind that the diminutive in the Gaelic is expressive of affection like the broad Scotch. For “kind,” “kindness,” we have caoimhneas, caoimhneil, full of melody. But we have also caoin (kind), which is taken from the verb caoineadh (weeping). We know that weeping is generally expressive of kindness. It is very extraordinary that guil (to weep), is taken from guth shuil (the voice of the eyes). There is another word still, and equally melting, and more soothing to the feelings, caomh (kind), caomhail (kindly), caomhach (a kind person), caomhan, caomhag, masculine and feminine diminutive. Mo dhuine caomh (my kind man), the most endearing expression that can come from the lips of a woman to her husband. I have never had the pleasure of listening to the endearing epithets expressive of the maternal feelings of a Northumberland, a Yorkshire, or an Essex mother; but I am pretty certain that nature has supplied them with something more expressive of their feelings than the English language can do.
Ye Lowland Scotch, look at our language! Many surly critics amongst you have hitherto been listening to it with the ear, and looking at it with the scowling eye of contempt. Look at it again—look at it aright, and that contempt will give place to admiration! Ye refined, ye learned Englishmen, enter this our vale of Athol through the Highland mouth’s paradise, Dunkeld; not with railway speed, but at your leisure. Let your ears be charmed with the melody of our groves, and let your cold hearts be warmed with the comforts of our Highland homes.
Now, my countrymen, look at your own language. Have you any cause to be ashamed of it? Have you not cause rather to be proud of it, and even to bless God for giving you such a language? Would you wish to renounce that language, so expressive of the kindest feelings of the heart, and which has made us what we are—a warm-hearted, sociable race? Would you wish to renounce it, and to receive in its place the language taught in your schools? Should you ever do so, let me tell you that you will renounce your warm hearts along with it—both shall be buried in the same grave together, and you will make but a very poor exchange; as poor, as if you passed from sunny France to Greenland, the land of snow and frost. The language taught in your schools is for the head, but not for the heart—for the understanding, not for the soul; yes, for the mental faculties, not for the affections. And as such study it; you will never be great scholars without a knowledge of it; it is essential to obtaining the knowledge of the different branches of education. But let it never be the language of your firesides, of your parlours, of your social gatherings. The language taught in your schools is the language of scholars, of learned men (these dry mortals); and may be called the language of art, or an artificial language. But your language is the language of nature, of affectionate parents, kind-hearted companions, of your countrymen; and while speaking it you act as natural a part as the sheep in bleating.