My thoughts are restless, I feel in pain;
This place conflicts with the laws of nature,
My strength forsakes me in heart and brain.
I cannot sing the old songs of Albin,
My bosom saddens to hear their strain;
My Gaelic dies since I speak no longer
That tongue still cherished beyond the main.
Alas! small wonder although I sorrow
Behind the hills in this gloomy wood,
In this lone desert by Barney’s River,