Bha do shnuadh cho aillidh 's nach fhaodainn s' aireamh,
Mar ròs a gharaidh ri maduinn dhriuchd,
Bu chuachach, faineach, do ghruag an caradh—
Mar theudan clarsaich an' inneal ciuil
Do ghruaidh dhearg dhathte, do shuil mar dhearcag,
Fuidh ghnuis na maise bu tapaidh sùrd
Rasg aotram, geanach, bho 'm b'fhaoilteach sealladh
Beul muirneach tairis, 's deud thana dhluth.
O! 's dluth bha buaidhean a stri mu'n cuairt duit,
Cha b' eol dhomh suairceas nach robh 'do chrè
Bha thu ciallach, narach, 's tu briathrach, pairteach,
'S tu rianail, daimheil, ri d' chairdean fhein:
Bu tu firean, fallain, bha rioghail, geanach,
'Sa leoghann tapaidh bu ghlaine beus;
Bhiodh min 'us gairg' air, bhiodh sith 'us fearg air,
Nuair chit' air falbh e bhiodh colg na cheum.
Se do cheum bu bhrisge 's bu shubailt iosgaid,
Bha moran ghibhtean ri d' leasraidh fuaight.
Bu tu glas nan Gaidheal, bho mhuir gu braighe
Gu crioch Chinntaile 's na tha bho thuath.
O! 's lionmhor oigfhear tha 'n diugh gu bronach
A fasgadh dhorn, 'us ruith-dheoir le ghruaidh,
'Bhiodh dana, sgaiteach, gun sgath gun ghealtachd,
Na 'm bu namhaid pears' bheireadh Eachainn bh' uainn.
Bha thu mor an onair, bu mhor do mholadh,
Bu mhor do shonas, 's tu gun dolaidh gibht'
Bu mhor a b'fhiach thu, bu mhor do riaghailt,
Bu mhor do mhiagh ann an ciall 's an tuigs',
Bu mhor do churam, bu mhor do chuisean,
Bu mhor do chliu ann an cuirt 'sa meas,
Bu mhor do stata, 's bu mhor do nadur,
'S cha mhor nach d'fhag thu na Gaidheil brist'.
O! 's priseil, laidir, a ghibhte 'dh-fhag sinn—
'S mios'da Ghaeltachd bàs an t-seoid,
Tha Mhachair tursach bho n' chaidh an uir ort,
'S tu dh-fhuasgladh cuis do gach cuirt mu bhord,
Bha 'Ghalldachd deurach ri cainnt ma d' dheighinn,
Gu ruig Dun-eidin nan steud 's nan cleoc,
'S cha ghabhainn gealtachd, air son a chantuinn,
Gur call do Bhreatuinn nach eil thu beo.
'S tu chraobh a b'aillidh bha 'n tus a gharaidh
'S i ùr a fas ann fuidh bhlath 's fuidh dhos,
O! 's truagh a dh-fhag thu ma thuath na Gaidheil
Mar uain gun mhathair ni'n sgath ri frois,
'S tu b'urr' an tearnadh bho chunnart gabhaidh,
'S an curaidh laidir, chuireadh spairn na tost,
Tha 'n tuath gu craiteach, 's na h-uaislean càsai,
'S bho 'n chaidh am fàd ort 's truagh gair nam bochd.
"Ma ta 's math sibh fhein Alastair Bhuidhe; 's grinn comhnard a bhardachd a th'air a mharbhrainn, ach cha 'n eil i dad nas fhearr na thoill brod a Ghaidheil agus am fior dhuin' uasal dha'n d'rinn sibh i," arsa Ruairidh Mor. (Well done yourself, Alastair Buidhe, the composition of the Elegy is beautifully elegant and even, but not any better than the memory of the best of Highlanders and the truest of gentlemen, to whom you composed it, deserved, said Big Rory). This was the general verdict of the circle.
Norman was now called upon to fulfil his part of the arrangement, which he promptly did by giving the Legend, of which the following is a translation:—