"_Mo-ghaol_," said he (and there were some Gaelic phrases, at least, of which she had by this time got to know the meaning well enough), "I thought you were going to let me be your interpreter."
"Why do you not begin, then? Where are the verses that Mrs. Armour sent?" she said. "You promised you would write out a translation for me."
"And so I have," he answered her—yet with some apparent unwillingness. "I have written out a translation, in a kind of a way, because you insisted on it. But it is a shame. For the Gaelic is a most expressive language; and all the subtlety and grace of the original escape when you come down to a literal rendering in English. Besides, what skill have I in such things? If you like, I will send it to the editor of the _Celtic Magazine_, and ask him to get it properly translated—he has printed some of Mrs. Armour’s pieces before now—in Gaelic, of course——"
"I want your version—none other," she said, imperatively.
"Very well, very well; I will read it to you," said he, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket. "Here is a seat for you."
It was a rock mostly covered by soft green moss; and when she had seated herself, he threw himself down on the bracken by her side, leaning his head against her knee. And this is what the old dame out there in Canada had sent them as her humble wedding-gift—perhaps, as to the form of it, with some recollection of the song of the Princess Deirdri influencing her unequal lines:—
_I am far from the land of my fathers._ _I sit and mourn because of the great distance._ _My old age brings me no comfort,_ _Since I am far from my own land._
_My eyes strain across the wide ocean._ _I see the lofty hills, and the peaks, and the glens;_ _I see the corries where the wide-antlered deer wander._ _Joyful to me was my youth there._
_I see the woods, deep-sheltered;_ _I see the rivers flowing by the rocks;_ _I see the sandy bays, and the headlands;_ _I see the sun [setting] behind Eilean Heimra._
_Ru-Minard, O Ru-Minard!—_ _The promontory facing the great waves:_ _Often as a girl have I sate and watched the ships,_ _Singing to myself on Ru-Minard._
_Loch-Heimra, O Loch-Heimra!—_ _Pleasant its shores, with the many birches;_ _Sweet were the youthful moments I spent watching_ _For one that I used to meet by Loch-Heimra._