Eric Macdonald and Keith Stringer: Taigh Dhe (filmed in Baile na Cille Church)

Leodhas Macleod: Mac an t-Sronaich (with Iain Baba)

Keith Stringer: Smuantain (with Iain Baba and wee Finlay)

Cristin Mackenzie: Blas Cianalais

Elly Welch: Oidhche Samhach

The following has been composed by an Uig bard in honour of the occasion. (English below)

Fàilte oirbh Fhìr Taileasg a Eilean an Fhraoich
‘S gu h-araidh ur taghail, air Talla Sgir’ Uig
Tha naodh fichead bliadhna, bho chuir sibh ri cùl
Bha’n t-àm agaibh tileadh, ach a faicist ur gnùis.

S’e ur mòr aois, agus grabhaladh, a dh’ag agaibh ur cliù
Ged nach eil àileachd, na maise air ur gnùis.
‘S co chuir sibh air falach ‘s a bhealach bhon ùir.
Se diomhaireachd dhuin, a bhi lorg freagairt dha thu.

Tha Caisteil agus Rocais, Rìgh, Ban-rìgh agus Ridhre,
Tha Easbuig ann le bata crom, ‘s a cruinte le coron air.
‘S tha fear ann le drèin air, is sgiath aige dha caganadh
Cha bhuin a dh’an an treubh ac, se an t-ainm aige ‘Berserker’.

Ach ged a tha sibh gruamach, ni sinn a roibh ‘s toilachais,
Or gu faic sinn aon uair, ri ar rè, air an talamh sibh
Smeit gu’n till ‘Reull Halley’ ais doimhneachd na fearsuinneachd
Ma’s till sibh dh’an a sgìre far na lorg iad bho’n toiseach sibh.

Air an treas-latha deug, dh’an naoidhibh mios,
Bi na fir seo cruinn ‘s an talla seo
Is thigibh ann, is faicaibh sibh,
Fìr Taileasg Baile Chapadal.

-le Domhnull MacDonigle, 2011

♦

Welcome Chessmen to the Isle of Heather
Especially your visit to Uig Hall
There is one hundred and eighty years since you left
Time was that you returned, so that we would see your faces.

It’s your great age and carving that made you famous
Though there is no beauty or comeliness in your faces.
Who was it that hid you in the earth of the Bealach?
It’s a mystery and it’s idle to look for an answer to it.

There are castles and rooks, king, queen and knight
A bishop with a crooked stick, crowned with a mitre,
A fellow who is scowling and chewing his shield
He does not belong to their tribe – his name is Berserker.

Although you are glum, we will be delighted to see you
Because we saw you once during our life on earth
For maybe Halley’s Comet may return from the depth of Space
Before you come back to where you were found at first.

So on the thirteenth day of the ninth month
These pieces will be assembled in this Hall
Come there, and you will see
The Chessmen from the village of Capadal.

-Donald MacDonigle, 2011

This song was composed after the Great War when they began breaking down the new villages.  Domhnall Donn (Donald Maciver, b. 1862) of Kneep was, like many in Uig, a very strong supporter of Leverhulme,  and believed that he was doing right for the Island bringing employment. A lot of Uig people were employed around Stornoway.

Chuala sinn gun laigh an eucòir
Ann an lèig air muin nan coir
Thug e an ceartas dubh a leum às
Chuir e an eucoir fon a bhròig
Thug e dhachaigh thugainn ‘Lever’
Dh’fhuadaich e na caoraich mhòr
’S thug e ceartas do na daoine
leis am faod iad a bhith beò.

Tha laghan ùr a gabhail àite
Anns an latha ’sa bheil sinn beò
Tha na glinn an diugh ’gan àiteach
‘S chaill na Tàillich orra an coir
Ach, Alasdair, ma ’s tu tha riaghladh
Na leig dichuimhn’ air a choir
Leig a chlìb ag cur ‘na stiallan
‘S bheireadh sianar aist’ bi-beò.

Bha ‘Lever’ gu math ri dhèanamh
Bha e a’ riaghladh ceart gu leòr
Thug e buannachd as an t-siabann
‘S fhuair na ceudan às bi-beo
Thug e laghan do ar dùthaich
Ris nach robh dùil aig duine beò
Dh’fhuadaich e na slatan-sgiùrsaidh
‘S tha sgìre Uige mar bu choir.

Nach robh ‘Lever’ dhuibh a’ sealltainn
Gu robh ann dhuibh Cridhe blàth
Thug e dhachaigh lagh na Galldachd
Chur e’n gamhlas fo’n an fhàd
‘S eadar Mialastadh ‘s Gabhsan
Theid a planntraigeadh gach àite
‘S chan eil baile bàn a Leòdhas
Nach bi tighinn ann ‘s iad bàn.

O, ‘s iomadh cridh’ thug osna thùrsach
Ag caoidh na flùran a bha ann
Chlunnaist iad a’ seinn ‘s ag ùrnaigh
‘S iad a muigh air cùl nam beann
Chuala sinne bho ar càirdean
‘S iad a’ bruidhinn ‘nuair bha iad ann
mar a bha iad fhèin is Pàdruig
Aig an t-sacramaid ‘s a’ ghleann.

O, ’s iomadh athair, ‘s iomadh mathair
Bha gu làr a silleadh dheòir
An uair a dh’fhuadaicheadh ‘s an àite iad
Anns an deach an àrach òg
Chuala sinne bho ar càirdean
Mus do dh’fhàs sinn gu bhith mòr
Gun laigh mallachdan an àite
Air na dh’fhàsaich Buidha Mhòr.

Ach cha toir ‘Lever’ car dhuinn tuilleadh
Gu dè an nis an ni an t-àl òg
Thug na tràlairean an t-iasg bhuap’
Chan eil rian aca bhith beò
Sgabaidh iad mar eoin na h-iarmailt
Fear an ‘s ear as iar ‘san lòn
‘S a chaoidh cha choinnich iad ri cheile
far na rinn iad èiridh òg.

‘S e ‘Sgìre Uige’ a chiad òran a rinn Peigi ‘s i na nighean òg a’ fuireach ann an Uig. Air Latha na Sabaid as deidh dha Domhnall Donn bàsachadh, chaidh i an àrd os cionn an cnoc air cùl an taigh, agus fhad ‘s a bha i a’ coimhead a-mach air na h-eileanan agus na seallaidhean mu thimcheall oire, thàinig facail an òran thice ‘s a spot. Cha do sgrìobh i an òran sios airson bliadhnaichean as deidh sin, bha na facial glaiste na cinn.. ach thug na càirdean a bha mu timcheall oire an òran a sgrìobhadh sìos mu dheireadh thall.

Peigi Oighrig MacIver (middle) has written many songs over the years. She was born in the village of Kneep in Uig in 1926, and the gift of the bard ran through her family… Her Grand Uncle ‘Domhnall Donn’ wrote many songs and verses in his day, as did her brother Aonghas Coinneach.

Sgìre Uige was the first song Peigi wrote as a young girl living in Uig. On the Sunday after the death of her uncle Domhnall Donn, she went for a walk up the hill at the back of her house, and as she sat there taking in the views around her, the words of the song came to her in an instant. She didn’t write the song down for years after that, she said that the words remained locked in her head for a long time… but her friends and family around her eventually persuaded her to write them down.

Gu seinn mi rann mu dheidhinn an tìr
‘S an d’ fhuair mi fhèin ann m’ àrach
Gur e an àite sin Sgìre Ùige
‘S cò leis nach b’ mhionn bhi tàmh ann.

Nuair thèid mi an àrd a bhàrr a’ chnuic
Mar as tric air feasgair Sàbaid
Chì mi Riof is Bhaltos Uige
‘S a Chnìp far an d’ fhuair mi m’ àrach.

Chì mi Siarram dhomh nas fhaisg’
Bhuidheadh Mhòr ‘s gach àite
Bhacasaidh is Gob a Stuing
Is Tràigh na Beirghe lamh rium.

Chì mi faisg’ dhomh Pabaigh Mhòr
‘S i cumail taobh ri Màis-Sgeir
Sgeir Bhinneig bheag aig Gob an Tobha
‘S an fharaige beucadh àrd orr’.

‘S an ‘Gallan Uige’ muigh a tuath
‘S cha dean mi an ‘Steàrna Bheinn’ fhàgail
Na Beàrnaraidh is Caolas Uig
Far ann tric le lion is bàta iad.

Chì mi tuinn a bhòtha muigh
‘S i tighinn a steach gu sàmhach
Is air an tràigh gu toir i fuam
‘S gu sgaoil i suas le mànran.

Cò an neach leis nach bu bhinne a fuam
An tuinn ri bualladh tràigh-ad
Air tràigh a Chnìp gu toir i fuam
‘S gal cruaidh air Mol na h-Arda.

Tràigh Bhaltos agus Tràigh na Cliobh
Se shìos is suas gun tàmh orr’
Tràigh Mhangurstaidh is an Tràigh Mhòr
Le an tonnan fuar-gheall bànna

Chì thu sealladh ‘s àilidh gnùis
An Ùig nam beanntan àrda
Suaineabhal le creagan cruaidh
Is Mheallaiseal air fàire.

O ‘s iomadh neach a thug ann cuairt
‘S a mhol le uaill an àite
‘S a coimhneas blàth tha chridhe an t-sluagh
An “Eilean Uain’ na Gàidhlig”.

Do lorg ‘s do bhata treun
Tha iad a tabhairt comhfurtachd

Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Psalm XXIII, v4

Do Lorg ‘s Do Bhata Treun was written by Murdo Macdonald of Crola during his stay in Lewis Hospital, while awaiting his operation for goitre. The operation was unsuccessful and he died at the age of 30 in August 1939. Murdo was a remarkable auto-didact and had, shortly before his illness, decided to train for the ministry – but Providence had ordained otherwise. More on Murdo Crola coming soon.

Tha ‘n lorg ‘s am bata treubhach seo
Chomh eufachdach ‘s chomh ullaichte
Thug fialaidheachd ar De dhuinn e
‘Se freagairt neimh d’ ar cunnartan
Rinn Iosa d’ a chrann ceusaidh e
Le eiginn is le fhulaingeas
‘S bhar craobh na beatha a’ gheug ud dhuinn
Mar bhata treun gu’n d’ ullaich E.

‘Se gras ar De am bata treun
A thug E fhein mar dhileab dhuinn
Cha chaill e fheum ‘n uair bhios do cheum
A geilleadh ‘s neart a’ diobradh dhuit
Bheir e oige do ‘n aois
Is soarsa do na priosanaich
Bheir e treoireachadh do dhoill
Gu Tir na Soillse is chi iad ann.

‘Se seo am bata thug a’ bhuaidh
Do sluagh a bh’ air an sarachadh
‘Sann leis a sgoilteadh am Muir Ruadh
‘S a fhuair iad tarsainn sabhailte
An Airc a’ choimhcheangail sa’ chuirt
Bha ‘n tuisear ‘s a’ phoit mhana ann
‘S an t-slat a bhann le toradh ur
Be ‘n lorgsa cruint le blathan dhuit.

An lorg am bata treun tha seo
Cha gheill e nuair a dhearbhar e
‘Se claidheamh spioraid Dhe a th’ann
Chuir faobhar geur neo-chearbach air
Is ged a bhiodh do namh mud’ chuairt
Le bhuairidhean mar armailtean
Gum bris thu trompa chun na buaidh
Is gheibh thu duais na dh’earbas as.

O! faigh am bata seo nad laimh
‘S ged bhiodh do greum air gailneachadh
Ma bhios e agad mar do choir
Lan-fhoghnaidh e gu d’ shabhaladh
Gheibh thu leis troimh dhorus neimh
‘S chan fheum thu dad a phaigheadh ann
Is geibh thu leis gu cathair Dhe
Sruth Iordain fhein cha bhath e thu.

O! faigh am bata seo nad laimh
Is cum do ghreum an gabhadh air
Ged a bhiodh do thuras sgith
Gu’n ruig thu Tir Immanuel
Ni e a chuis air muir ‘s air tir
Is diridh tu gu Paras leis
Ni e ‘n garbh ‘na chomhnard min
‘S cha diobair thu ‘n Gleann Baca leis.

Am bata treun ‘se gealladh Dhe
Bho chathair fein ‘ga charadh riut
Ma dh’earb thu d’anam ris is d’fheum
Nach treug E thu ‘s nach fhag E thu
Bidh sud mar ghuth bho thir tha cein
‘S mar sholas grein ‘sna sgailean dhuit
Tha sud a fosgladh dorus neimh
Dhuit fein ‘s dhomh fein ged ‘s taireil sinn.

Is tric a shaoil an criosdaidh og
‘Nuair fhuair e pog a’ choinneachaidh
Gum biodh iarmailtean gun sgoth
Gun tigeadh gloir a’ chruinneachaidh
Ach thainig dorchadas is ceo
As-creideamh ‘s moran teagamhan
Ach leis an lorg seo mar a choir
A dh’ aindheoin neoil chan eagal dha.

‘Nuair bhios an criosdadh bochd an sas
San lathaich ‘se na shineadh innt’
‘S a thoil ag iarraidh dol an aird
Ach sas a’ pheacaidh fillte uime
Chan e neart a choguis leoint’
Na deoir bheir fuasgladh inntinn dha
Ach lorg ‘Bhuachaill air a thoir
A’ tairsge trocair chinnteach dha.

Na stad a’ caoidh an t-àm a bha
‘S an t-àm a tha chomh freagarrach
Tha ‘n lorg seo fhathast ri do lamh
Is tar e fhad ‘s is urrainn thu
Tha e do gach neach le ‘n aill
Is phaigheadh leis ann an urras e
A’ dol an coinneamh beath is bas
Chaneil nas fhearr mar ullachadh.

Tha aig an lorg seo feartan ur
Tha cumhachd triur na Trianaid leis
Gu’n tig an truaghan leis o’n uir
Gu’m faigh e crun nach criochnaidh leis
Is ged a rannsachadh tu chliu
Cha tuig thu tus a’ dhiamhaireachd
Ach gabh e – ‘s seinnidh tu a chliu
A stigh an cuirt na siorruidheachd.

‘Nuair theid do ghrian san iar san am
Bhios feasgar gann gu dunadh ort
San t-solas fhann nach leur dhuit ceann
Na slighe thall san dùbhlachd ud
‘S tu a sa ghleann ‘s na dubhair teann
Is bann do bheatha sgeoileadh ann
‘Nuair bhios tu fann, thig neart ‘na dheann
Leig cudthrom trom do shaoraidh air.

Murdo Macdonald, 1939

Hì ho ro tha mi duilich, tha m’ aigne fo ghruaim
Bho ràinig mi Canada fhrasach an fhuachd
Gun chaill mi an riobhadh a bha na mo ghruaidh
‘S an-diugh tha mo shnuadh air caochladh.

Tha cuimhne agam fhathast nuair bha mi glè òg
Dol suas an Stiodha dhan eaglais mhòir
Measg òigridh bha tapaidh is snasail nan dòigh
‘S an-diugh tha gu leòr fon ùir dhiubh.

Tha cuimhne agam fhathast nuair bha mi leam fhìn
A-muigh as a’ mhonadh ri toirt na sgrìob
A shealltainn air mo leannan bha muigh leis an nì
Agus dùil agam fhìn a pòsadh.

Nuair thig an t-earrach ‘s e àm dhol dhan tràigh,
Bidh iomadach bodach le chorran an sàs
Bidh iomadach bodach le chorran sna càirn
Is ìghneagan bàn an t-sùgraidh.

Nuair thig an samhradh àm dhol le sprèidh
A-mach dhan a’ mhonadh fo sgàil nam beann mòr
Bidh iomadach gruagach le buarach na dòrn
Eadar Codainn na mòr bheann ‘s Druim Thùsbaig.

‘S iomadh langa agus bradan a thàinig dhar n-àite
A-steach bhon a’ Ghallan ‘s bho Strathan na Steàrr
Cha robh duine as a’ bhaile nach fhaigheadh dhiubh pàirt
B’ e fasan ar n-àite bho thùs e.

Ged thillinn sa dhachaigh a Bhaltos mo ghràidh
Chan fhaic mi na bodaich bh’ ann na mo là
Aonghas Ruadh, Gille Moire, An Learach ‘s Iain Bàn
An Gobha ‘s an Tàillear Crùbach.

Bha bean Alasdair na Riobhach ‘na boireannach diadhaibha bha cumail smachd theann air na searbhantan. Glè thric, anns a’ mhadainn an dèidh na leabhraichean bhiodh cùirt ann nam biodh amharus aice gu robh cuideigin air lochd a dheanamh.

‘Nuair a bha iad an Capadail, bha gille air an tac a bha dona gu droch cainnt, agus a feasgar so fhuair e sanais gu robh i dol a’ sheasamh aige larna-mhàireach as dèidh na leabhraichean.

“Ach,” arsa càch ris, “ma chanas tu rithe gur ann aig Alasdair fhèin a tha thus cluinntinn nan guidheachanm, chan eagal dhuit.”

Sin mar a thachair. Anns a’ mhadainn sheas i aige agus an dèidh earalachadh thubhairt i ris nach robh i tuigsinn idir caite a robh e a’ cluinntinn a leithid a dhroch cainnt.

“Chuala”, arsa esan, “aig fear a bhaile!”

Bha fear a bhaile air a chasan, ‘s a mach leis as dèidh a bhalach, le streath mhallachdan dè dheanadh e air na ‘m beireadh e air.

Mrs MacRae at Capadal was a very religious woman. The young lad on the farm was terrible for swearing, so she took him to task one day. On being asked where he had heard the swearwords, he replied, from Mr MacRae — who then took after the lad swearing as to what he would do to him.

Bhiodh bodaich Islibhig uaireigin a tighinn glè thric gu Triagh Lèire an Carnais a dh’iarraidh lugaichean. Là bha so, ‘nuair a ràinig iad, bha e gun tràghadh agus shuidh air an Iargainn a’ ghabhail “smoke” ach cha robh maidse aig duine agus chuir iad balach misionaraidh a bha còmhla riutha gu tigh Chapadail a dh’iarraid maidseachan. Chaidh a thoirt a steach agus dh’innis e thuras. Bha banntrach Alasdair na Riobhadh beò na sean aois agus chan fhuilingeadh i farainm a chluintinn air duine. “Who’s with you on the sands, dear,” she asked. “Butcher, Poacher and Todd, Siorraidh, Croot and Fox,” answered the lad.

The Islivig menfolk were often going to Leire Beach in Carnish to get lugworms. On this occasion they were too early and the tide was still in so they decided to have a smoke. They had no matches so they sent a lad to Capadal Farm House [as the villages had no other inhabitants at that time] for matches. The old lady hated nicknames being used. She asked the lad who was with him at the sands, to which he replied: “Butcher, Poacher, and Todd, Siorradh, Croot and Fox.”

From the People’s Journal, 27 September 1958.

It’s a while now since Dr Donald Macdonald [Dolly Doctor] of Gisla in Lewis practised at his profession. But the jovial, big-hearted doctor is still a cure and a tonic for many folk not only in his native island, but in many other circles.

Take the old folk in Stornoway. He has taken them under his wing, brightens up their eventide with his cracks and joviality, and they, in turn, just dote on him.

The doctor has such a deep-rooted interest in them that he often makes a special journey from his old family homestead in Gisla, 35 miles away, to help entertain at the weekly ceilidhs arranged for them.

And he has the enthusiastic backing and support of his charming wife.

but there are times when the stalwart doctor, whose ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ disposition makes him an immensely popular personality with young and old, gets angrier and angrier. It’s when you mention the Gaelic. Then he throws out his massive chest and snorts like a grampus.  For the Gaelic to him is soemthing dear, a priceless gem to be cherished and preserved. And it makes him furious to think of the way the old language is being neglected.

“You haven’t go the Gaelic?” he asked our reporter. “And you from Inverness. Inverness is going all o pot. The capital of the Highlands and no Gaelic!”

It was the doctor who, some time ago, suggested that, in order to give it a real uplift, the young Prince Charles should be taught the language.

“But what’s happened to my proposal?” and his deep voiced boomed again in anger. “It’s been pigeonholed for good. And now,” he sighed, “the Welsh have got him, ” alluding to the Prince’s new title.

The Gaelic,” he went on, “what can we common folk do about it? Parents, even in Lewis, aren’t interested in keeping it alive. They don’t see what good it will do their children in earning their livelihood.”

“What’s the use of john Bannerman and me getting up in our Highland dress on a platform and talking about it? It’s only the converted who are there to hear us. I don’t know where its decline is going to end, probably by taking a plunge of the Butt of Lewis out into the Atlantic.”

But, whatever the fate of the old language, there’s one thing sure. So long as he can raise his voice, the doctor will champion its cause and strive to keep it alive.

The National Mod is a ‘must’ for him. He’ll be there in Glasgow next week, in full Highland array, keeping time with head and hands to the lovely lilts of Gaelic melody and music. He’s being going to the Mod off and on since 1910 and he’s loved every minute of it.

The Island of Lewis offers a remarkably wide field of investigation to ethnologists in view of the marked diversity of types. Dr Beddoe, whose authority will be acknowledged, suggested that one of these types, “a short, thick-set, snub-nosed, dark-haired and even dark-eyed race” was probably aboriginal and probably Finnish. Have we here the descendents of the so-called Pigmies? The Laplanders or true Finns have certainly some physical affinities with the short and dark type of Lewisman (a type which is but sparsely represented on the island); while the gammar or huts of the Lapps, as described by travellers, bear a resemblance to the Luchruban [as the island is also known] structure, as it must have been originally designed. Customs lingered in Lewis as recently as the 18th century, or even the 19th century, which have elsewhere been regarded as peculiar to Lapland. And Professor Sven Nilssen (The Primitive Inhabitants of Scandinavia) shows convincingly I think that the pigmies of tradition and dwarfs of the Sagas belonged to the same race as the Laplanders of the present day. Moreover the well-authenticated traditions in Shetland about Finn-men apparently offer corroboration of the view that the “little men” of this island were of Finnish or Lapponic origin. The Firbolg, the short dark men of Irish tradition who were driven from Ireland to the Hebrides by the Tuatha de Danaan, represent, not improbably, the same race.¹ Dun Fhirbolg in St Kilda may be of some ethnological value.

It is a noteworthy fact that while Highland folklore is full of the Famhairean (the Irish Fomorians) or giants, there is an absence of complimentary Luchrubain or dwarfs. How is this to be accounted for? May it not be that they are represented by our old friends the fairies, who, by the way are sometimes called the Daoine Beaga, the ancient name of the Pigmies Isle?  It is impossible to elaborate this suggestion here, but I may mention one fact concerming the Lewis fairies. One of their names is Muinntir Fhionnlagh, translated as the Finlay people, a title which as applied to fairies baffles Lewis folklorists. I venture to suggest that this name means “the little Finn people” and that it unites the Finnish aborigines with the “good little people” of fairy lore who dwell in the bowels of green hills, like Luchruban, and practice uncanny arts like the Lapland wizards.

Note: 1. It may be observed that in Foley’s Dictionary one of the Irish names for pigmie is Leappacán. [hence Luchrubàn and Leprechaun]

A more recent examination of Eilean nan Luchrubain (with pictures) was carried out by the STAC project, 2003-5.

Just now I am up in a cold land
And a message has arrived for us to go to sea,
That the ships are now assembled and when night comes
We have to move off with them.

-Murdanie Macritchie

This song was written by Petty Officer Murdanie Macritchie, Brenish, whilst serving during the Second War on HMS Cape Palliser escorting merchant ships on a Russian convoy, PQ-15, from Iceland to Murmansk.  PQ-15 (not PQ-16, as previously thought) sailed from Iceland on 26 April 1942, reaching Kola Inlet on 5 May, after several air and U-boat attacks.  In the convoy were 25 merchant ships that had arrived from various seaports in the UK, plus naval escort ships. An account from English sailor Geoff Hall aboard the Commodore ship, SS Ocean Voice on convoy PQ-16, later in May, gives detail of the run from the Clyde to Loch Ewe to Iceland and then Murmansk, and of being bombed.

To be as far away as possible from the enemy’s airfields in Norway, convoys from Iceland to Russia were routed close to the ice-edge, passing Jan Mayen Island, Bear Island and Novaya Zemlya then heading for the Kola Inlet and the port of Murmansk.  Arctic convoys came under attack from aircraft, U-boats, large surface ships and light surface ships.

For the return journey, HMS Cape Palliser joined convoy QP-12 as an escort, arriving back in Iceland on 29 May.  En route, one day near Bear Island, convoy PQ-16 and homeward bound convoy QP-12 were incessantly attacked by 108 waves of German aircraft.  Seven vessels were lost including SS Lowther Castle, SS Empire Purcell and SS Empire Lawrence.  SS Empire Purcell, on her maiden voyage, was loaded with ammunition and blew up when hit by two bombs.  The Ocean Voice was also badly damaged.

Murdanie Macritchie survived the war and was ordained a minister in the Church of Scotland.  A translation follows the Gaelic song.

An till mi gu bràth gu Eilean mo Ghràidh
‘S don a’ bhaile a rinn mi fhàgail
Faic mi tuilleadh le mo shùilean beanntan sgire Uig
No Mealisbhal ag èirigh an àrda?

An cuir mi gu bràth mo ghuaillean ri bàt
Ga cur sios gu sàl air Mol Innis?
An cuir me tuilleadh na clèibh aig a’ Sgeir Lèith
Faic mise tuilleadh Mol Bhrèinis?

An dìrich mi tuilleadh an àrd dhan a’ bheinn
A thrusadh na caoraich a-nuas?
Am faic mi iad tuilleadh cruinn anns an fhaing
An cluinn mi tuilleadh mèilich nan uan?

Am faic me tuilleadh na mnathan a’ deaschadh biadh
‘S ghrian os mo chionn a’ deàrrsadh?
Faic me tuilleadh chlann nighean a chleachd a bhith ann
An cluinn mise tuilleadh an gàire?

An suidh mi tuilleadh mar a b’ àbhaist Latha na Sàbaid
A dh’ èisdeachd na fìrinn ga leughadh?
An cluinn me tuilleadh an t-seinn a bha leamsa cho binn?
Suidh mi tuilleadh ‘s taigh choinneamh am Breinis?

Faic mi tuilleadh mo mhàthair ‘s m’ athair a dh’ fhàg mi
Nach robh idir doigheil nuar a dh’ fhalbh mi?
Faic mi iad tuilleadh a-muigh anns an iodhlann
‘S leantainn a dh’ obair gu anmoch?

An-dràsta tha mi shuas anns an talamh fuar
‘S fios air tighinn oirnn dhol gu fàirge
Gu robh na luingean nis cruinn ‘s nuair a thigeadh an oidhche
Gu feumadh sinn gluasad gu falbh leo’.

Chaidh an sgiobair bho rùm a shuidheachadh cùrs,
Thubhairt e rium gu b’ ann Murmansk a bha dùil ruinn,
Dh’ fhaighnich mi dha càit idir robh an t-àit’
No’m bitheadh fada gus a ruigeadh sinn thall ann.

Nuair a thàinig an uair chaidh na luingean air ghluas’d
Tè an dèidh tè ann an ordugh
B’ e geamhradh a bh’ ann ‘s cha robh ann ach an oidhche
‘S bha cabhadh a-nuas oirnn a’ dortadh.

Nuair a ràinig sinn thall cha robh uiread againn ann,
Rinn an nàmhaid gu làidir ar bualadh
Na luingean bha gan giùlan nis mar ciste bha gan dùnadh
‘S iadnan laighe air ùrlar na fairge.

Ach ‘s e m’ ùrnaidh ‘s mo mhiann gum bitheadh mo bheatha air a dion
‘S gun dèanainn seirbhis don Righ a tha shuas,
‘S gun deidhinn am measg dhaoine chum an Soisgeul a sgaoileadh
‘S gun innsinn mu Shlanaighear an t-sluaigh.

An till mi gu bràth gu Eilean mo Ghràidh
‘S don a’ bhaile a rinn mi fhàgail?
Faic me tuilleach le mo shùilean beanntan sgire Uig
No Mealisbhal ag èirigh an àrda?

_____________________________________________________________

Will I ever return to the Island that I love
And to my village that I left?
Will my eyes ever again see the mountains of Uig
Or Mealisbhal ascending so high?

Will I ever again put my shoulder to a boat
To launch her down into the sea at Molinish?
Will I ever more set the lobster pots at Sgeir Liath
Will I ever again see Mol Brenish?

Will I ever again climb up into themountain
To gather the sheep and bring them down?
Will I ever again see them rounded-up in the fank,
Will I ever again hear the bleating of the lambs?

Will I ever again see the women preparing food
And the sun shining above me?
Will I ever again see the girls who used to be there,
Will I ever again hear their laughter?

Will I ever again sit as I used to on the Sabbath
Listening to the Truth being read?
Will I ever again hear the singing that was to me so melodious?
Will I ever again sit in the Brenish meeting house?

Will I ever again see my mother and father than I left
Who were not at all pleased when I departed?
Will I ever again see them out in the corn-yard
Continuing with their work until dusk?

Just now I am up in a cold land
And a message has arrived for us to go to sea,
That the ships are now assembled and when night comes
We have to move off with them.

The Skipper went from his room to set the course,
He told me that we were expected in Murmansk,
I asked him where indeed this place was
And would it be long until we arrived over there.

When the time came the ships started moving
In order, one after the other.
It was winter-time and there was only night
And the wind driven snow was gushing down on top of us.

When we reached the other side there were not so many of us,
The enemy had struck us very hard,
The ships that bore it are now like coffins being closed
And they are lying at the bottom of the ocean.

But it is my prayer and desire that my life be protected
And that I will do service for the King on high,
And that I would go amongst the people to spread the Gospel
And tell of the Saviour of the multitude.

Will I ever return to the Island that I love
And to the village that I left?
Will my eyes ever again see the mountains of Uig
Or Mealisbhal ascending so high?