_Mairi Laghach_ has become a great favourite, and has been translated more than once. The author was John Macdonald, latterly of Crobeg, in Lewis. He adopted the chorus of an inferior song which a _Muracha nam Bo_ composed for his own daughter, who did not seem to elicit much admiration from the ungallant bachelors in the neighbourhood. Macdonald took up the air and composed the set of verses that are now so popular. It is worthy of remark that in his case also the subject of his song was a baby, and not a grown-up girl or woman. Steering his barque across the Minch his thoughts reverted to the friendly home he left behind him in Stornoway, and anxious to examine his poetic gifts he composed his song to _Wee Mary_, as it might be rendered, who then could not walk. Eventually she became his wife. Once on a visit to Ireland, the author was surprised to hear, while he himself was still a young man, his own song sung in an adjoining room, which shows how readily a song that catches the popular ear and taste will travel. An endeavour is made to be as literal as possible in the following translation, which must necessarily want much of the aroma of the original:— Early roved my Mary With me through Glen-Smeoil, When young love’s keen arrow Pierced me to the soul. With such living fervour We together drew, That none under heaven Ever loved so true. Oftentimes with Mary To the hill I strayed, Innocent and happy Through the grassy glade: Cupid ever busy Teaching us to love, As we rested fondly In the sun-lit grove. Though the wealth of Albin Were assigned to me, How could I be happy, Dear one, without thee? I would rather kiss thee, As my own true bride, Than possess the treasures Found in Europe wide. Thine the snowy bosom, Filled with love for me, Breast of beauty fairer Than the swan on sea: With the lovely tresses Round thy ears that stray, Golden curly wavelets In their fond array. All the pomp of princes Did our pride surpass, With our bed of grandeur On the leaves and grass: Flowers of the desert Heart and soul to feed; Streamlets from the mountains Nourishing each seed. Nought that men invented— Pipe nor harp—could play Music with the sweetness Of our love-born lay: With the larks above us, Thrushes on the spray, Cuckoos in the greenwood Warbling to the May.