Allan Donn
‘Ailein Duinn ò hì shiubhlainn leat’
My Allan Donn, where do you lie
in foam white as an alb?
Your pillow now a mermaid’s purse,
your bed of kale and gorse
unseen beneath the sea,
Oh, Allan, who can comfort me?
The seals kept faith with every soul
that fell from Hurkar rocks;
their mothers watched them from the doors
but no one made the shore,
and all of us were torn,
Oh, Allan, may we be reborn?
So talk with them, my Allan dear,
as we would in the dawn,
our little boat with anchored dreams
of other ways and times
warm by the harbour side,
Oh, Allan, have we lost the tide?
Then pity us, sea kings and queens,
the orphans of your race;
whose fathers wash ashore like shells,
and all the stories tell
of hearts lost in the sound,
Oh, Allan, sorrow’s in our hands,
My Allan, when will we be found?