6. 4:34 Jeff MacDonald
Moladh Cul Eilean Na Nollaig

IN PRAISE OF REAR CHRISTMAS ISLAND

By Hugh F. MacKenzie

It is a grievous thing, O Lord, that I am not on the high hill, the place I knew well.
Where I often sat on the earth, contemplating the countryside: not knowing what benevolence compelled the Creator to command it so.
Our back land is, above all, the most splendid deed he chose to perform.


This is the fairest place upon which the sun rises and shines on the mountain slopes.
Its brilliant rays descend to amplify the roses’ hue, placing a blue mantle and rash of daisies on every meadow; watching with loving eye until reaching the west at time of dusk.


The most exquisite birds under heaven chose these hills.
Over all other places in creation they loved the Rear’s greatness. Gathering in the branches, their choruses are musical.
Just as Echo hears them, his reply is precise and meticulous.


There is a persistent, gleeful, choir-like murmur that inspires the soul; the noise of brooks containing the purest water rushing down the mountainsides.
In spumes, they plunge downward over white waterfalls to gather and bid farewell to this land, as I did in my folly.


Cattle, their teeth restless, can be seen grazing on the high grasslands.
Forage for the herds is abundant there, among the hollows and little pastures.
I often listened on a May evening, while barking dogs drove them home; the clear sound of bells striking at every step as they advanced.


Trout can be caught in streams that course noisily through the valley.
They flow from mountain-top lakes and circle at the foot of each knoll.
I often went with a fishing line and worm on a bent hook.
With an alder rod in my hand, I wouldn’t have wished for nobility.


Although the generous Gaels who settled here at times laboured, there was no lack of food and clothing.
Winter might be dreary, but tasks were completed seasonally.
They were admirable farmers and whatever chore was at hand, the sounds of their songs were always heard.


If I was able to regain the times gone by and retrieve my youth’s bearing and vitality, my house would be on a handsome hillside, shaded by branches.
I would keep the fiddle and pipes in tune and raise the choruses of songs.