Stories from the Exile
Exiles
Edinburgh, Scotland; Bota, Cameroon; Berwyn, PA, USA; Arden, Scotland
Pàirt 1 – An talamh a tha a ‘caoidh
O mo phàiste, ghiùlain mi thu,
agus tha mo chridhe fo bhròn gad fhaicinn a’ falbh.
Is mise an tìr far a bheil aislingean d’ athar
agus òrain is deòir do mhàthar.
Tionndaidh rium,
ged tha do dhòchas gad thoirt fada bhuam.
Tionndaidh rium,
agus labhraidh mi mo ghràdh riut.
Oir bidh mi air mo thrèigsinn a-nis
nuair a bheir thu leat d’anam bhuam.
Crìonaidh cuimhne san àite seo
agus còmhdaichidh sàmhchair mi.
Cuimhnich orm
nuair a bhios an rathad fada dorcha romhad.
Cuimhnich orm
nuair a thèid do sholas a-mach.
Part 1 – The Land which Grieves
O my child, I bore you
and I grieve to see you go.
I am the land that holds your father’s dreams
and your mother’s songs and tears.
Turn to me
although your hope now leads you far from here.
Turn to me
and I will speak my love.
For I shall be now forsaken
as you take from me your soul.
Memory will fade now from this place
and a silence cover me.
Remember me
when the road is long and dark.
Remember me
at the dying of your light.
Pàirt 2 – Òran air a ‘chladach
Part 1 – Song at the shoreline
You slipped away with the morning tide
into exile on Iona,
a long way from the wars at Cul Dremhne,
over the turning sea
to the shores of your soul.
Wind and fire.
The power before you,
the power behind to slip away.
Colum Cille, what did you see there there?
What were the things you found?
Did you free yourself in the wind and rain
from all the things to which we are all bound?
So I ask you come with me
to show me the way.
To leave it all behind again
and to gently slip away.
Slip away, slip away, slip away.
Slip away, slip away, slip away.
You slipped away in the morning
from exile to Iona.
John, you told me that we are shamed in Africa.
And as I watched you speak to me
I saw God’s justice in your eyes.
But before the best was done, my friend,
you were slipped away.
From the halls of Westminster
to the hills of Argyll,
wasn’t the search you made for Him
there in each and every mile?
And maybe when it’s over
it’ll all become clear
that all the roads that we have travelled
were to bring us back to here:
that we must slip away.
Slip away, slip away, slip away.
Slip away, slip away, slip away.
Pàirt 3 – Ùrnaigh aig a ‘Fhàgail
Chan eil fíos aig duine, a Chaluim Chille.
Chan eil fíos aig dune, Iain á Erraghàidheal,
na tha e ‘cosg a bhith ‘na fhògarach
air sgàth na Rioghachd.
Dèan ùrnuigh air son ant-seachranaich.
Dèan ùrnuigh air mo shonsha
nuair a shiùbhlas mi.
Part 3 – Prayer of the exile
Pàirt 4 – Òran na fògarraich
Pàirt 5 – Turas
Pàirt 6 – Cha toir mo bhròn buaidh orm
Pàirt 7 – till, m ’anam, gu d’ fhìor dhachaighh