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An Ciuran Ceoban Ceo	The Smirry Drizzle Of Mist
Dol sios an cladach madainn dhomh, 's an t-adhar arm gun deò, bha sith feadh fuinn is mara arm, is taise bho na neòil. Cha chluinnte feadh a' chifùinis ach farm chifùcharan aig eòin. Bha gach nichein tosdach, driùchdach anns a' chiùran cheòban cheò. Cha robh àird no iùl arm a stifiùreadh neach 'na ròd. Cha robh àit no ùin' ann, ach aon chiùneas domhain, mòr. Bha 'n saoghal Iàn de'n mhaoithe, fo dhraoidheachd is fo chlèoc, is bann-sithe air mo shùilean arms a' chiùran cheòban cheò. Cha n-fhaicte form no fàire. Bha sàmhchar air gach ni. Bha beithich agus dùsluingean 'nan smùid gun dath, gun lìth. Bha cnuic is glacan paisgte arm, is chailleadh muir is tìr. Bha fois is clos is dùisal arms a' chùiran cheòbain mhìn. Chaidh sliosan agus leathadan à sealladh arms na neòil. Cha robh dath no fuaim arm, no uair, no solus lò. Bha 'n sileadh mall, rèidh, socrach air cnoc, air glaic, air lòn, is bha 'm Paiste Beag fo dheataich anns a' cheathach cheòban cheò. Bha na ciothan ceathaich chùiranaich, 's iad dùmhail, dlùth, gun ghlòir, gu cagarsach, gu cùbhraidh, tais, ùr, gun ghuth, gun cheòl, a' snàmh mu mhill is stùcan, 's a' cùnadh mu gach còs. Bha tlàths is tlachd a' tùirling anns a' chùiran cheòban cheò.	Going down the shore on a morning, when the air was without a breath of wind, there was peace throughout land and sea, and a saftness from the clouds. Nothing was to be heard through the stillness but a faint chirming of birds. Everything was silent and dewy in the smirry drizzle of mist. There was no airt or direction to guide one on one's way. There was no place or time there, but one great, deep stillness. The world was full of tenderness, under druidry and under a cloak, and there was a fairy blindfolding on my eyes in the smirry drizzle of mist. Land or horizon could not be seen. Quietness was over everything. A smoke was rising from colourless, hueless birch groves and thickets. Hills and hollows were enfolded in it, and land and sea were lost. There was peace and rest and slumber in the fine drizzle of mist. Hillside and slopes were lost to sight in the clouds. There was no colour or sound there, or hour, or light of day. The slow, caressing rain was on hill and hollow and meadow, and the Wee Patch was in a smoke in the foggy drizzle of mist. The showers of drizzly mist came closely down, all voiceless; whispering and fragrant, soft and fresh, without voice or melody, they floated about hilltops and cliffs and closed in about every hollow. Gentleness and pleasure were drifting down in the smirry drizzle of mist.
Deòrsa Mac Iain Deòrsa	George Campbell Hay

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