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This poem is by the late Murdo MacFarlane (Murchadh MacPharlain, Bàrd Mealbhoist, 1901-1982) and I think it was written fairly early in his life. It was included in the collection An Toinneamh Diomhair published by the Stornoway Gazette in 1973.
An English translation is provided below.
The Gaelic text here is reproduced with the permission of The Stornoway Gazette, and is copyright material.
Cha do dh'fhalbh mi deònach,
'S ann a dh'fhalbh mi brònach;
An seann chù bochd is e de'n beachd
E bhith dol chun na mòintich.
Do lean e mi gun iarraidh;
Sud chun a chladaich sìor sinn.
O 's dall tha daoine 's coin air cuin
A dh'fhaodas tigh'nn a' chrioch orr'!
Bha'n gnìomh am' shùilean gràineil,
'S an aghaidh mo ghné 's mo chàile;
An seann chù bochd, anns nach robh lochd,
'S mise dol g'a bàthadh.
Nuair a lorg mi dòirneag,
'S nuair a shnaim mi ròp oirr'
Bha sùilean sèimh an t-seann choin bhochd
"Carson tha so?" ri feòrach.
Is math g'eil foluicht' bhuainne
'S gun cheileadh uatsa 's uamsa
An t-àm ri teachd, a sheann chòin bhochd,
No bhiodh ar beatha truagh dheth.
Tha 'm bàs an gné gach beò,
's tha 'd
'Gam breìth le dul mu'n sgòrnan,
Is luath no mall, a sheann choin bhochd,
An dul ud, druidear oirnne.
Ged's fiosraich mis' an dràsda
Air cho dlùth 's tha 'm bàs dhuit,
Tha cheart cho dall mi, sheann choin bhochd,
Air m' àm 's tha thus' an tràth so.
Ach chan eil thus air d'bhuaireadh
Mar tha mis' le smuaintean
Mun am ri teachd, a sheann choin bhochd,
'S cha cheisd taobh thall a h-uaigh dhuit.
No cuid tha 'n t-olc cho làidir,
'S gun saltradh math bho shàil e;
'S carson bhiodh fuath ri toirt na buaidh,
'S ri cur na ruaig air gràdh tric.
Ar bith 's ar beath' gu dearbh tha
Mar gheàrr-réis reult an earbuill
A sgeitheas tiota dubh na h-oidhch',
'N sin shluigeas i gun lorg oirr'.
Mar so bidh tric mi meòrach,
ma 's glic dhomh so na gòrach,
Saoil thus an saor-thoil a bheil feum
Ma tha gach ceum roimh-òrduicht?
No a bheil ann an làmhaibh
Mhic-an-duine air fhàgail
Seadh, falmadair a bheatha féin
Gu stiùireadh far an àill leis?
'N sin sguir mi ris a chòmhradh,
'S chuir an làimh a spòg e ...
Mar gum biodh an seann-chù bochd
A leigeil slàn ri m' bheò leam.
Nuair dhruid mi sìos mu chluasaibh
An dul, 's a theannaich cruaidh e,
Bu chianail sgal an t-seann choin bhochd,
'S 'ga fhreagairt gach creag ghruamach.
'N sin thuirt mi ris gu bàigheil,
"A chaoidh cha bhàth am bàrd thu;
An iochd a phlanndraich Dia am uchd,
Cha dèan cuain a bhàthadh."
'N sin dh'fhàg mi chlach 's an ròp
oirr',
'S na tuinn gun iochd shìos foidhpe.
'S e beachd an t-seann choin bhochd a nochd
Gur nighean truais tha 'n tròcair.
Yesterday my father told me "Go and drown the old dog. The puppy has grown up now, and one of them is enough."
I didn't go willingly, in fact I went sadly. The poor old dog, and him thinking he was going to the hills.
He followed me without question; there we went down to the shore. Oh ignorant are men and dogs about when their end may come upon them.
I saw the deed as loathsome, quite against my nature and my inclination; the poor old dog, which had no fault, and me going to drown it.
When I searched out a stone, and when I tied a rope to it, the gentle eyes of the poor old dog were asking "what's this for?"
It's good that it has been hidden from us, and that it should be concealed from me and from you, the time to come, poor old dog, else our life would be sad for it.
Death is in the nature of all living things, and they are born with nooses round their necks, and sooner or later, poor old dog, that noose, they will pull it tight on us.
Although I am aware now of how close death is to you, I am just as ignorant, poor old dog, of my time as you are just now.
But you haven't been bothering yourself with thoughts, as I have, about the time to come, poor old dog, and you aren't concerned about what's beyond the grave.
Nor about why evil is so powerful that it treads good under its heel; and why should hate win the victories and inflict defeats on love often.
Our existence and our lives are truly like the short courses of shooting stars that briefly interrupt the black of night, which then swallows them up without trace.
Thus I'm often pensive, whether this be wise of me or silly, I wonder if free will has any basis if every step is pre-ordained?
Or whether it is indeed left in the hands of a son of man to steer the rudder of his own life where he would like?
Then I stopped talking, and he put his paw in my hand as if the poor old dog were bidding me farewell for ever.
When I pulled the noose down around his ears, and tightened it hard, the poor old dog's howl was pitiful, echoing from every gloomy rock.
Then I said to him joyfully "The poet will never drown you, the mercy that God planted in my breast, no sea shall drown it."
Then I left the stone with the rope on it, the pitiless waves down below it. Tonight the poor old dog thinks that compassion is the mother of mercy.