Gàidhlig
Salm 49
Eisdibh-se seo, gach uile shluagh, na bheil sa chruinne-chè; Is cluinnibh eadar mhòr is bheag, mas bochd no beartach e. Air tuigse smaoinichidh mo chrìdh', air gliocas thig mo bheul. Aomaidh mo chluas gu samhlaidhean; nochdam cainnt dhorch air teud. Droch làithean cuim' am b'eagal leam gun cuirinn iad an suim, Mòr aingidheachd is lochd mo shal tràth dh'iadh iad orm gu cruinn? Na daoine sin 'n saoibhreas mòr tha dèanamh dòigh is treis', Is ann an lìonmhorachd an stòir a tha ro-bhòsdail leis. A bhràth'r chan fhuasgail neach dhuibh siud à gàbhadh no à pèin, A thabhairt èirig as do Dhia, chan fhaodar leis na fheum; (Oir saors' an anma 's prìseil e, sguiridh e 'm feasd gu beachd;) Gum maireadh e gu sìorraidh beò, 's nach faiceadh truaillidheachd. Oir chì e fòs na daoine glic, 's an dream air dhìobhail cèill; 'S na h-ùmaidh, fàgail toic do chàch, is faghail bàis iad fhèin. 'S e 'n smaoineachadh gum mair an taigh, 's an còmhnaidh feudh gach rè, A' tabhairt air am fearann ainm, a rèir an ainme fhèin. Gidheadh, an duin' an urram mòr, cha mhair e ann gu buan; Ach amhlaidh mar an t-ainmhidh truagh chum bàis a shiùbhlas uainn. An slighe siud ge gòrach i, tiatnidh an cainnt rin sliochd. Mar chaoraich dol san uaigh tha iad, nam biadh don blàs gun iochd; Na fìreanaich gheibh os an cionn làn-uachdranachd gu moch, 'S nan ionad còmhnaidh anns an uaigh, seargaidh an àill' 's an dreach. Bheir Dia dom anam fuasgladh saor o chumhachd bàis is uaigh', Oir gabhaidh e mi thuige fhèin, gam theasairginn le buaidh. An uair a nìthear saoibhir neach, na glacadh faitcheas thu; 'S an t-àm a chinneas glòir a theach, na cuireadh siud ort tnù. Oir nuair a shiùbhlas e don eug, aon nì cha toir e leis; 'S an uair a thèid e sìos don uaigh, a ghlòir cha lean i ris. Seadh, 'anam ge do bheannaich e am feadh a bha e beò; 'S thusa, ma nì thu math dhut fhèin, o dhaoine gheibh thu glòir. Gu àl a shinnsir siùbhlaidh e, solas chan fhaic gu bràth. An duin' an urram, 's e gun chèill, mar ainmhidh gheibh e bàs.
(Bho Tiomnadh Nuadh, Dùn Eideann (2002))
English
Psalm 49
For the choirmaster. Of the sons of Korah. Psalm.
Hear this, all you nations,
listen, all the world's peoples,
low and high, rich and poor:
My lips have wisdom to speak,
my thoughts grant understanding;
I will listen to a proverb,
and interpret my mystery
to the sound of the harp.
Why should I fear troubled times,
when evil liars surround me,
trusting their wealth
and boasting of opulence?
No one can ever redeem himself
or pay God the cost of release.
The redemption of a life
would be beyond your means
if you lived forever
and never grew old.
Everyone knows that the wise die
like the stupid and senseless,
and leave their wealth to others.
Their tombs will be their dwellings forever,
their homes for countless generations,
even if countries bear their name.
Even the mighty are not immortal
but become like the beasts that die.
This end awaits all who trust in themselves,
and their disciples
who hang on their words.
Like sheep they descend to the grave,
to be a meal for death;
in the morning the just
will rule over them.
All trace of their pomp will be gone,
and the grave will be their home.
But God will ransom my soul;
he will take me up
from the clutch of the grave.
Do not be impressed when people get rich
and live in ever greater pomp;
they take nothing with them when they die,
their splendour does not follow them.
While they lived
they thought they were blessed
(for people praise you
when you prosper),
but they go to join their ancestors
and will never again
see the light.
One who is rich without wisdom
is like the beasts who die.
(From The Psalms, Slough (1994))