O I love this place, I do love this place.
I love the pretty hill, where I was raised.

Fhir a shiubhlas do na Narrows,
Thoir mo shoiridh-sa gu m' chàirdean.
'S innis gu bheil mi fo mhulad,
Caoidh na tulaich rinn fhàgail.

He who travels to the Narrows,
Take my greeting to my friends there.
Tell them that I am sad and longing
for the hill I left behind.

Siod an tulach a tha briagha,
Leam bu mhiann gu siorraidh tàmh ann,
Far a bheil na daoine ciatach,
Sìtheil, riannail mar na bràthrean.

That's the pretty hill,
Where I would like to live forever,
Where there are such pleasant people,
Peaceful and quiet like brothers.

Bu bhòidheach chìteadh Loch Bras d'Or,
Air an seòl na luingeas àlainn,
Agus bàtaichean na smùide,
Gearradh shùrdagan 's an t-sàile.

On Lake Bras d'Or could be seen,
lovely ships at sail,
and steam boats,
skipping through the brine.

Chiteadh Taobh-a-Tuath a' Chaolais,
Far a bheil na raointean àrda,
Chìteadh siod 's Gleann Chlann Iomhair,
Far a bheil daoine fialaidh, saoibhir.

The north side of the Narrows could be seen,
Where are the lofty uplands ,
Edwards Glen could be seen there,
Where the people are generous and well off.

'S tràth a thig an samhradh cùirteil,
Chuir nam flùrs gu dlùth 'ad phàircean,
'S do choille fo thrusgan rìomhach,
'S tric a bha mi-fhìn fo sgàile.

Stately summer comes early,
To fill your fields with flowers
and clothe your wooods in beauty.
I often in their shade.

Tha do ghlacan lurach, fiarach,
'S bòidheach, griannach, do chuid pàircean,
Far am fàs an còirce 's eòrna,
Cruinneachd òr-bhuidh' 's am buntàta.

Your winding valleys are lush and grassey,
In your sun filled and lovely fields grow oats,
barely golden wheat, and potatoes.

'S moch a chìteadh sùrd air daoine,
Dol gur saothair air an àite.
Gillean òga 'dol a chliathadh,
'S bodaich liath a' cuir ghràin dhaibh.

Early in the day active people could be seen
Going to work about the place.
Young fellows harrowing,
The old men planting grain seed.

Bhiodh am smeòrach air bhàrr géige,
A' seinn gu h-éibhinn madainn bhlàth-gheal,
Agus banarach na buaile,
Le cuid duanag a' toirt bàrr air.

Robins would sit on branch tips
Singing merrily in the warm light of morning,
And the dairy maid
Surpassing them with her own songs

Nuair a thigeadh àm na buana,
Cha bhiodh tuathanaich air faillin,
Gheibhteadh gruth ann agus uachdar,
Féoil nan uan agus buntàta.

When harvest came,
Farmers weren't slack,
Cottage cheese, cream, lamb and potatoes,
were to be had.

Gheibhteadh an t-àran còirce brìgheil,
Gheibhteadh an t-ìm ann agus càise,
Gheibhteadh sùbh ann agus ubhlan,
'S cha bhiodh caomhnadh air a' bhlàthaich.

Nourishing oatmeal bread, butter, cheese,
berries and apples would gotten and
there was no sparing the buttermilk.