"Honour over every ben
has Ben Dorain;
of all I have seen beneath the sun,
I adore her:
long, unbroken moor,
storehouse of deer.
Upland that is clearly
worth talking of
coppices of boughs,
woodland where grass grows,
elegant are those
whose abode it is.
The hind with the taper-
head sniffing so keenly,
with sensitive sharp nostril
exploring the wind:
short-tailed and long-shanked
on mountainous summit
she stays in her fastness
lest gun-fire deceive her;
although when she hurries
she utters no wheezes.
The hind’s in the forest
as she ought to be,
where she grazes on sweet grass,
clean, fine-bladed,
heath-rush and deer-grass,
herbs full of substance
to put fat and tallow
upon her loins.
The hind is in this little glen,
and no unskilled fool
could stalk her if he did not know of
making contact with her quietly;
guarding against her warily,
drawing near before she stirs,
cautiously, most toilsomely,
lest she should sense him.
Honour over every ben
has Ben Dorain;
of all I have seen beneath the sun,
I adore her:
long, unbroken moor,
storehouse of deer.
Upland that is clearly
worth talking of
coppices of boughs,
woodland where grass grows,
elegant are those