Tha 'n sluagh air fàs cho iongantach
'S gur cruithneachd leotha bròn,
'S mur tèid thu ann am faochaig dhaibh,
Chan fhaodadh tu bhith beò.

...

Ach bhon as luibh an dìomhanas
A riaraicheas an fheòil,
Tha i leantainn rium cho daingeann
'S a tha 'm barriall ris a' bhròig.

The people have grown so strange
That sorrow is wheat to them.
And if you do not go into a whelk for them
You will not be suffered to live.

But since vanity is a plant
That satisfies the flesh,
It clings to me as firmly
As a shoelace to the shoe.

Màiri Mhòr nan Oran