Cold is the wind and the wet,
As we make our beds down in the sands;
Gathering dulce and clabby-doos,
Down on the shores of Sutherland.
High on the hills our sheilings are sheltering
Factors and robber bands.
Shepherds and sheep are asleep as we die
On the shores of Sutherland.
Lying beside the sea,
Awaiting the very first boat to land;
Begging for crabs and herring
Along on the shores of Sutherland.
Once our corn grew high and as tall and as
Straight as a highlandman.
Now we must harvest the seaweed that lies
On the shores of Sutherland.
Blood from our cows and meal,
And nettle broth made with barley bran,
Banned from the beds of mussels by the dog
And their master of Sutherland.
Big are the shellfish they’re guarding for
Fishers who come from some other land.
Cockles are baiting their hooks while we starve
On the shores of Sutherland.
Butter and brose and meal,
Salmon and deer and ptarmigan,
Honey and milk and cheese
Were the food of the children of Sutherland,
Now we are burned from our clachans and banished
Away from our motherland.
Starved at the edge of the sea by the Duke and
The Duchess of Sutherland.
