Alan a Bhata

Alan a bhata, the spray-laden north wind
Sighs through the rowan tree dark and alone,
Over the passionate heart of the ocean,
Moaning uncalmed on the reef’s icy stone.
Urged by the tempest, the white-crested billows
Break but to sob and to break once again,
Calling unanswered, unanswered forever,
Lonely and cold in the night and the rain.
Once, in a storm that’s past, Alan a bhata,
Little we cared for the wind and the sea;
Old was their sorrow, and young was our gladness —
Your gold-barred plaid held the storm wind from me.
Now, as the dark clouds of winter are weeping
Over the isle where the white beacon burns,
Fast fall my tears as the rain in the ocean,
Mourning my boatman who never returns.