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Emigration Amid scenes - it was afterwards recalled - of 'heart-rending grief', the intending emigrants climbed to the summit of Creag Bheag, the little hill that stands just to the west of Kingussie. From there, they could see the whole of Badenoch: this place where they had been born and grown up; this place where their families, in most instance, had lived for generations; this place which none of them would ever so much as visit again. Later that day, the emigrant party began their journey. Their belongings packed into carts, they walked, by way of Newtonmore, Laggan and Spean Bridge, to Fort William. From there they travelled by steamer - still something of a novelty at this point - to Oban where they joined the St George, the full-rigged sailing ship which, on July 4, 1838, and with a total of 326 emigrants on board, left for the far side of the world. More than four months later, on November 15, the St George dropped anchor
off Sydney. Five babies had been born on board since the ship had left
Oban. And ten emigrants had died |
| Gu'm a slàn do na fearaibh Théid thairis a' chuan, Gu talamh a' gheallaidh,
Far nach fairich iad fuachd. Gu'm a slàn do na mnathan Nach cluinnear an gearan, 'S ann théid iad gu smearail, 'G ar leantuinn thar 'chuan. 'Us na nìghneagan bòidheach, A dh'fhalbhas leinn còmhladh, Gheibh daoine ri 'm pòsadh, A chuireas òr 'nan dà chluais. Gheibh sinn aran 'us ìm ann, Gheibh sinn siucar 'us tea ann; 'S cha bhi gainne oirnn-fhìn, 'S an tìr 's am bheil buaidh. 'N uair dh'fhàgas sinn 'n t-àit' so, Cha chuir iad mór-mhàl oirnn; 'S cha bhi an Fhéill Màrtainn 'Cur nàire 'n ar gruaidh. |
A health to the fellows, Who'll cross o'er the sea! To the country of
promise, Where no cold they will feel. A health to the goodwives! We'll hear no complaining; They'll follow us heartily Over the sea. And the beautiful maidens Going with us together, They'll get husbands to marry, Who'll give earrings of gold. We'll get bread and butter, And sugar and tea there: We'll experience no want, In that bountiful land. When we're gone from this country, Our rents will be trifling; And Martinmas will not Bring blush to our cheek. |