Arran of the many stags,

the sea strikes against its shoulder,

isle in which companies are fed,

ridge on which blue spears are reddened.

skittish deer are on her peaks,

delicious berries on her manes,

cool water in her rivers,

mast upon her dun oaks.

Greyhounds are in it and beagles,

blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn,

her dwellings close against the woods,

deer scattered about her oak-woods,

gleaning of purple upon her rocks,

faultless grass upon her slopes

over her fair shapely crags

noise of dappled fawns a-skipping.

Smooth is her level land,

fat are her swine,

bright are her fields,

her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood,

long galleys sailing past her.

Delightful it is when the fair season comes,

trout under the brinks of her rivers,

seagulls answer each other round her white cliff,

delightful at all times is Arran!

—ancient Gaelic, anonymous, from Celtic Nature Prayers Volume 1: Prayers from an Ancient Well, ed. by Kenneth McIntosh



Image: The Milky Way over Arran and the Holy Isle, from the Daily Record