Bha bodach na mo bhaile
aig an robh beairt,
agus leis a’ bheairt
dhèanadh e clò,
agus chaidh aodach
a dhèanamh den chlò,
agus bhiodh na daoine
a’ cur orra ‘n aodaich -
aodach tiugh trom a chumadh blàth iad.

Ach thàinig fear eile,
fear na b’ òige,
fear nach buineadh don bhaile,
agus bha beairt ùr aige
agus snàth ùr -
dathan air an goid bhon bhogha-froise -
agus aodach tana, lom,
agus àlainn, ann am beachd nan daoine.

Chum am bodach air
leis an t-seann bheairt
ach bha na daoine òg
a’ fanaid air,
agus cheannaich iad uile
nan beairtean ùra,
agus thòisich iad a’ dèanamh
nan clòitean ‘ira,
agus cha robh dragh aca
mu dheidhinn a’ chlò
air beairt a’ bhodaich.

Ach, an dèidh ùine
thàinig an geamhradh
agus cha chumadh an t-aodach lom
le na snàithtean brèagha
agus na dathan soilleir
a-mach am fuachd,
agus cha robh feum
anns na beairtean ùra.

Lorg iad am bodach
agus chunnaic iad a’ bheairt,
agus chunnaic iad an clò,
ach cha b’urrainn dhaibh
a’ bheairt obrachadh,
oir bha i air fàs meirgeach
agus bha am bodach marbh.

There was an old man in my village
who had a loom,
and with his loom
he would make tweed,
and clothes were made
from the tweed,
and the people
would wear the clothes
thick, heayy clothes that would keep them warm.

But another man came,
a younger man,
one who was not a native of the village
and he had a new loom
and new yarn -
colours stolen from the rainbow -
and thin, smooth cloth
which the people found beautiful.

The old man carried on
with the old loom
but the young folk
laughed at him,
and they all bought
the new looms, and
they began to make
the new cloth,
and they did not care
for the tweed
on the old man’s loom.

But, after a while,
winter came
and the smooth cloth
with the lovely threads
and the bright colours
could not keep out the cold,
and the new looms
were useless.

They sought the old man
and they saw his loom,
and they saw the tweed,
and they were unable
to work the loom
because it had rusted
and the old man was dead.