The Highland Lute

“The Highland Lute,” also known as “Lahuta e Malcis,” is a timeless masterpiece penned by the Albanian friar and poet Gjergj Fishta.

This epic poem, published in 1937, weaves a poetic tapestry of Albanian history, culture, and the unyielding spirit of its people. Within its verses, the heroic struggle against the Ottoman Empire comes alive, celebrating the Albanian identity and the enduring quest for freedom. This epic is not just a poem; it’s a living testament to the indomitable Albanian spirit and a lyrical treasure that continues to captivate hearts and minds.

1937  |  Gjergj Fishta:
Lahuta e Malcís / The Highland Lute
Kanga / Canto 5. 391-465

Por, s’ din Shkjau me mbajtë miqsí!

But the shkjas don’t value friendship!

Aman, Zot, kur duel Serdari,

Lo, when the Commander got there,

Se ç’ kje ndezë Vranina zhari!

All Vranina was a bonfire.

Aman, Zot, kur mrrîni Pera,

Lo, when Pera reached the battle,

395     

Se shum krisi atbotë potera!

There was such a din and uproar.

Por kur rán Shkjét e Vraninës

Albanians from the rear were fired on

Shum u krisi plumja shpinës!

When Vranina’s shkjas came fighting.

Porsi shé, qi m’ nji natë gjâmet

As a torrent in a night storm

Rritet turr e del prej âmet

Overflows its banks and rises,

400     

Tuj ushtue – e tue shkumue,

When it foams and when it rages,

Shkaperderdhet nper zallina,

Flooding over beds of gravel,

Ashtû u derdh Shkjau te Vranina,

So the shkjas poured through Vranina,

N’ valë Shqyptarët krejt tue i pershî.

In a wave submerged Albanians.

S’ lufton ndryshe e rrebtë kulshetra

Thus does fight the fierce kulshedra

405     

E me dhâmbë edhè me kthetra,

With its teeth and claws a-lashing,

Zjarm e surfull tue flakrue,

Spewing fire, fomenting sulphur,

Kur drangojt t’ a kenë rrethue;

When surrounded by the drangues.

Si i qindron sod Shkjaut Shqyptari

Thus the Albanians, shkjas resisting,

Per dhé t’ amel, qi i la i Pari:

For the sweet land of their fathers,

410     

Kâmbë per kâmbë, tuj qitë pá dá,

Shoulders in a phalanx battled,

Tue korrë krena neper Shkjá.

Reaping heads among shkja fighters.

U janë ndezun flakë breshânat,

Spitting flames, fired their breshanas,

U kullojn gjak n’ dorë tagânat,

Blood dripped on their hands from sabres,

E u kullon gjak edhè zêmra,

In their hearts their pulse was pounding,

415     

Veç se vendit s’ u lot thêmra.

Though their heels stood fast, unmoving.

Por ç’ dobí: dielli tue lé

But to what end? Then the sun rose,

– Isht’ tue lé m’ at ditë per Shkjé! –

Rose that day for Slavic triumph,

I rán ndore Shkjaut t’ terbuem

Thirty dead and ten were injured,

Tridhjetë t’ vrám e dhetë t’ shituem!…

To the rabid shkjas fell victim.

420     

O ata t’ lumt, qi dhane jeten,

Blessed those who gave their lives up,

O ata t’ lumt, qi shkrîne veten,

Blessed those who sacrificed, who

Qi per Mbret e vend të t’ Parve,

Died for sultan and their birthplace,

Qi per erz e nderë t’ Shqyptarve

Died to save Albania’s honour,

Derdhen gjakun tuj luftue,

Spilt their blood while doing battle,

425     

Porsi t’ Parët u pa’n punue!

Fought as once had done their fathers.

Letë u kjoftë mbí vorr ledina,

O’er their graves may grass grow gently,

Butë u kjoshin moti e stina,

May the seasons, years weigh lightly,

Aklli, bora e serotina:

Ice and snow and rainstorm. For as

E dér t’ kndoje n’ mal ndo ‘i Zânë,

Long as zanas sing in mountains,

430     

E dér t’ ketë n’ dét ujë e rânë,

Long as seas have sand and water,

Dér sá t’ shndrisin diell e hânë,

Long as sun and moon are shining,

Ata kurr mos u harrojshin,

May they never be forgotten.

N’ kângë e n’ valle por u kndojshin.

Let song, dance commemorate them.

E njaj gjak, qi kan dikue,

All the blood that they did forfeit,

435     

Bân, o Zot, qi t’ jesë tue vlue

May God make it boil and bubble

Per m’ i a xé zêmren Shqyptarit,

Thus to hearten the Albanians

Per kah vendi e gjûha e t’ Parit!

For their homeland and their language.

Po, váll! Osja kû do t’ jetë?

But, oh where is Oso Kuka?

Oso Kuka a mos ká mbetë?

Could it be that he has fallen?

440     

N’ Xhebehane ká zatetë!

He is holed up in the tower,

Ká zatetë n’ at kullë t’ barotit,

In that powder tower hiding

Kû ká bâ êmrin e Zotit,

And has sworn an oath to God that

Se per t’ gjallë nuk ká m’ e lshue,

He alive will not surrender,

Shokët e vet per pá i pague

Settling score for all his comrades,

445     

Tridhetë t’ vrám e dhetë t’ shitue.

Thirty dead and ten there injured.

Kur pau Shkjau se pushka mêni

When the shkjas heard wane the firing

Si kah vau, si kah Liqêni,

At the ford and at the lakeside,

E se mbetë s’ kisht’ Oso Kuka

Noted missing Oso Kuka

Me tjerë t’ vrám, perjashtë ke suka,

‘mongst the dead around the hillock,

450     

M’ Xhebehane u turr m’ at hera,

They at once attacked the tower.

Si, kur t’ lshojë kah Prendvera,

As when at the start of springtime

Vrullet bleta çark njaj zgjonit,

Bees swarm out around the beehive,

Tue zukatë si rryma e prronit.

Humming like the brooks and currents.

N’ brohorí tue i lutë jetë Knjazit

Thus, a hundred on the rooftop,

455     

Njiqind vetë kcyen m’ kulm t’ pullazit,

Cried: “Long live the Prince!” rejoicing,

Mâ t’ permendunt kah trimnija,

While the most courageous of them

Njaq u njiten mbi frangija,

Scrambled up to the embrasures,

Tue thye muret n’ gjak t’ perlyeme:

Breaching bloodied walls and fences.

– Por ká gioben shpija e thyeme! –

“All housebreaking must be paid for,”

460     

Krisi Osja atbotë si ulâni,

Roared out Oso like a lion,

Mje m’ Cetinë i vojti zâni:

To Cetinje his voice echoed:

“Ah kadalë, Nikollë, t’ vraftë Zoti!

“Careful now, you damned Nikolla,

Pse ktû i thonë Oso baroti:

Here they call me Powder Oso,

Se s’ ké pá Shqyptár me sy,

Never you’ve seen an Albanian

465      Se djegë vehten edhè tý!”

Blow himself up and you with him.”

__________________________________________

1937  |  Gjergj Fishta:

Lahuta e Malcís / The Highland Lute

Kanga / Canto 13. 1-77

  

Prendoi dielli, n’ qiell duel hâna,

In the sky the sun set, moon rose,

N’ Veleçik po pingron Zâna:

On Veleçik chirped the zana:

Ehu! ju malet e Shqypnís,

“Oh, you mountains of Albania,

N’ t’ cillat strukë shqypja e lirís

On which once perched freedom’s eagle,

05       

N’ t’ bardhat kohë qi kan prendue

In that golden age now vanished,

S’ lête anmik, jo, me i u afrue!

You let not the foe approach you.

E di shpat e di edhe prrue,

Both the slopes and torrents know it,

E di landë e di edhe gúr,

Both the woods and cliffs bear witness,

Shqyptarís kryq e terthuer,

How much blood the foe left flowing

10       

Se sa gjak atbotë i anmikut

Everywhere, throughout our homeland,

Vojti rrkajë prej t’ bardhë çelikut,

Blood spilt by a flashing sabre

Qi flakote n’ dorë t’ Shqyptarit

Brandished by Albania’s fighters,

Porsi rrfeja majes s’ Sharit.

Lightning from the peaks of Sharri.

A kisht’ mujtë kurr n’ at kohë t’ lume,

Were marauding hands e’er able

15       

(Me lot gjakut sod t’ lotueme!)

In that blessed age to plunder

Veç nji troe t’ tokës shqyptare

(Age with bloody tears wept over)

M’ e rmue dora grabitçare?

Of Albania’s soil a handful?

Ah! jo kurr; t’ ish’ çue mbarë bota…

No, no, never, all had risen,

Pse ndo ‘i Lekë, a ‘i Gjergj Kastriota

Some Lekë, some George Castriota

20       

Do t’ kisht’ dalë, at dorë rrembyese

Would have leapt up, arms triumphant,

M’ e cungue me armë ngadhnyese,

And have lopped that thievish hand off,

T’ cillat n’ shekull do t’ permenden

Feats to be forever told as

Hânë e hyj sa qiellve t’ enden.

Long as moon and stars do orbit.

Por kan ndrrue sot moti e stina

But the times have changed, the seasons,

25       

Per dhé t’ ngrît, kû rreh Martina!

O’er this languid land clash rifles.

Gjinde e mbajtun me lot t’ shumit

Off the poor man’s tears folk live now,

Qi n’ djersë njomë bûcat e umit,

Tears of sweat upon the tilled soil,

Ja qi n’ kullmë rreshket kumuese,

Off the blacksmith broiled at anvil,

Ja nper dét bjen valës shkumuese,

Or on foaming waves the sailor

30       

Per me mbajtë nji grue te shpija

Trying wife at home to nourish

S’ cilles bukë i lypi fmija,

While for bread do beg her children,

Edhe i lên ndoshta me kjá,

She perhaps must let them yammer

Perse e mjera bukë nuk ká:

For she has no food to feed them,

Gjinde, s’ cilles Zot i âsht ari,

Folk who none but gold do worship,

35       

T’ zezen tokë qi i ngratë Shqyptari

Want to parcel out their poor land,

Shtrêjt me gjak e pat fitue,

Dearly which in blood was paid for

Pa ndo ‘i dhimë, kjoshin mallkue!

By Albanian farmers paltry,

Sod m’ e dá duen copa copa:

Ruthless folk, I damn and curse them!

E perse? Pse don Europa…

You ask why? Well, Europe wished it.

40       

Uh! Europë, ti kurva e motit,

Europe, aging whore, it’s you that

Qi i rae mohit besës e Zotit,

On your word and God have trampled.

Po a ky â shêji i gjytetnís:

Is it sign of all your culture

Me dá token e Shqypnís

That you parcel out Albania

Per me mbajtë klysht e Rusís?

Just to rear the cubs of Russia?

45       

Po ti a kshtû sod na i perligje

Is this how you’ve paid them back now,

Njata burra qi m’ kto brigje

All those men who died to save you,

Per tý vehten bâne flije

Fallen, slain up in the hills while

Kur ti heshtshe prej ligshtije?

You yourself, too weak, kept silent?

Ti qi i a kalle flaken diellit

Thou who kindled fire for sunlight,

50       

E i shestove rrathët e qiellit

Thou who drew the spheres of heaven,

Ti, prej eshtnash t’ t’ ngratë Shqyptarve,

From the bones of our dead fighters,

Qi bânë deken per dhé t’ t’ parve,

Men who perished for their homeland,

Bân sod t’ bîjn fatosa t’ rí,

Cause to rise now hale young heroes,

T’ cillt nji troe t’ ksajë Shqypní

Who’ll not let an inch of homeland

55       

Mos t’ a lâjn Shkjaut n’ dorë me i rá

Fall into those Slavic clutches,

Krejt në gjak nji herë pa e lá!

Ere they bathe in blood the foemen!”

Lum, oj Zâna e Veleçikut,

Blessed zana of Veleçik,

Qi m’ i a lshon ti namët anmikut,

You who at the foe hurl curses,

Qi m’ i uron djelmt e Malcís,

You who wish well Highland fighters,

60       

Qi m’ i a kján hallin Shqypnís;

You who mourn Albania’s sorrows,

Ksaj Shqypní, e cilla motit,

Mourn that land which in past ages

N’ zâ kah pushka e besa e Zotit,

Was for faith and arms remembered,

Pat kênë çmue prej fisesh t’ tâna

Was esteemed by all our tribesmen

Kah bjen dielli e kah mârr hâna!

Where the sun shines and the moon glows,

65       

Por, sado qi poshtë ká rá

Now, behold, look how she’s faltered,

Sod me sod, e rrin tue kjá

How she’s languishing and weeping

N’ pluhen t’ tokës, prej njerzve shá,

In the dust, by men derided.

Prap, oj Zânë, shkndija e burrnís

But that spark of courage, zana,

Nuk â shkimë n’ male t’ Shqypnís,

Is not dead up in the mountains,

70       

Qi, manà, edhè n’ kto kohë t’ reja

Even now, upon occasion

Ka ‘i herë ndezet flakë si rrfeja.

Does it sparkle, flash like lightning,

S’ kan mbetë shkret, jo, armët besnike,

Faithful arms are not abandoned,

Perse Arbnorja grue fisnike,

For Arbënia, noble woman,

Bân se bân fatosa t’ rí,

Always brings forth new young heroes

75       

T’ cillt trimnisht per ket Shqypní

Who in valour for Albania,

E per besë e t’ bardhen Fé

For their word and blithe religion,

E bâjn deken si me lé.

View as birth their own extinction.

[English translation by Robert Elsie and Janice Mathie-Heck]