the literary style is direct and clear and

comprehensible. In Highland folklore we find

associated with the haunting "fear of things
invisible," common to all peoples in early stages
ELVES AND HEROES of development, a confident feeling of security
inspired by the minute observances of
BY ceremonial practices. We also note a distinct
tendency to discriminate between spirits, some
DONALD A. MACKENZIE. of which are invariably friendly, some merely
picturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others
1909 constantly harbouring a desire to work evil upon
mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy
of propitiatory offerings and "ceremonies of
riddance," is the ethical suggestion that good
PREFACE. wishes and good deeds influence spirits to
perform
acts of kindly intent.
THE ELVES.
Of fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are
The immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land still prone to do in these districts where belief in
are passing away, but they still retain for us a them is not yet extinct, with no small degree of
poetic appeal, not only on account of the regard and affection. It may be that "the good
glamour of early associations, but also because folk" and the
they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental "peace-people" (_sitchean_) were so called that
habits and inherent characteristics of the men good intention might be compelled by the
and women of past generations. When we re- conjuring influence of a name, as well as to
tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside avoid giving offence by uttering real names, as
them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with if it were desired to exercise a magical influence
them in their strong heroes, and share their by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from
elemental joys and fears, we breathe the Highland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener
palpitating air of that old mysterious world of the friends than the foes of mankind. When men
theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and women were lured to their dwellings they
and awe-inspiring. rarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies
appeared to have taken pleasure in their
The attitude of the Gael towards the company. To such as they favoured they
supernatural, and his general outlook upon life imparted the secrets of their skill in the arts of
in times gone by, was not associated with piping, of sword-making, etc. At sowing time or
unbroken gloom; nor was he always an harvest they were at the service of human
ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist. friends. On the needy they took pity. They never
These attributes belong chiefly to the Literary failed in a promise; they never forgot an act of
Celt of latter-day conception--the Celt of Arnold kindness, which they invariably rewarded
and Renan, and other writers following in their seven-fold. Against those who wronged them
wake, who have woven misty impressions of a they took speedy vengeance. It would appear
people whom they have met as strangers, and that on these humanized spirits of his
never really understood. Celtic literature is not a conception the Highlander left, as one would
morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is expect him to do, the impress of his own
more light than shadow, much symbolism, but character--his shrewdness and high sense of
no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute honor, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth
detail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of heart and love of comrades, and his indelible
of keen artistry; and hatred of tyranny and
wrong.
 since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the
The Highland "wee folk" are not so diminutive Fians are a band of militia--the original Fenians.
as the fairies of England--at least that type of In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and
fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers bee-like belong to the hunting period before the
over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as
they had to shrink in stature and to render well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced
themselves invisible, but they are invariably by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse
"little people," from three to four feet high. It conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among
may be that the Gael's conception of giants and spirits.
humanised spirits may not have been
uninfluenced by the traditions of that earlier The cycle had evidently remote beginnings.
diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint were When we find Diarmid and Grainnč, like Paris
so long regarded as "elf-bolts." The fairies dwelt and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster;
only in grassy knolls, on the summits of high and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and
hills, and inside cliffs. Although capable of living vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to
for several centuries, they were not immortal. the theory that from a mid-European center
They required food, and borrowed meal and migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric
cooking utensils from human beings, and Greece, and left traces oftheir mythology and
always returned what they received on loan. folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves,"
They could be heard within the knolls grinding sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a
corn and working at their anvils, and they were literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which
adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. the deeds and magical attributes of remote
When they went on long journeys they became tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-
invisible, and were carried through the air on mingled and perpetuated.
eddies of western wind.
On fragments of these folk-tales the poet
At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in
folk" were for several days on end inspired, like imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.
all other supernatural furies, with enmity against
mankind. Their evil influences were negatived The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse
by spells and of an Irish prosetranslation of a fragment of the
charms. We who still hang on our walls at Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in theBronze Age
Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on
perpetuating an old-world custom connected his
with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of
protect us against evil the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that
spirits. And in our concern about luck, our which relates his conflict with his son, and
proneness to believe in omens, the influence of bears a striking similarity to the legend of
colours and numbers, in dreams and in Sohrab and Rustum.
prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in
spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the
ancestors. other, with which it has no connection.

The third great Celtic Cycle--the Arthurian--

THE HEROES. bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of
"The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the
The heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin.
who appear in this volume, figure in the tales Its value as a source of literary inspiration has
and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which been fully appreciated, but the Fian and
is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to
have been neglected by our Scottish poets
yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the Have naught to fear,
future. And ne'er an elfin arrow
Will come us near;
Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found For they'll give skill in music,
at the end of this volume. And every wish obey--
The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work
Some of the short poems have appeared in the and play.
"Glasgow Herald" and "Inverness Courier"; the
three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review." They'll hasten here at harvest,
They will shear and bind;
They'll come with elfin music
On a western wind;
THE WEE FOLK. All night they'll sit among the sheaves,
Or herd the kine that stray--
The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no
In the knoll that is the greenest, pay.
And the grey cliff side,
And on the lonely ben-top Betimes they will be spinning
The wee folk bide; The while we sleep,
They'll flit among the heather, They'll clamber down the chimney,
And trip upon the brae-- Or through keyholes creep;
The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and And when they come to borrow meal
grey. We'll ne'er them send away--
The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work
As o'er the moor at midnight alway.
The wee folk pass,
They whisper 'mong the rushes O never wrong the wee folk--
And o'er the green grass; The red folk and green,
All through the marshy places Nor name them on the Fridays,
They glint and pass away-- Or at Hallowe'en;
The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not The helpless and unwary then
stay. And bairns they lure away--
The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal
O many a fairy milkmaid and slay.
With the one eye blind,
Is 'mid the lonely mountains
By the red deer hind;
Not one will wait to greet me,
For they have naught to say-- BONNACH FALLAIDH.
The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.
(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)
When the golden moon is glinting
In the deep, dim wood,
There's a fairy piper playing O, the good-wife will be singing
To the elfin brood; When her meal is all but done--
They dance and shout and turn about, Now all my bannocks have I baked,
And laugh and swing and sway-- I've baked them all but one;
The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance And I'll dust the board to bake it,
alway. I'll bake it with a spell--
O, it's Finlay's little bannock
O we that bless the wee folk For going to the well.
 "O never again I'll roam;
The bannock on the brander All weary is the going forth,
Smells sweet for your desire-- But sweet the coming home!"
O my crisp ones I will count not
On two sides of the fire; _His linen robes are pure and white,
And not a farl has fallen For Fergus More must die to-night!_
Some evil to foretell!--
O it's Finlay's little bannock He saw the blaze upon his hearth
For going to the well. Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
The bread would not be lasting, And rode before his men--
'Twould crumble in your hand; "'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,
When fairies would be coming here "Since I would leave her side;
To turn the meal to sand-- I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
But what will keep them dancing And yon, my dark-eyed bride."
In their own green dell?
O it's Finlay's little bannock _His linen robes are pure and white,
For going to the well. For Fergus More must die to-night!_

Now, not a fairy finger So dreaming of her tender love,

Will do my baking harm-- Soft tears his eyes would blind--
The little bannock with the hole, When up there crept and swiftly leapt
O it will be the charm. A man who stabbed behind--
I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms, "'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride,
And all the bairns I tell-- This night shall be your last!" ...
O it's Finlay's little bannock When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide
For going to the well. Of life came ebbing fast ...

_His linen robes are pure and white,

For Fergus More must die to-night!_

THE BANSHEE.

Knee-deep she waded in the pool-- CONN, SON OF THE RED.

The Banshee robed in green--
She sang yon song the whole night long,
And washed the linen clean; The Fians sojourned by the shore
The linen that would wrap the dead Of comely Cromarty, and o'er
She beetled on a stone, The wooded hill pursued the chase
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space
Low singing all alone-- Ere Beltane[1] rites would be begun
With homage to the rising sun--
_His linen robes are pure and white, Ere to the spirits of the dead
For Fergus More must die to-night!_ Would sacrificial blood be shed
In yon green grove of Navity--[2]
'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill, When Conn came over the Eastern Sea,
Come back from foreign wars, His heart aflame with vengeful ire,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet To seek for Goll, who slew his sire
Below the pitiless stars; When he was seven years old.
And in his heart he would repeat--
 Finn saw "Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied,
In dreams, ere yet he came, with awe "More comely, stalwart, mightier far--
The Red One's son, so fierce and bold, What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?"
In combat with his hero old-- Then Goll made answer on the steep,
The king-like Goll of valorous might-- Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep--
A stormy billow in the fight "His equal never came before
No foe could ere withstand. Across the seas to Alban shore,
Nor ever have I peered upon
He knew A nobler, mightier man than Conn"
The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew
Clear on his horn the Warning Call; The ship flew seaward, tacking wide,
And round him thronged the Fians all Contending with the wind and tide,
With wond'ring gaze. And when upon the broad stream's track
It baffled hung, or drifted back,
The sun drew nigh With grunt and shriek, like battling boars,
The bale-fires of the western sky, The shock and swing of bladed oars
And faggot clouds with blood-red glare, Came sounding o'er the sea
Caught flame, and in the radiant air
Lone Wyvis like a jewel shone-- The dusk
The Fians, as they stared at Conn, Grew round the twilight, like a husk
Were stooping on the high Look-Out. That holds a kernel choice, and keen,
They watched the ship that tacked about, Cold stars impaled the sky serene,
Now slant across the firth, and now When Conn's ship through the slackening tide
Laid bare below the cliff's broad brow, Drew round the wistful bay and wide,
And heaving on a billowy steep, Behind the headlands high that snout
Like to a monster of the deep The seas like giant whales, and spout
That wallowed, labouring in pain-- The salt foam high and loud
And Conn stared back with cold disdain.
Then sighed
Pondering, he sat alone behind The gasping men who all day plied
The broad sail swallowing the wind, Their oars in plunging seas, with hands
As over the hollowing waves that leapt Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands
And snarled with foaming lips, and swept Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent,
Around the bows in querulous fray, And staggering from their benches went
And tossed in curves of drenching spray, The sail napped quarrelling, and drank
The belching ship with ardour drove; The wind in broken gasps, and sank
Then like a lordly elk that strove With sullen pride upon the boards,
Amid the hounds and, charging, rent And smote the mast and shook the cords
The pack asunder as it went,
It bore round and in beauty sprang-- Darkly loomed that alien land,
The sea-wind through the cordage sang And darkly lowered the Fian band,
With high and wintry merriment For hovering on the shoreland grey
That stirred the heart of Conn, intent The ship they followed round the bay
On vengeance, and for battle keen-- Nor sought the sheltering woods until
So hard, so steadfast, and serene. The shadows folded o'er the hill
Full heavily, and night fell blind,
Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low, And laid its spell upon the wind
With musing eyes upon the foe,
"Is Conn more noble than The Red, The swelling waters sank with sip
Whom Goll in battle vanquished?" And hollow gurgle round the ship,
"The Red was fiercer," Conan cried-- The long mast rocked against the dim,
Soft heaven above the headland's rim The shredding dawn in beauty spread
Its shafts of splendour, golden-red,
But while the seamen crouched to sleep, High over the eastern heaven, and broke
Conn sat alone in reverie deep, Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke
And saw before him in a maze That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,
The mute procession of his days, Let loose their oozing floods of gold,
In gloom and glamour wending fast-- Splashed over the foamless deep that lay
His heart a-hungering for the past-- Tremulous and clear. In fiery play
Again he leapt, a tender boy, The rippling beams that swept between
To greet his sire with eager joy, The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,
When he came over the wide North Sea, Broke quivering where the waters bore
Enriched with spoils of victory-- The soft reflection of the shore.
Then heavily loomed that fateful morn
When tidings of his fall were borne The pipes of morn were sounding shrill
From Alban shore ... Again he saw Through budding woods on plain and hill,
The youth who went alone with awe And stirred the air with song to wake
To swear the avenging oath before The sweet-toned birds within the brake.
The smoking altar red with gore.
The Fians from their sheilings came,
Ah! strange to him it seemed to be With offerings to the god a-flame,
That hour was drawing nigh when he And round them thrice they sun-wise went;
Would vengeance take ... And still more Then naked-kneed in silence bent
strange, Beside the pillar stones ...
O sorrow! it would bring no change
Though blood for blood be spilled, and life But now
For life be taken in fierce strife; Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow
'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped, Hath raised his burnished blade on high,
Or break the silence of the dead. And calls on Woden and on Tigh
With boldness, to avenge the death
But when he heard his mother's wail, Of his great sire ... In one deep breath
Once more uplifted on the gale, He drains the hero's draught that burns
Moaning The Red who ne'er returned-- With valour of the gods; then turns
His cheeks with sudden passion burned; His long-sought foe to meet ... Great Conn
And darkly frowned that valiant man, Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.
As through his quivering body ran Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright,
The lightnings of impelling ire That shower the foam-rain pearly white,
And impulses of fierce desire, And rip the waters, bending lithe,
That surged, with a consuming hate In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe
Against a world made desolate, Like adders, ere they dart away
Unceasing and unreconciled, Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray.
And ever clamouring ... like wild,
Dark-deeded waves that stun the shore, When, furrowing the sand, he drew
And through the anguished twilight roar His boat the shallowing water through,
The hungry passions of the wide A giant he in stature rose
And gluttonous deep unsatisfied. Straight as a mast before his foes,
With head thrown high, and shoulders wide
And level, and set back with pride;
His bared and supple arms were long
As shapely oars: firm as a thong
II. His right hand grasped his gleaming blade,
Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made
In leafen shape. Dost falter, save with meekness, now--
But why shouldst thou not take the head
With stately stride Of this bold youth, as of The Red,
He crossed the level sands and wide, His sire, in other days?"
Then on his shield the challenge gave--
His broad sword thund'ring like a wave-- Goll spake--
For single combat. "O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake
Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand,
Red as gold Although to answer thy command
His locks upon his shoulders rolled; My blood to its last drop were spilled--
A brazen helmet on his head By Crom! were all the Fians killed,
Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red; My sword would never fail to be
And all the Fians watched with awe A strong defence to succour thee."
That hero young with knotted jaw,
Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard, Upon his hard right arm with haste
Surveyed their ranks with cold regard; His crooked and pointed shield he braced,
While his broad forehead, seamed with care, He clutched his sword in his left hand--
Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair While round that hero of the band
Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes The Fian warriors pressed, and praised
With pondering o'er the mysteries. His valour ... Mute was Goll ... They raised,
Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,
The eyes of all the Fians sought To urge him on to victory.
Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought
With lines of deep, perplexing thought-- The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,
For gazing on the valiant Conn, His face was like a mountain stone,--
He mourned that his own youth was gone, Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath
When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed Came heavily, like a man nigh death--
The life-blood of the boastful Red, But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,
Whom none save he would meet. He heard Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,
The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred, Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,
Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate On his bald forehead gleamed a bright
And lust of glory satiate-- And livid scar that Conn's great sire
His heart took pride in Conn, and shared Had cloven when their swords struck fire--
The kinship of the brave. Burly and dauntless, full of might,
Old Goll went humbly forth to fight
Who dared With arrogant Conn ... It seemed The Red
To meet the Viking bold, if he In greater might was from the dead,
The succour of the band, should be Restored in his fierce son ...
Found faltering or in despair?
Until that day the Fians ne'er A deep
Of one man had such fear. Swift silence fell, like sudden sleep,
On all the Fians waiting there
Old Goll In sharp suspense and half despair ...
Sat musing on a grassy knoll, The morn was still. A skylark hung
They deemed he shared their dread ... Not so In mid-air flutt'ring, and sung
Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow-- A lullaby that grew more sweet
"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man, Amid the stillness, in the heat
The keen desire of every clan, And splendour of the sun: the lisp
Far-famed for many a valiant deed, Of faint wind in the herbage crisp
Strong hero in the time of need. Went past them; and around the bare
I vaunt not Conn ... nor deem that thou And foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair,
The faintly-panting waves were cast Rose like a startled bird from out
By the wan deep fatigued and vast. The heather at the huntsman's shout
In swift and blust'ring flight At noon
O great was Conn in that dread hour, The sun rolled in a cloudy swoon
And all the Fians feared his power, Dimly, and over the rolling deep
And watched, as in a darksome dream, Gust followed gust with shadowy sweep;
The warriors meet ... They saw the gleam And waves that streamed their snowy locks
Of swift, up-lifted swords, and then Were tossing high against the rocks
A breathless moment came, as when Seaward, while round the sands ebbed wide
The lithe and living lightning's flash Scrambled the fierce devouring tide
Makes pause, until the thunder's crash
Is splintered through the air. O, Conn was like a hound at morn,
That springs upon an elk forlorn
Loud o'er Among the hills. He was a proud
The blue sea and the shining shore Cascade that leaps a cliff with loud
Broke forth the crash of arms ... The roll Unspending fall So fierce, so fair
Of Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll Was arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there
On sword and shield resounding rang, Keen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay--
While that old warrior stooped and sprang He was as a boar in that fierce fray.
Sideways, and swerved, or backward leapt,
As swiftly as the bronze blade swept The waves were humbled on the shore,
Above him and around ... He swayed, And silent fell, amid the roar
Stumbling, but rose ... But, though his blade And crash of battle Mute and still
Was ever nimble to defend, The Fians watched; while on the hill
The Fians feared the fight would end The little elves came out and gazed,
In victory for Conn. To be amused and were amazed ...
They saw upon the shrinking sands
... 'Twas like The warriors with restless hands
As when an eagle swoops to strike, And busy blades, with shields that rose
But swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nigh To buffet the unceasing blows;
Its head a javelin gleams ... A cry They saw before the rising flood
That banished fear of Conn's great blows The flash of fire, the flash of blood;
From out the Fian ranks arose, And watched the men with panting breath,
As, like a plumed reed in a gust, Striving to be the slaves of death;
Goll suddenly stooped--a deadly thrust Now darting wide, now swerving round,
That drew the first blood in the fray Now clashed together in a bound,
He darting gave ... With quick dismay With splitting swords that smote so fast,
The valiant Conn drew back ... As hour by hour unheeded past.

Again The sands were torn and tossed like spray

He leapt at Goll, but sought in vain Before the whirlwind of the fray,
To blind him with his blows that fell That waged in fury till the sun
Like snowflakes on a sullen well-- Sank, and the day's last loops were spun--
For Goll was calm, while great Conn raged, Then terrible was Goll ... He rose
As hour by hour the conflict waged; A tempest of increasing blows,
He was a blast-defying tree-- More furious and fast, as dim,
A crag that spurned a furious sea, Uncertain twilight fell ... More grim
And all the Fians with one mind And great he grew as, looming large,
Set firm their faith in Goll He fought, and pressing to the marge
Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave
The wind The Viking hero back; till wave
O'er ready wave that hurried fleet, Dark brooding, he sought to
Snuffled and snarled about their feet ... Avenge his deep wrong.

Then with a mighty shout that made Fair Son of The Red,
The rocks around him ring, his blade Care none thou art dead?--
Swept like a flash of fire to smite Old Goll of Clan Morna
The last fell blow in that fierce fight-- Will mourn thou hast bled.
So great Conn perished like The Red
By Goll's left hand ... his life-blood spread O where shall be found
Over the quenching sands where rolled To share with thee round
His head entwined with locks of gold. The halls of Valhalla
Then passed like thunder o'er the sea Thy glory renowned?
The Fian shout of victory.
And, trembling on the tossing ships, O true as the blade
The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips That slew thee, and made
And dim, despairing eyes ... Alone My fear and thine anger
Stood Goll, and like a silent stone For ever to fade--
Bulking upon a ben-side bare,
He bent above the hero fair-- Ah! when upon earth
Remembering the mighty Red, Again will have birth
And wondering that Conn lay dead. A son of such honour
And bravery and worth?

[Footnote 1: May Day.] Above thee in splendour

A love that could render
[Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill] Brave service, burned star-like
And constant and tender.

With fearing my name,

With hearing my fame,
O none would dare combat
With Goll till Conn came? ...
THE SONG OF GOLL.
O great was thine ire--
O Son of The Red, The fate of thy sire,
Undone and laid dead-- Awaiting thy coming,
The blood of a hero Consumed thee like fire.
My cold blade hath shed.
O Son of The Red,
Who fought me to-day? Undone and laid dead--
Who sought me to slay?-- The blood of a hero
The son of yon High King My cold blade hath shed.
I slew in the fray.

O blade that yon brave

Low laid in the grave,
Ye gladdened the Fians THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH.
But grief to Conn gave.

Stone-hearted and strong, When the tide is at the turning and the wind is
Lone-hearted with long, fast asleep,
And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Ah! would I be forgetting of The Thing that
Deep, came with me?
O the waters will be churning on the stream that For it was big and black as black, and it was
never smiles, dour as dour,
Where the Blue Men are splashing round the It shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I
charmčd isles. e'er did see.

As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun- For it came creeping like a cloud that's moving
bright seas, all alone,
And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides; Without the sound of footsteps ... and I heard its
They will skim along like salmon--you can see heavy sighs ...
their shoulders gleam, Its face was old and grey, and like a lichen-
And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue covered stone,
Men's Stream. And its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad
and weary eyes.
But when the blast is raving and the wild tide
races, O it's never the word it had to say in anger or in
The Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey woe--
faces; It would not seek to harm me that had never
They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep done it wrong,
the spray behind, As fleet--O like the deer!--I went, or I went
O, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon panting slow,
the wind. The waesome thing came with me on that
lonely road and long.
And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for
the bay, O eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the
They'll be howling and be growling as they moor!
drench it with their spray-- When I was all so helpless and my heart was
For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter full of fear,
when it lists, Nor when it was beside me or behind me was I
Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with sure--
their fists. I knew it would be following--I knew it would be
near!
O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their
wiles!
The whole day long, the whole night long,
they're splashing round the isles;
They'll follow every fisher--ah! they'll haunt the THE NIMBLE MEN.
fisher's dream--
When billows toss, O who would cross the Blue (AURORA BOREALIS.)
Men's Stream?

When Angus Ore, the wizard,

His fearsome wand will raise,
The night is filled with splendour,
THE URISK. And the north is all ablaze;
From clouds of raven blackness,
Like flames that leap on high--
O the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone All merrily dance the Nimble Men across the
moor! Northern Sky.
 Now come the Merry Maidens, O never again will trip the twain across the
All gowned in white and green, Northern Sky.
While the bold and ruddy fellows
Will be flitting in between--
O to hear the fairy piper
Who will keep them tripping by!--
The men and maids who merrily dance across MY GUNNA.
the Northern Sky.

O the weird and waesome music, When my kine are on the hill,
And the never-faltering feet! Who will charm them from all ill?
O their fast and strong embraces, While I'll sleep at ease until
And their kisses hot and sweet! All the cocks are crowing clear.
There's a lost and languished lover Who'll be herding them for me?
With a fierce and jealous eye, It's the elf I fain would see--
As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the For they're safe as safe can be
Northern Sky. When the Gunna will be near.

So now the dance is over, He will watch the long weird night,
And the dancers sink to rest-- When the stars will shake with fright,
There's a maid that has two lovers, Or the ghostly moon leaps bright
And there's one she loves the best; O'er the ben like Beltane fire.
He will cast him down before her, If my kine would seek the corn,
She will raise him with a sigh-- He will turn them by the horn--
Her love so bright who danced to-night across And I'll find them all at morn
the Northern Sky. Lowing sweet beside the byre.

Then up will leap the other, Croumba's bard has second-sight,

And up will leap his clan-- And he'll moan the Gunna's plight,
O the lover and his company When the frosts are flickering white,
Will fight them man to man-- And the kine are housed till day;
All shrieking from the conflict For he'll see him perched alone
The merry maidens fly-- On a chilly old grey stone,
There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Nibbling, nibbling at a bone
Northern Sky. That we'll maybe throw away.

Through all the hours of darkness He's so hungry, he's so thin,

The fearsome fight will last; If he'd come we'd let him in,
They are leaping white with anger, For a rag of fox's skin
And the blows are falling fast-- Is the only thing he'll wear.
And where the slain have tumbled He'll be chittering in the cold
A pool of blood will lie-- As he hovers round the fold,
O it's dripping on the dark green stones from With his locks of glimmering gold
out the Northern Sky. Twined about his shoulders bare.

When yon lady seeks her lover

In the cold and pearly morn,
She will find that he has fallen
By the hand that she would scorn,-- THE GRUAGACH.
She will clasp her arms about him,
And in her anguish die!-- (MILKMAID'S SONG.)
 O me! if I'd his milk forget,
The lightsome lad wi' yellow hair, Nor cream, nor butter I would get;
The elfin lad that is so fair, Ye needna' tell--I ken full well--
He comes in rich and braw attire-- On all my kine he'd cast his spell.
To loose the kine within the byre--
My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there--
He's tittering here; he's tittering there-- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
On nights when I would rest at ease,
He's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand, The merry lad begins to tease;
A supple switch is in his hand; He'll loose the kine to take me out,
I've seen while I a-milking sat And titter while I move about.
The shadow of his beaver hat.
My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there--
He's tittering here; he's tittering there-- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain
I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair.
To find my lad wi' yellow hair.

My chuckling lad, so full o' fun,

Around the corners he will run;
Behind the door he'll sometimes jink, THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN.
And blow to make my candle blink.

My lightsome lad, my leering lad, When all the big lads will be hunting the deer,
He's tittering here; he's tittering there-- And no one for helping Old Callum comes near,
I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain O who will be busy at threshing his corn?
To find my lad wi' yellow hair. Who will come in the night and be going at
morn?
The elfin lad that is so braw,
He'll sometimes hide among the straw; The Little Old Man of the Barn,
He's sometimes leering from the loft-- Yon Little Old Man--
He's tittering low and tripping soft. A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn,
The Little Old Man of the Barn.
My lightsome lad, my leering lad,
He's tittering here; he's tittering there-- When the peat will turn grey and the shadows
I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain fall deep,
To find my lad wi' yellow hair. And weary Old Callum is snoring asleep;
When yon plant by the door will keep fairies
And every time I'll milk the kine away,
He'll have his share--the luck be mine! And the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering
I'll pour it in yon hollowed stone, till day.
He'll sup it when he's all alone--
The Little Old Man of the Barn,
My lightsome lad, my leering lad, Yon Little Old Man--
He's tittering here; he's tittering there-- Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the
I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain night,
To find my lad wi' yellow hair. The Little Old Man of the Barn.
 When it would leave the Uist shore,
For the bodach is strong though his hair is so Across the Minch he heard it roar--
grey, Like yon black cloud it bounded o'er
He will never be weary when he goes away-- The Coolin Hills that night.
The bodach is wise--he's so wise, he's so dear--
When the lads are all gone, he will ever be
near.

The Little Old Man of the Barn, THE WATER-HORSE.

Yon Little Old Man--
So tight and so braw he will bundle the
straw-- O the Water-Horse will come over the heath,
The Little Old Man of the Barn. With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes,
He's black above and he's white beneath--
The hills are hearing the awesome cries;
The sand lies thick in his dripping hair,
And his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware.
YON FAIRY DOG.
Alas! for the man who would clutch the mane--
There's no spell to help and no charm to save!
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals, Who rides him will never return again,
Whose heart would never fail, Were he as strong, O were he as brave
Would hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce As Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell--
Come howling down the gale; He thrashed the devil and made him yell.
The patt'ring of the paws would sound
Like horse's hoofs on frozen ground, He'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast,
While o'er its back and curling round So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound--
Uprose its fearsome tail. Like the lightning flash he'll go prancing past,
Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound--
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals-- And the man perchance who sees and hears,
Yon man that hath no fears-- He would blind his eyes, he would close his
Beheld the dog with dark-green back ears.
That bends not when it rears;
Its sides were blacker than the night, The horse will bellow, the horse will snort,
But underneath the hair was white; And the gasping rider will pant for breath--
Its paws were yellow, its eyes were bright, Let the way be long, or the way be short,
And blood-red were its ears. It will have one end, and the end is death;
In yon black loch, from off the shore,
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals-- The horse will splash, and be seen no more.
The man who naught will dread--
Would wait it, stooping with his spear,
As nigh to him it sped;
The big black head it turn'd and toss'd,
"I'll strike," cried he, "ere I'll be lost," THE CHANGELING.
For every living thing that cross'd
Its path would tumble dead.
By night they came and from my bed
'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals-- They stole my babe, and left behind
The man who ne'er took fright-- A thing I hate, a thing I dread--
Would watch it bounding from the hills A changeling who is old and blind;
And o'er the moors in flight. He's moaning all the night and day
For those who took my babe away. My fair, my rare one, come back to me--
All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,
My little babe was sweet and fair, I would be dying, my love, for thee.
He crooned to sleep upon my breast--
But O the burden I must bear! Thy lips that often with love would soften,
This drinks all day and will not rest-- They beamed like blooms for the honey-bee;
My little babe had hair so light-- Thy voice came ringing like some bird singing
And his is growing dark as night. When thou wert bringing thy gifts to me.

Yon evil day when I would leave My fairy lover, my fairy lover,
My little babe the stook behind!-- My fair, my rare one, come back to me--
The fairies coming home at eve All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,
Upon an eddy of the wind, I would be dying, my love, for thee.
Would cast their eyes with envy deep
Upon my heart's-love in his sleep. O thou'rt forgetting the hours we met in
The Vale of Tears at the even-tide,
What holy woman will ye find Or thou'd come near me to love and cheer me,
To weave a spell and work a charm? And whisper clearly, "O be my bride!"
A holy woman, pure and kind,
Who'll keep my little babe from harm-- My fairy lover, my fairy lover,
Who'll make the evil changeling flee, My fair, my rare one, come back to me--
And bring my sweet one back to me? All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,
I would be dying, my love, for thee.

What spell can bind thee? I search to find thee

Around the knoll that thy home would be--
MY FAIRY LOVER. Where thou did'st hover, my fairy lover,
The clods will cover and comfort me.

My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fairy lover, my fairy lover,

My fair, my rare one, come back to me-- My fair, my rare one, come back to me--
All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, All night I'm sighing, on thee I'm crying,
I would be dying, my love, for thee. I would be dying, my love, for thee.

Thine eyes were glowing like blue-bells blowing,

With dew-drops twinkling their silvery fires;
Thine heart was panting with love enchanting,
For mine was granting its fond desires. THE FIANS OF KNOCKFARREL.

My fairy lover, my fairy lover, (A Ross-shire Legend.)

My fair, my rare one, come back to me--
All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,
I would be dying, my love, for thee. I.

Thy brow had brightness and lily-whiteness, On steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made,
Thy cheeks were clear as yon crimson sea; For safe retreat, a high and strong stockade
Like broom-buds gleaming, thy locks were Around their dwellings. And when winter fell
streaming, And o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell--
As I lay dreaming, my love, of thee. When days were bleak with storm, and nights
were drear
My fairy lover, my fairy lover, And dark and lonesome, well they loved to hear
The songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime-- When Ossian sang.
Their blind, grey bard, grown old before his
time, Haggard and old, with slow
Lamenting for his son--the young, the brave And falt'ring steps, went Winter through the
Oscar, who fell beside the western wave snow,
In Gavra's bloody and unequal fight. As if its dreary round would ne'er be done--
The last long winter of their days--begun
Round Ossian would they gather in the night, Ere yet the latest flush of falling leaves
Beseeching him for song ... And when he took Had faded in the breath of chilling eves;
His clarsach, from the magic strings he shook Nor ended in the days of longer light,
A maze of trembling music, falling sweet When dawn and eve encroached upon the
As mossy waters in the summer heat; night--
And soft as fainting moor-winds when they A weary time it was! The long Strath lay
leave Snow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to
The fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve, day
Bound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night The tempests raved across the low'ring skies,
hear And they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes,
Low elfin pipings in the woodlands near. The while their stores shrank low, waiting the
dawn
'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dream Of that sweet season when through woodlands
The fair maids sighed to hear. But when his wan
theme Fresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing--
Was the long chase that Finn and all his men For Winter on the forelock of the Spring
Followed with lightsome heart from glen to Its icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pined
glen-- In their dim dwellings, wearily confined,
His song was free as morn, and clear and loud While the loud, hungry tempest held its sway--
As skylarks carolling below a cloud The red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by
In sweet June weather ... And they heard the day,
fall And birds fell frozen in the snow.
Of mountain streams, the huntsman's windy call
Across the heaving hills, the baying hound Then through
Among the rocks, while echoes answered The trackless Strath a balmy south wind blew
round-- To usher lusty Spring. Lo! in a night
They heard, and shared the gladness of the The snows 'gan shrinking upon plain and
chase. height,
And morning broke in brightness to the sound
He sang the glories of the Fian race, Of falling waters, while a peace profound
Whose fame is flashed through Alba far and Possessed the world around them, and the blue
wide-- Bared heaven above ... Then all the Fians knew
Their valorous deeds he sang with joy and pride That Winter's spell was broken, and each one
... Made glad obeisance to the golden sun.
When their dark foemen from the west came
o'er Three days around Knockfarrel they pursued
The ragged hills, and when on Croumba's shore The chase across the hills and through the
The Viking hordes descending, fought and fled-- wood,
And when brave Conn, who would avenge the Round Ussie Loch and Dingwall's soundless
Red, shore;
By one-eyed Goll was slain. Of Finn he sang, But meagre were the burdens that they bore
And Dermaid, while the clash of conflict rang At even to their dwellings. To the west
In billowy music through the heroes' hall-- "But sorrow not," said Finn, when all dismay'd
And many a Fian gave the battle-call They hastened on a drear and bootless quest--
With weary steps they turned to their stockade, As far behind
"To-morrow will we hunt towards the east The Fians followed, Caoilte, like the wind,
To high Dunskaith, and then make gladsome Sped on--yon son of Ronan--o'er the wide
feast And marshy moor, and 'thwart the mountain
By night when we return." side,--
By Delny's shore far-ebbed, and wan, and
Or ever morn brown,
Had broken, Finn arose, and on his horn And through the woods of beautous Balnagown:
Blew loud the huntsman's blast that round the The roaring streams he vaulted on his spear,
ben And foaming torrents leapt, as he drew near
Was echoed o'er and o'er ... Then all his men The sandy slopes of Nigg. He climbed and ran
Gathered about him in the dusk, nor knew Till high above Dunskaith he stood to scan
What dim forebodings filled his heart and drew The outer ocean for the Viking ships,
His brows in furrowed care. His eyes a-gleam Peering below his hand, with panting lips
Still stared upon the horrors of a dream A-gape, but wide and empty lay the sea
Of evil omen that in vain he sought Beyond the barrier crags of Cromarty,
To solve ... His voice came faint from battling To the far sky-line lying blue and bare--
thought, For no red pirate sought as yet to dare
As he to Garry spake--"Be thou the ward The gloomy hazards of the fitful seas,
Strong son of Morna: who, like thee, can guard The gusty terrors, and the treacheries
Our women from all peril!" ... Garry turned Of fickle April and its changing skies--
From Finn in sullen silence, for he yearned And while he scanned the waves with curious
To join the chase once more. In stature he eyes,
Was least of all the tribe, but none could be The sea-wind in his nostrils, who had spent
More fierce in conflict, fighting in the van, A long, bleak winter in Knockfarrel pent
Than that grim, wolfish, and misshapen man! Over the snow-wreathed Strath and buried
wood,
Then Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave command A sense of freedom tingled in his blood--
To hasten forth before the Fian band-- The large life of the Ocean, heaving wide,
The King of Scouts was he! And like the deer His heart possessed with gladness and with
He sped to find if foemen had come near-- pride,
Fierce, swarthy hillmen, waiting at the fords And he rejoiced to be alive.... Once more
For combat eager, or red Viking hordes He heard the drenching waves on that rough
From out the Northern isles ... In Alba wide shore
No runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side, Raking the shingles, and the sea-worn rocks
And ere the Fians, following in his path, Sucking the brine through bared and lapping
Had wended from the deep and dusky strath, locks
He swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome Of bright, brown tangle; while the shelving
owls ledges
That hoot afar and near in woody Foulis, Poured back the swirling waters o'er their
And he had reached the slopes of fair edges;
Rosskeen And billows breaking on a precipice
Ere Finn by Fyrish came. In spouts of spray, fell spreading like a fleece.

The dawn broke green-- Sullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleek
For the high huntsman of the morn had flung And foaming lips, before the flooded creek
His mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strung Deep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green
His silver bow; then rising, bright and bold, expanse
He shot a burning arrow of pure gold Wind-wrinkled and translucent ... A bright trance
That rent the heart of Night. Of sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wide
Blue ocean swept with loops of silvern tide
Heavily heaving in a long, slow swell. Was ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.
Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient race
A lonely fisher in his coracle Deep-learned in lore, and with the gift to trace
Came round a headland, lifted on a wave The thread of life in the dark web of fate.
That bore him through the shallows to his cave, And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest late
Nor other being he saw. Too late, alas! this day of all dark days--
Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze--
The birds that flew A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes--
Clamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the cries
Their prey from bounteous waters, on him cast Of those that perish in yon high stockade--
Cold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,
And sliding down the wind. Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old--
O Ossian could'st thou see--O child, behold
Yon ruddy, closing clouds ... so falls the fate
Of all the tribe ... Alas! thou comest late." ...

II.

The warm sun shone

On blind, grey Ossian musing all alone III.
Upon a knoll before the high stockade,
When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laid When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band
On the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayed Of merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,
Over the face and round the tender chin-- Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,
"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn," To share the freedom of the morning air;
Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would be Adown the steep they went, and through the
A bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee." wood
"Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said, Where Garry splintered logs in sullen mood--
"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!... Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought
O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!-- Upon the trees that morn, as if he fought
If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pine Against a hundred foemen from the west,
Murmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.
be,
Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking sea The maids were wont to shower upon his head
And death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my song Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;
That rose in sorrow must survive in wrong-- For of their quips and jests he had more fear
My life is spent and vain--a day of thine Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear--
Were better than a long, dark year of mine.... And so he chose to be alone.
But come, my son--so lead me by the hand--
To hear the sweetest harper in the land-- The air
The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hills Was heavily laden with the odour rare
And under, let us go, by tuneful rills Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,
We'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened be As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,
With echoes of the moorland melody-- Went treading needled sward, in light and
My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went they shade,
Together from Knockfarrel. Long they lay Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and
Within the woods of Brahan, and by the shore fade,
Of silvery Conon wended, crossing o'er And ever bloom and ever pass away ...
The ford at Achilty, where Ossian told
The tale of Finn, who there had slain the bold Upon a fairy hillock Garry lay
Black Arky in his youth. And ere the tale In sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,
And the wind rippling through his golden hair As through the woods approached the nimble
Laid out the seven locks that were his pride, deer
Which one by one the maids securely tied That swerved, beholding him. With startled toss
To tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep, Of antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross
Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep The open vale before him ... To the west
Then to a thicket all the maidens crept, The Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed
And raised the Call of Warning ... Garry leapt To head it shoreward ... All the fierce hounds
From dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear bayed
That a fierce band of foemen had come near-- With hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,
The seven fetters of his golden hair With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee
He wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare Towards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.
A shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet
With bitter agony ... The maidens fled Than deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,
With laughter through the wood, and climb'd the Until upon a loose and sandy bank,
path Plunging his spear into the smoking flank,
Of steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath Its flight he stayed.... He stabbed it as it sank,
When he perceived who wronged him. With a The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die
shriek Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.
That raised the eagles from the mountain peak,
He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet, Then eager feast they made; and after long
And sought for vengeance, speedy and And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong
complete-- As they had been of old. And of their fare
The lust of blood possessed him, and he swore The lean and scrambling hounds had ready
To slay them.... But they shut the oaken door share.
Ere he had reached that high and strong
stockade-- Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,
From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid But set to hunt again, and through the wood
Came forth again. Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun
Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one
Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white
Of those who waited their return by night,
In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade--
IV. O' many a beauteous and bethrothčd maid,
And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying
Soft-couch'd upon a bank In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,
Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,
The sweetness of the morning air, that brought With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they
A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought, came
With mem'ries from the deeps of other years With burdens of the chase ... So they pursued
When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers, The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood
And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth Another deer they slew ...
A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth
On such an April morn.... Caoilte, who stood
On a high ridge alone ... with eager eyes
He leapt to hear Scanning the prospect wide ... in mute surprise
The Fians shouting from a woodland near Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud
Their hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace, Of thick and writhing smoke ... Then fierce and
With bounding heart, to join the gladsome loud
chase; Upon his horn he blew the warning blast--
Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear, From out the woods the Fians hastened fast--
Lo! when they stared towards the western sky,
They saw their winter dwelling blazing high. Then Finn's wife came
To set the women to the wheel and loom,
Then fear possessed them for their own, and With angry chiding; and a heavy gloom
grief Fell on them all. "Who knoweth," thus she
Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief, spake,
To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure "What evil may the Fian men o'ertake
thought-- This day of evil omens. Yester-night
"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought I say the pale ghost of my sire with white
Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam And trembling lips ... At morn before my sight
Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream A raven darted from the wood, and slew
Are now accomplished--all we loved and A brooding dove ... What fear is mine!... for who
cherished, Would us defend if our fierce foemen came--
And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have When Garry is against us ... Much I blame
perished!" Thy wanton deed." ... The women heard in
shame,
White-lipped they heard.... Then, wailing loud, Nor answer made.
they ran,
Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man, The sun, with fiery gleam,
Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream
O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with The spirits of the dead are softly swept
tears, From severed visions sweet. A low wind crept
Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood Around with falt'ring steps, and, pausing,
That swept him to the sea. But no man stood sighed--
To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim-- Then fled to murmur from the mountain side
And some there were, indeed, who envied him. Amid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow
Ben-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snow
In barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;
While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's
wrath,
V. Some feared the coming of the foe, and some
Had vague forebodings, and were brooding
As snarls the wolf at bay within the wood dumb,
On huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stood And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid
Raging before the women who had made Their babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid
Secure retreat within the high stockade; Sighed for her lover in that lone stockade;
He cursed them all, and their loud laughter rang And one who sat apart, with pensive eye,
More bitter to his heart than e'en the pang Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry--
Of his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming
blood _Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,
Half-blinded him, he hastened to the wood, Crying early, crying late--
And a small tree upon his shoulders bore, Will your voice be never weary
And fixed it fast against the oaken door, Crying for your mate?
That none might issue forth. Other hearts than thine are lonely,
Other hearts must wait.
Then once again
Towards the wood he turned, but all in vain Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying
The women waited his return, till they O'er the hills and o'er the sea,
Grey weary.. for in pain and wrath he lay Till I found the love I long for
In a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame, Whereso'er he'd be--
And panting for revenge. Peewee crying, I'd be flying,
Could I fly like thee!_
 And misty shadows gathered in the vale--
When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw
arose, Amid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe,
He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows The ruins of their winter dwelling laid
To fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath In smouldering ashes; while the high stockade
The hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath Around the rocky wall, like ragged teeth,
He made resolve to heap the splintered wood Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath,
Against the door, and burn the hated brood Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.
Of his tormentors one and all. He hewed
An ample pyre, then piled it thick and high, He sped towards the wood, and through the
While the sun, sloping to the western sky, trees
Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day. Called loud for those who perished. On his fair
But the doomed women little dreamed that they And gentle spouse he called in his despair.
Would have such fearsome end ... As Garry lay His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was
Rubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow, white
He heard a Fian mother singing low-- As Wyvis snow, he called for in the night.
Full loud and long across the Strath he cried--
_Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee-- The echoes mocked him from the mountain
Moolachie, O moolachie. side.
Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,
Moolachie, mine own. Ah! when his last hope faded like the wave
Of twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gave
Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye, His heart to utter grief and deep despair;
And the goblins will not get ye, And the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless
I will shield ye, I will pet ye-- stare,
Moolachie, mine own._ While sank the wind in silence on its flight
Through the dark hollows of the spacious night;
The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan-- And distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismay
And Garry heard them with a heart of stone ... He heard a Fian calling far away.
With fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flames The night-bird answered back with dismal cry,
Possess the pyre; he heard the shrieking Like to a wounded man about to die--
dames, But Caoilte's lips were silent ... Once again
And maids and children, wailing in the gloom And nearer, came the voice that cried in vain.
Of smothering smoke, e'er they had met their Then swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren
doom. steep,
Then when the high stockade was blazing red, And Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep,
Ere yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled, To Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head,
And westward o'er the shouldering hills he "Who liveth?" ... "I am here alone," he said ...
sped. Thus Fian after Fian came to share
Their bitter grief, in silence and despair.

All night they kept lone watch, until the dawn

With stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn
VI. Its dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose
From deep and sleepless brooding o'er his
A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold woes,
The sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold, And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall rest
And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade, While flees our evil foeman farther west?
Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayed Arise!" ... "But who hath done this deed?" they
Sharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and sighed;
pale;
And Finn made answer, "Garry." ... Then they Swept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance,
cried swayed,
For vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt And slipped upon the sward ... And his fierce
To answer Finn's command. blow
That Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low--
A cold wind swept A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh,
From out the gates of morning, moaning loud, And poured his life-blood forth ... A low, weird
As swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroud cry
Of gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis cast The great Finn gave, as he fell back and
A sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast, swooned--
It drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare, In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome
And snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning wound--
air-- His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray
Then o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and In gathering gloom ... And when in death he lay,
bright, The glory of the Fians passed away.
Scatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay
white,
As westward o'er the hills the Fians all
In quest of Garry sped.
HER EVIL EYE.
At even-fall
They found him ... On the bald and rocky side
Of steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,
Within a cave, which, backward o'er the snow, Will have the evil eye;
He entered, that his steps might seem to show The fear will come about my heart
He had fled eastward by the path he came. When she'll be passing by;
All day he sought to flee them in his shame, She'll have the piercing look to wound
Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine, The very birds that fly.
And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien--
He sought in vain to hide till darkness cast I would not have her evil wish,
Its blinding cloak betwixt them. I would not have her praise,
For like the shadow would her curse,
When at last Me follow all my days--
Finn cried, "Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds, When she my churning will speak well,
Nor respite seek!" ... His limbs like wind-swept No butter can I raise.
reeds
Trembled and bent beneath him; so he rose O Mairi Dhu will have the eye
And came to meet his friends who were his To wound the very deer--
foes-- Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns
Then unto Finn he spake with accents meek, When her they would come near?
"One last request I of the Fians seek, They'll have the red cords round their necks,
Whom I have loved in peace and served in So they'll have naught to fear.
strife"--
"'Tis thine," said Finn, "but ask not for thy life, It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,
For thou art 'mong the Fians." ... "I would die," Against her would prevail;
Said Garry, "with my head laid on thy thigh; And first her eye was on his churn,
And let young Alvin take thy sword, that he Then on the milking pail;
May give the death that will mine honour be." When she would praise the brindled cow,
The cow began to ail.
'Twas so he lay to die ... But as the blade
The trout that gambol in the pool
 She'll wound when she goes past; Whose meal will you have in your bag?
Then weariness will come upon
The fins that flicked so fast; Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush--
And one by one the lifeless things Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man--
Will on the stones be cast. His fame for the thieving is gone
To the reivers and rogues of your clan
O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain
To poor Dun Para's arm; You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
It is myself would have the work Fitter to die than to live?"
Undoing of the harm-- But maybe I'll slay with the tongue
I'd twist around the three-ply cord And the heart that will never forgive
Well-knotted o'er the charm.
The curse of the frail will be strong,
Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe The curse of the widow be sure;
O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass; O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,
He'd fill the wooden ladle where Black, black is the curse of the poor!
The dead and living pass--
And with the water, silver-charmed, Ha! laugh at your ease while you can--
He'd save his little lass. Laugh! it's the devil's turn next--
For after I'm done with you all,
I'll lock my cheese within the chest, O who will be doleful and vext?
My butter I will hide;
I'll bar the byre at milking time, Bare-kneed on the ground will I go--
Although you'll wait outside-- My hair on my shoulders let fall,
You'll maybe go another way-- Now hear me and never forget
Who'll care for you to bide? My curses I'll cast on you all

_Little increase to your clan!

The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
A CURSING The luck o' a Friday on moors!

Fire upon land be your lot!

So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues, Drowning in storm on the deep!
When the men will be fighting afar-- Leave not a son to succeed!
Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold Leave not a daughter to weep!
When it's only with women they'll war
Here's the bad meeting to you!
Weasels that creep in the dark! Death without priest be your fate!
Foxes that prowl in the night! Go to your grandfather's[3] house--
Rats that are hated and vile!-- The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_
O hasten you out of my sight!
[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil
Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?-- reputation, is extinct]
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof [Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]
If you hadna' a roof to your cave
[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"--The grave]
Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag! [Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"--The devil]
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves--
 O thy coolness and thy sweetness,
_Tober Mhuire_.
LEOBAG'S[1] WARNING. O thy sureness and completeness,
_Tober Mhuire_.
O this life I would be leaving,
Would Murdo make the wry mouth? With the greyness of its grieving,
Is Ailie cross-eyed? And the deeps of its deceiving,
O mock no more the beggar man, _Tober Mhuire_.
You'll scorn wi' pride!
The wind that will be blowing west, I would sip thy waters holy,
Might turn and blow south-- _Tober Mhuire_.
O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes While the drops of life drip slowly,
And Murdo's wry mouth. _Tober Mhuire_--
Till the wings of angel whiteness,
O mind ye o' the Leobag With their softness and their lightness,
And yon rock cod-- Blind me, fold me, in their brightness--
"Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried, _Tober Mhuire_.
"For the hook and rod!"
The tide it would be turning while
The Leobag would mock--
And that is why it's gaping as
It gaped below the rock. SLEEPY SONG.

[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.] (_Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight

from the Fians_.)

Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,

TOBER MHUIRE. Sleep in the deep lone cave;
Sleep a little--a little little,
(WELL OF ST MARY.) Love whom my love I gave--
Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Wearily falls the wave.
'Tis for thee I will be pining,
_Tober Mhuire_. Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Thou art deep and sweet and shining, Sleep, and have never a fear;
_Tober Mhuire_. Sleep a little--a little little,
In the dimness I'll be dying, Love whom I love so dear--
And my soul for thee is sighing A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
With the blessings on thee lying-- A weary wind I hear.
_Tober Mhuire_.
Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
O thy cool, sweet waters dripping, Sleep, while I watch till you wake;
_Tober Mhuire_, Sleep a little--a little little,
Now my sere lips would be sipping, Love whom I'll ne'er forsake--
_Tober Mhuire_. Sleep a little, and blessings on you
O my lips are sere and burning-- My lamb, or my heart will break.
For thy waters I'll be yearning,
And yon road of no returning,
_Tober Mhuire_.
 His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his
SONG OF THE SEA. hood
Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood
Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd
The sea sings loud, the sea sings low, Levarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his
And sweet is the chime of its ebb and flow doom and wept
Over the shingly strand;
For its strange, sweet song that woos my ear Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,
The first man heard, as the last shall hear-- And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his
Seeking to understand ... choice--
The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,
Had scented death, and pranced with
fearsome noise,
But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,
THE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN. Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,
And wept big tears of blood before him on the
ground
Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,
Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war
death; 'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,
And cold and awesome came the night-bird's Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,
cry-- Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from
An evil omen the magician saith-- us go?'
A low gust panted like a man's last breath, They smote their hands, and fast their tears
As morning crept into the chamber black; did flow--
Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plain
the rack. Full well he knew that he would ne'er return
again
For the last time his evil foemen came;
The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led. How vehement and how beautiful they swept--
The land lay smouldering with smoke and The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold
flame; And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,
The duns were fallen and the fords ran red; Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd
And widows fled, lamenting for their dead, The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold
To fair Emania on that fateful day, Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and
Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin spheres,
lay. Slender and tall and red--the King of
Charioteers!
Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,
Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,
eyes, His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh
The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare. A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,
And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise; He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and
Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise, high,
Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms, As flames the sun upon the western sky,
And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang His round shield from afar was flashing bright,
to arms. Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver
white
His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide
In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head
All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride-- thrown back,
 The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes
hair, blazed
Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows
black, He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew
Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless near
stare, 'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'
Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with
rare fear--
Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind 'Now link thy shields and close together
His shoulders shone with silver, floating in the throng,
wind And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long
Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,
Betimes three crones him meet upon the way, Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart
Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair--
Workers of spells and witcheries are they-- As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar
The brood of Calatin--beware! beware! Assault the giant trees and lay them low,
They proffer of their fulsome food a share, As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,
And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow--
'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,
despise' Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,
To drench the field with blood and round him
He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground, heap the slain
The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's
sake-- And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood
With spells and poisons had they cook'd a In feignčd strife upon a knoll of green,
hound, Their weapons clashing but unstained with
Of which he was forbidden to partake blood,
But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin A satirist him besought to intervene,
brake, Whereat he slew them as he drave between--
And their foul food he in his left hand took-- "Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while,
Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee
forsook revile."

For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget, 'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,"
When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night, Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,
Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and
jet, keen
Which scared the thief, and put the foe to And slew the satirist and nine beside,
flight! Then his fresh onslaught made the host divide
A tender youth thou wert of warrior might, And flee before him clamouring with fear,
And all the land did with thy fame resound, The while the stealthy Lugaid seized Cuchullin's
As Cathbad, the magician, named thee spear
'Culann's hound'
"O sons of Calatin," did Lugaid call,
Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd, "What falleth by the weapon I hold here?"
Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand, Together they acclaim'd, "A King will fall,
Till Ere with hate the hero did behold, For so foretold," they said, "the aged seer."
Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land, Then at the chariot he flung the spear,
His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand, And Laegh was stricken unto death and fell
In sunny splendour was his spear upraised, Cuchullin drew the spear and bade a last
farewell
 Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear,
"The victor I, and eke the charioteer!" And to his foemen called, "Come ye, and meet
He cried, and drave the war-steeds fierce and me here."
fast.
Another pair he slew, "To me thy spear," A vision swept upon his fading brain--
Again a satirist call'd. The spear was cast, A passing vision glorious and sweet,
And through the satirist and nine men pass'd That hour of youth return'd to him again
But Lugaid grasps it, and again doth call,-- When he took arms with fearless heart a-beat,
"What falleth by this spear?" They shout, "A As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat,
King will fall" "Who taketh arms upon this day of grief,
His name shall live forever and his life be brief"
"Then fall," cried Lugaid, as he flung the
spear-- Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye,
The Grey of Macha sank in death's fierce His body to the pillar-stone he bound,
throes, Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die ...
Snapping the yoke, the while the Black ran He would die standing ... so they gathered
clear: round
Cuchullin groan'd, and dash'd upon his foes; In silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground,
Another pair he slew with rapid blows, And watch'd the hero who with Death could
And eke the satirist and nine men near: strive;
Then once more Lugaid sprang to seize the But no man durst approach ... He seem'd to be
charmčd spear. alive ...

"What falleth by this weapon?" he doth call

"A King will fall," they answer him again ...
"But twice before ye said, 'A King will fall'" ...
They cried, "The King of Steeds hath fled the LOST SONGS.
plain,
And lo, the King of Charioteers is slain!" ...
For the last time he drave the spear full well, Harp of my fathers--on the mouldering wall
And smote the great Cuchullin--and Cuchullin Of days forgotten--like a far-off wind
fell Hushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall,
Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall
The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned,
alone That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.
The King of Heroes dying on the plain:
"I fain would drink," they heard Cuchullin Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees,
groan, I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme--
"From out yon loch" ... He thirsted in fierce The inner music quivering on the breeze
pain. I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas,
"We give thee leave, but thou must come On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time
again," That mingles with thy melodies sublime.
His foemen said; then low made answer he,
"If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me"

His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie,

And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no OTHER POEMS.
moan.
Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die, THE DREAM.
Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone ...
He wended to the standing pillar-stone,
'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream, The world, sustained by strife, endures in pain.
Measured by moments, that to me did seem,
A life-long spell of joy and peace to be-- "All things that are in conflict be,"
I murmured on the shelving strand,
Will that last dream that comes ere death Where struggling winds would fain be free--
descends, The tides in conflict with the wind's command,
From which I shall not wake to know it ends, Turned tossing, wearily--
Thus seem to live on through Eternity? I heard the loud sea labouring to the land--
I saw the dumb land striving with the sea.

FREE WILL.
SONNET.

Say not the will of man is free (_Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's._)
Within the limits of his soul--
Who from his heritage can flee?
Who can his destiny control? The drowsing city sparkles in the heat,
And murmur in mine ears unceasingly
In vain we wage perpetual strife, The surging tides of that vast human sea--
'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires-- The billows of life that break with muffled beat
Who leads must serve.. The pulse of life And vibrate through this high and lone retreat;
Throbs with the dictates of our sires. While over all, serene, and fair, and free,
Thy dome is reared in naked majesty
Since when the world began to be, Grey, old St Paul's ... In thee the Ages meet,
And life through hidden purpose came, Slumbering amidst the trophies of their strife.
From sire to son unceasingly And in their dreams thou hearest, while the
The task bequeathed hath been the same. cries
Of triumph and despair ascend from Life,
We strive, while fetters bind us fast, The murmurings of immortality--
We seek to do what needs must be-- Thou Sentinel of Hope that doth despise
We move through bondage with the past What was and is not, waiting what shall be!
In service to posterity.

"OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES."

STRIFE.

"Is baby dead?" he whispered, with wide eyes

Weary of strife-- Tearless, but full of eloquent regret,
The surge and clash of city life-- His childish face grown prematurely wise--
I sought for peace in solitude, Pond'ring the problem death before him set.
Within the hushed and darkened wood
And on the lonesome moor-- "Baby is dead," I answered, as I laid
But found contending leaf and root My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;
Engaged in conflict fierce though mute, "Oh! daddy, why did God do this?" he said,
While what was frail was slain And silently my heart made answer, "Why?"
By what was strong in dire dispute--
I sought for peace in vain!
He touched her white, worn face, and said, cloudy shape which haunts lonely moors, and
"How cold follows travellers, but
Is our wee baby now." ... His eyes were rarely does more than scare them.
deep ...
Then came his little brother, two years old, _My Fairy Lover_.--Fairies fell in love with
He looked, and lisped, "The baby is asleep." human beings, and deserted
them when their love was returned. Women of
unsound mind, given to
wandering alone in solitary places, were
believed to be the victims of
NOTES. fairy love.

_Yon Fairy Dog_ (An Cu Sith) was heard

_The Wee Folk_.--In Gaelic they are usually howling on stormy nights. He was
called "The Peace People" "big as a stirk," one informant has declared The
(sithchean). Other names are "Wee Folk" "fearsome tail" appears
(daoine beaga); "Light Folk" to have been not the least impressive thing
(slaugh eutrom), etc. As in the Lowlands, they about it. The MacCodrums
are also referred to as were brave and fearless, and were supposed to
"guid fowk" and "guid neighbours." be descended from Seals,
which were believed to be human beings under
_The Banshee_ (Beanshith).--Sometimes spells.
referred to as "The Fairy Queen,"
sometimes as "The Green Lady." She sings a _My Gunna_.--This kindly, but solitary, elf
song while she washes the herded cattle by night, and
clothes of one about to meet a swift and tragic prevented them from falling over the rocks. He
fate. In the Fian poems was seen only by those
she converses with those who see her, and gifted with the faculty of "second sight." The
foretells the fate of warriors Gunna resembles the
going to battle. Lowland "Brownie."

_The Blue Men of the Minch_ (Na Fir Ghorm).-- _Her Evil Eye_.--Belief in the Evil Eye is still
Between the Shant Isles quite common, even
(Charmed Isles) and Lewis is the "Stream of the among educated people, in the Highlands. Not
Blue Men." They are the a few children wear "the
"sea-horses" of the island Gaels. Their cord," to which a silver coin is appended, as a
presence in the strait was charm against the
believed to be the cause of its billowy influence of "the eye."
restlessness and swift currents.
_The Little Old Man of the Barn_ (Bodachan
_The Changeling_.--When the fairies robbed a Sabhaill).--Like the Gunna,
mother of her babe, they he is a variety the kindly Brownie, and assisted
left behind a useless, old, and peevish fairy, the needy.
who took the form of a
child. This belief may have originated in the _Nimble Men_ (Na Fir Chlis) are "The Merry
assumption that when a Dancers," or Aurora Borealis.
baby became ill and fretful, it was a changeling. It was believed that, when the streamers were
coloured, the "men and
_The Urisk_ is, if anything, a personification of maids" were dancing, and that after the dance
fear. It is a silent, the lovers fought for the
love of the queen. When the streamers are service were neglected. A favourite trick of the
particularly vivid, a pink Gruagach was to untie
cloud is seen below them, and this is called "the the cattle in the byre, so as to bring out the
pool of blood." It milkmaid, especially if
drips upon blood-stones, the spots on which are she had forgotten to leave the offering of milk.
referred to as fairy
blood (fuil siochaire). A wizard could, by waving _Tober Mhuire_ (St Mary's Well) is situated at
his wand, summon the Tarradale, Ross-shire.
"Nimble Men" to dance in the northern sky. When a sick person asks for a drink of Tober
Mhuire water, it is taken
_The Water Horse_ haunted lonely lochs, and as a sign of approaching death. It is a curious
lured human beings to a thing that this
terrible death. When a hand was laid on its reverence for holy water should be perpetuated
main, power to remove it was among a Presbyterian
withdrawn. people. Wishing and curative wells are
numerous in the North.
_A Cursing_--The Gaelic curses are quaint in
translation, but terrible _The Fians of Knockfarrel_.--This story belongs
in the original. to the Ossianic or Fian
cycle of Gaelic tales in prose and verse. Hugh
_Bonnach Fallaidh_.--It was considered unlucky Miller makes reference to
to throw away the it, but speaks of the Fians as giants. In
remnants of a baking. So the good-wife made a Strathpeffer district the tale
little bannock, which was is well known, and it is referred to in "Waifs and
pierced in the middle, as a charm against fairy Strays of Celtic
influence. It was given Tradition." It is also localised in Skye. There are
to a child for performing an errand, but the several Fian
charm would be broken if place-names in the Highlands. The warriors are
the reason for gifting it were explained. That supposed to lie in a
was the good-wife's charmed sleep in Craig-a-howe Cave, near
secret. It was also unlucky to count the Munlochy, Ross-shire. Caoilte,
bannocks, and when they fell, the swift runner, was a famous Fian. Finn was
"bad luck" was foretold. Finlay's bannock was chief, and Goll and Garry
not kneaded on the board were of Clan Morna, which united with the
or placed on the brander, but, unlike the other Fians. "Moolachie" is a little
bannocks, was toasted in babe, and "clarsach," a harp.
front of the fire.
_Ledbag's Warning_.--Children who twist their
_The Gruagach_ was a gentlemanly Brownie, mouths, or squint, are
who haunted byres. It was warned that, if the wind changes, their
never seen, although its shadow occasionally contortions will remain. The
danced on the wall as it fate of the flounder, which mocked the cod, is
flitted about. Often, when chased, it was heard cited as a terrible
tittering round corners. example.
In some barns, Clach-na-gruagach--"the
Gruagach's stone"--is still _Conn, Son of the Red_ is a Fian tale of which
seen. Milkers pour an offering of milk into the several old Gaelic
hollowed stone "for versions have been collected. Goll, the "first
luck." The cream might not rise and the churn hero" of the Fians, slew
yield no butter if this the Red when Conn, his son, was seven years
old. In the fullness of time
the young hero, whom his enemies admire as
well as fear, crossed the sea
to avenge his father's death, and engaged in a
long and fierce duel with
Goll.

_Death of Cuchullin_ is from the Cuchullin

Cycle of Bronze Age heroic
tales. The enemy have invaded and laid waste
the province of Ulster, and
the chief warriors of the Red Branch, except
Cuchullin, who must needs
fight alone, are laid under spells by the
magicians of the invaders. The
poem is suffused with evidences of magical
beliefs and practices.
Cuchullin goes forth knowing that he will meet
his doom. His name
signifies "hound of Culann." In his youth he slew
Culann's ferocious
watch-hound which attacked him, and took its
place until another was
trained. It was "geis" (taboo) for him to partake
of the flesh of a
hound (his totem), or eat at a cooking hearth;
but he must needs accept
the hospitality of the witches. The satirists are
satirical bards who,
it was believed, could not only lampoon a hero,
but infuse their
compositions with magical powers like
incantations. Cuchullin cannot be
slain except by his own spear, which he must
deliver up to a satirist
who demands it. Emania, the capital of Ulster,
was the home of the Bed
Branch warriors.

_Sleepy Song_.--When Diarmid eloped with

Grianne, as Paris did with
Helen, the Fians followed them, so that Finn,
their chief, might be
avenged. Diarmid, who is the unwilling victim of
Grainne's spells,
dreads to meet Finn, and is in constant fear of
discovery.