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THE GAELIC BAUDS

ORIGINAL POEMS.
a%|)
^M^rmoi^^ix;^^^^
The Gtaelic Bards,

OEIGINAL POEMS,

THOMAS PATTISON.
EDITED, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AND NOTES,

BY THE

Rev. JOHN GEORGE MAONEILL,

CAWDOR.

SECOND EDITION

GLASGOW:
ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR, PRINTER & PUBLISHER,
62 ARGYLE STREET.
18 90.
ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR, PRINTER AND PUBLISHER,
ARGYLK STREET, GLASGOW.
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The First Edition of ''The Gaelic Bards" having been

exhausted^ a new edition was called for. The work, in its

two sections of Modem Gaelic Bards, and of Ancient Gaelic

Bards is practically unchanged. A few vague and
uninteresting original poems have been omitted, but other
characteristic and popular pieces, such as " Captain Gorrie's
Ride," "The Praise of Islay," and "Haste from the
Window," have been inserted. Some distinct additions have

been made to the present edition, in the shape of a

biographical sketch, and appended illustrative notes by

the Editor. A portrait of the Author is also given.

In introducing the Second Edition to the public, the

Publisher and the Editor are confident that it will be
welcomed by their brother Celts at home and abroad, as an

acceptable contribution to the ever increasing important

department of Celtic Literature. The labour bestowed on
this Edition by the Publisher and the Editor, was
ungrudgingly given in the midst of the whirl and worry of
daily duty.
 PREFATORY NOTICE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

Thomas Pattison was a native of Islay, He was

designed for the Church, and after receiving a fair
elementary education at the Parish School of Bow-
more, was sent to the University of Edinburgh, and
afterwards to that of Glasgow. In the latter he
completed his studies, and became thereafter a licentiate
of the Church of Scotland. His excellent attainments,
enthusiasm in various departments
of literature, and
singular modesty of character, endeared him to his
family and friends; and his death, at an early age,
was profoundly mourned.
The friends of Mr. Pattison, on whom devolved the
duty of ushering the Metrical Translations and other
Literary Remains into the world, are indebted to one
who was his early school companion and dear friend,
now a clergyman of the Church of Scotland,* for the
following truthful and eloquent tribute to his sweet
and gentle memory:
"Without pronouncing an opinion on the merits of his
work as a literary composition, I am disposed to 'think
that those who are capable of estimating the difficulties
that surrounded the task of which these Translations are
the performance, will hail them as at least a valuable
contribution to a branch of study which has hitherto
received but scant measure of consideration. Perhaps it
*Rev. M. C. Taylor, D.D., Professor of Church History
and Divinity, Edinburgh University.
Viu PREFATORY NOTICE.

may be questioned whether Mr. Pattisox did not

attempt too much in the task which he set himself, and
whether the result at which he aimed was not beset by
unnecessary hindrances to a felicitous poetical translation.
In presenting his readers with a version of Gaelic Poems,
that conveys not only the substantial but the literal
meaning of the originals, and that combines the original
metres, line for line, with the English element of rhyme,
it is plain that lie had one fruitful source of embarrassment
to contend wdth from wdiich the Bards were free. At the
same time, such as can compare the Translations w4th the
originals, must acknowledge the remarkable fidelity with
which even the most difficult passages have been rendered
and, although they may censure the plan on which the
Translations were projected, they will not fail to make
allosvance for the difficulties it entailed. Even in this
particular the Translator's aim was high.
"But while anticipating for the volume a hearty
welcome at the hands of all for whom the poetry and
literary activity of an ancient and kindred people have
attractions, I fear it will give the reader little insight
into the fair proportions of the Translator's mind. Those
who knew his devotion to English Literature, his accur-
ate and profound acquaintance with its history, his
severe study of its greatest Masters, and the fine
combination of strength and culture with which he latterly
approached it, will feel with me that the translation of
Gaelic Poetry was not a fair test of his literary powers,
and that no amount of success in it can indicate the full
extent of the loss sustained by us in his death. All who
enjoyed his private friendship, are aware that his v/ork
on "The Gaelic Bards," was little more than an effort in
a bypath of his studies and pursuits. If I am not
mistaken, the impulse to it may be traced, in a great
measure, to the "Highland Tales," published by Mr. John
Campbell, of Islay. Being asked to assist in the collection
of materials for that work, Mr. Pattison responded by
 PREFATORY XOTICE. IX

giving his cordial co-operation. The result was an

enthusiasm in the cause of Gaelic Literature and
Antiquities ; an enthusiasm that gave a certain perman-
ence and character of real lifework to a pursuit accepted
in the first instance as a recreation. It led him step by
step, insensibly, away from his first intention. The
search for fugitive Gaelic lore in prose and verse,
languishing in every remote glen of his native Highlands,
led to independent researches, and a careful perusal of
tlie compositions of the Bards known to be in print.
With a feeling of sadness, pardonable in a Highlander,
he saw that the men of Celtic blood were being rapidly
absorbed into communities of Anglo-Saxon lineage and —
to rescue the poetry of the Clansmen from dying with the
Clans, he set himself the task of transfusing it into the
English tongue. The field was new to him, but he
entered on it with the ardour of one who was engaged in
a labour of love. It brought him once more in contact
with the scenes and associations of his boyhood. It
opened up glimpses of a national life which had for him
the freshness of the sea-breeze and the scented heather,
in the rambles of a long vacation. The student of Dante
and of Shakespeare, of Goethe and of Burns, felt that it
was indeed holiday-time with him on Ben-Dorain and in
Coire-Cheathaich, with Duncan Ban, or with MacDonald
and his boatmen aboard of the famous Birlinn of Clan-
Ranald.
" It was a vigorous and patriotic efibrt ; a right pleasant
recreation to begin with, conducted with infinite sj^irit
and very rapidly completed. If it bears on it, as we see
it now, in a posthumous volume, the marks of haste, I
am convinced it is because he felt that the fruits of more
important avocations were ripening, and that the claims
, of larger plans were pressing. Although, therefore, the
subject to which he devoted himself thus heartily for a
time, was congenial to his sentiments and feelings, it
certainly was not what he himself would have regarded
X PREFATORY NOTICE.

as most in harmony with the natural bent and develop-

ment of his genius, or as the proper fruit of his life's
true work,
"At the time when these Translations were commenced,
his health indeed was such as might well justify him in
making a digression from the main course of his pursuits,
for in youth he possessed the strength and litheness of an
athlete ; but, alas the hand of death stayed him, so that
!

he returned not to the old paths. It may be said that in

what was but an interlude in the great game of life, for
which he had trained himself with rare patience and
fortitude, he sank upon his shield. In this volume,
hastily prepared, we have at once his salutation and
farewell Moriturus nos salutat.
:

"We looked for his speaking to us from the heart of

English Literature, with which few men of his years stood
in such close relationship of thought and feeling. Old
letters are beside me still, indicating a genuineness of
discipleship to the leaders of thought in English speech,
from Chaucer to ^Yordsworth and Tennyson, such as
warranted the hope tliat he would, one day, himself
become a master, the influence of Avhose teaching would
be felt.
"He wrote much, that must still be accessible, during
the years in which his reading was most extensive and
his plans were being matured. Even his letters alluding,
as they do, from time to time, to the subjects on which
he was engaged, are themselves full of critical notices and
discussions of points of literary interest, with sonnet or
song, or stanza in heroic verse, interspersed by way of
offset to the prose, many of which are worthy of being
recast in a form of greater permanence. Must we despair
of seeing a selection made from these remains by a kindly
and discriminating hand 1 I cannot but believe that
some such selection would amply justify the expectations
of his friends, if it would also embitter the poignancy of
their regrets. Feelings of regret are already strong in
 PREFATORY NOTICE. XI

the breasts of those who knew hmi best ;

—
they feel that
his sun went down, not while it was yet day, but before
the radiant promise of the morning had broadened into
noon. They could wish that years had permitted him to
vindicate his devotion to letters, and his choice of a
secluded and studious life, as well as to prove to a wider
circle, than that of friends, that he had rightly estimated
his powers and understood his mission. Some of those
who began life with him, may have made more of it in a
way, and succeeded better in the world, as the world goes.
Some, no doubt, regarded him as unpractical, dreamy,
perhaps even indolent for his life was a hidden life to
;

such. They and he dwelt far apart. Yet few men were
more sagacious, or less visionary, making allowance for
difference of pursuits, and fewer still could have resisted
for so long a period the drain made by protracted vigils
and incessant mental effort on the vital powers. Few of
the busiest, in your busy city, worked harder in his own
way, or knew of idleness.
less Adisposition naturally
retiring, joined to a sensitive and gentle spirit that was
too just to take advantage of the weakness of others, and
too proud to stoop to anything that partook of artifice,
was somewhat out of joint, perhaps, with the usual
conditions of success. There were others, however, who
knew how to hold such a man in estimation. In their
eyes, he was a man who had deliberately made choice of
his vocation, and was following it out, in the spirit of an
earnest faith ; but a man, besides of genial temperament,
who was sincere in his friendship, and honourable in all

things.
taste,
To them,
and the
—grandaims
his life
nobleness of
in the simplicity
its —seemed to move
of its

bravely on, in an orbit of its own, till it 'shot on the

sudden into the dark.'
"It would seem as if men passed from the midst of us
at intervals, whose moral and intellectual worth, after
covering their own lives with its beauty, and bidding fair
to make lovelier the lives of many, were suddenly restrained
XU PREFATORY NOTICE.

by stern inscrutable" decree from wider influence. It is

as the stream that had worn its way from the bosom of
if
lone hills, and made beautiful its narrow course through
glen and gorge, were of a sudden to slip underground,
disappearing at its broadest and strongest, where the
wild flowers and grasses of the uplands give place to the
green verge of tilled and peopled plains. Their natural
genius, and the discipline they willingly undergo, because
the eye is fixed on some farther goal, haying served to
trim their own lifers hark, these men quit us on a voyage
in which we may be borne to them, but from which they
cannot return to us. Such men are understood only by
the few who feel their power and influence, as those of a
life rich in its own gifts, and moving altogether, with its
faith, hopes, aims and labours, in a plane higher than
that on which the traflic of ordinary minds is driven.
"It is fortunate for men of this order, especially
fortunate for those of them whose lot is cast in these
exceeding practical times of ours, that they have found a
champion Avhose shield protects them from the unfeeling
pity of that portion of the world that is busied only with
material interests, as well as from the taunts of all who
measure themselves and others by small successes in
ignoble spheres. Of this order Arthur Hallam may now
be regarded as the Rein-esentative, and "In Memoriam"
as the enduring Vindication. To that same order of
minds, and that same band of pure, high-souled, devoted
men, whom "God's ordinance of Death" withheld from
the achievement of a distinction commensurate with their
powers, belonged Thomas Pattison.

" 'Sleep sweetly tender heart in peace:

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.'
 BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

Thomas Pattison, the translator of the "Gaelic Bards,"

and the author of these Original Poems, was the son
of Mr. Peter Pattison, tenant of the farm of Skerrols.
His mother's name was Bethia MacLean, daughter of
Mr. Lachlan MacLean, who occupied the farm of Cladach
in the neighbourhood of the village of Portnahaven.
It was a memorable event in the quiet annals of the
parish of Kilchoman, when on the same day, Lachlan
MacLean, Cladach, and Samuel CraM^ford, Ealabus,
married the two sisters, Lucy and Peggie, daughters
of Mr. James Campbell, of Balinaby. Crawford was a
vigorous pluralist who exercised the threefold functions
of Medical Practitioner, of Factor of the Islay Estate,
and of Miller. During the minority of W. P. Campbell,
Esquire of Islaj, who in 1816 succeeded his grand-
father, " Old Shawfield," Mr. Peter Pattison rented
for a few years the Home Farm of Islay House, where
his father Mr. Thomas Pattison was gardener. After
that, he took the farm of Skerrols, and married Bethia
MacLean. All their children were born during his
occupancy of this farm. The farmer of Skerrols was no
less distinguished for his physical energy, than for his
mental ability. It was he who wrote the spirited and
crushing reply to the ill-founded attack which Dr.
MacCulloch made upon the character of the Highlanders.
An entry in the Baptismal Register of the parish of
—
Kilarrow is in these words, '-Peter Thomas Pattison,
son of Peter Pattison and Bethia MacLean, born 27tli
August, 1828."
XIV BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

After Mr. Pattison's death, the widow and family-

removed from Skerrols to Bowmore, and thence to that
charming sea-side villa, Fern Cottage, on a farm called
in Gaelic Bainneach Mhbr. The predecessor of the
Pattisons in this cottage was ]Mr. Soutar, the father-in-law
of the late Rev. William Barclay, M.A., Free Church
minister of Auldearn, Nairnshire. The Parish School of
Bowmore was about a mile from Fern Cottage. This
school has been successively taught by competent and
successful teachers, such as Dr. MacKintosh MacKay,
Mr. — Russell, M.A., Mr. John Taylor, and Mr. David
MacBean, whose son the Rev. John MacBean, M.A.,
is the Free Church minister of the well-known Gaelic
parish of Killin, Perthshire. Special reference may
be made here to two of them. 1. The Rev. M.
MacKay, LL.D., who afterwards rose to be one
of the Moderators of the Assembly of the Free Church
of Scotland, was the
literary friend of Sir Walter
Scott, and that premiei' of biographers, Mr. John
of
Gibson Lockhart. Dr. MacKay is widely known for his
accurate knowledge of the Gaelic language. When he
was minister of the parish of Laggan in Inverness-shire,
he acted as tutor to Mr. William Forbes Skene, who
afterwards became the celebrated historian of "Celtic
Scotland." Dr. George MacDonald, poet and novelist is a
near relation of Dr. MacKay. 2. Mr. John Taylor, the

learned teacher of the Greek and the Latin classics, whose

two sons, the Rev. M. 0. Taylor, D.D., the cultured
Professor of Church History and Divinity in the Univer-
sity of Edinburgh, and the Rev. Duncan Taylor, Avon-
dale, are honoured names in the Established Church of
Scotland. Thomas Pattison was one of Mr. Taylor's
favourite pupils. First at the University of Edinburgh,
and afterwards at that of Glasgow, the gentle, sensitive,
and shy student prosecuted his studies with diligence and
zeal. With his devotion to ancient and modern literature
he gradually became well acquainted with the princes of
 BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XV

poetry from Chaucer to Tennyson, and with the peers of

prose from Bacon to Carlyle. The father of the v/riter
loves to speak of the day on which he drove Mr. Pattison
and Mr. Taylor to the meeting of the Presbytery of Islay
at which the former was licensed to preach the Gospel.
It is a curious occurrence, that the driver of that day, and
his family afterwards resided in Fern Cottage, and that
a son of his was also one of Mr. Taylor's scholars, and
that this son, and his wife, a daughter of the publisher of
the first edition of the "Gaelic Bards" passed the first night
of their married life in Islay, in this cottage, which was
once the weird habitation of mysterious Dr. Brash, and
after that, the fancy-inspiring abode of the wooer of the
Muses, Mr. Pattison. Thomas Pattison in his youthful
days frequently walked to Skerrols to hear the Pev. Jas.
Pearson. Was this because that like Mr. Donald Matli-
ieson, a well-educated farmer of Kynagarry, and the
author of a series of interesting letters, "he found relief
and comfort under the ministry of Mr. Pearson V Had
Mr. Pattison at the date of his license been able to read
and to preach Gaelic fluently, he might have been settled
as pastor of one of the vacant charges in his native island.
It was then he visited the Pious Labourer who "lived in
a small cottage, thick with heather thatched." In this
lonely, rustic house, built beside Loch na Crannaig, Laggan,
the young divine and the aged pilgrim perused together
the Volume of Life in the soul-thrilling tongue of the
GaeL Pattison might well say:

" Isaiah here hath rapt my soul

And Job hath thrilled me through."
Again, in his eloquent tribute to the moral worth of his
saintly friend, there occurs this touching thought, "And
I'm persuaded Angels may have caught themes for their
praises from this cottar's acts."
The democratic tone of Pattison's writings touches a
sympathetic cord in the Highland heart. This appears
XVI BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.

and re-appears all through his productions. This very-

much accounts for the popular appreciation of his work.
His instinctive adoj^tion of the ennobling principle of
universal brotherhood, that "A man's a man for a' that,"
is evinced by the innumerable tributes his literary labours
called forth. In any correct estimate of his work, the
range of his imagination, and the intensity of his emotions
should be carefully considered. This gifted son of Islay,
as a co-worker with other true yokefellows, wrought
nobly for the intellectual awakening, and for the social
advancement of his beloved Celts. "Man's inhumanity
to man" moved his soul to its depths. Had he lived to
our day, he would certainly have stepped forth as the
unflinching advocate of the peo^^le's rights. This trait of
his character very much endeared Mr. Thomas Pattison
to his admirer and publisher, Mr. Archibald Sinclair.
With and
his enthusiasm in the cause of Celtic literature
antiquities, Mr. Pattison, if had been spared,
his life
might, like his contemporaries Mr. William Black and
Mr. Robert Buchanan, have achieved renown in the
departments of creative effort. In his prose writings he
shows no strivings after the graces of a literary style.
But his Translations of "The Gaelic Bards" into English
verse, although beset by enormous difficulties and
embarrassments, have been executed with marvellous
fidelity and success. They are good specimens of the
author's literary deftness.
Pattison's life-like pen-portraits, in the best pieces of
his Original Poems, remind me of the graphic and vivid
pictures of persons and of places in Pollok's "Course of
Time." Pattison, like Pollok, clearly rings out the
heart-consoling notes of steadfast faith, of fadeless love,
and of deathless hope. The Gaelic Bards, such as
Alexander MacDonald, Duncan Ban Maclntyre, Dugald
Buchanan and others, besides largely enriching Gaelic
Literature with admirable original creations of their rich
and well-balanced imaginations, caught by their musical
 BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XVll

ear the melodious airs and the vibrating strains of Celtic -

melodies and their tuneful soul wedded them in their

respective works to matchless Gaelic verse. Their
historic faculty seized upon the popular aspects of
Highland scenery, story and romance, and these their
artistic eye painted in unfading colours on the canvas of
descriptive song. Their work is deeply rooted in the
hearts of the Gaelic people. Like the great masters of
religious poetry, Dante and Milton, our Gaelic Bards
hold to the central truths of our religion and to a belief
in the glorious resurrection of the body, and in the joyful
ennoblement of life beyond the grave. In the words of
Kobert Browning our Gaelic Bards,
*
'Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted,
Wrong'wculd triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to awake."

Of the broad sympathies and deep yearnings of the human

heart expressed with genuine feeling and real poetic
power in the Gaelic Originals, Thomas Pattison became
the faithful interpreter in his felicitous English Trans-
lations.
Peter Thomas Pattison died on the 16th day of
October, 1865, at 28 Florence Place, Glasgow: aged, 37
years.
J. G. MACNEILL.
Free Manse, Cawdor, 1890.
 CONTENTS.
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Introduction, -------
-----
Page
xxiii

Alexander MacDonald, l

The Sugar Brook,------

Manning of the Birlinn,

-----
Hail to the Mainland,
- - - - 8
28
34
Flowers (from the Ode to Summer), - - 35
Birds (from the Ode to Winter), - - - 36
The Grouse Cock and Hen, - - - - 37
Morag and other Belles, - _ _ - 38
Song of the Highland Clans, - - - - 39
The Praise of the Lion,
Duncan Ban MacIntyre, ----- _ - - - 42
49

Ben Dorain, -------

Introduction to Ben Dorain, _ - _ 54
55

Coire Cheathaich,
Introdiiction to "Màiri
-----
Introduction to " Coire Cheathaich,"

bhan òg," -
-

-
-

-
60
61
66
Song to his Spouse, newly wedded, - - 68
The Praise of Dunedin, . - - - 73

A Rhyme to Thirst,
Introduction to
-----
From the Song of Glenorchy,

"The Last Farewell

- - -

to the Hills,"
77
79
80
The Last Farewell to the Hills, - - - 82
 CONTENTS.

DuGALD
The
Buchanans',
Skull,
-.___.
----___ 35
91
From the Ode to Winter, - - - -
94
From the Day of Judgment, - - - _ 95
Rob Donn, 99
The Greedy Man and the World, - - - 100
The Shielmg Song, - - - _ _ 102
The Death-Song of Hugh, - - - - 105
William Ross, - - _ . _ _ _
^qT
The Cuckoo on the tree, - - - - 109
Mary MacLeod, -
MacLeod's Ditty,
- - _

----_. _ _ .
m
112
MacGregor's Lullaby, - - - - _ _ ng
Gregor MacGregor's Lament, - - - II7
Sorrow now fills me, - - _ _ _ 12I
The Braes of Ceathach,
Fugitive Songs,
Och mar tha mi,
----___ - -
.

-
-

- •
-

_
_

_
124
126
127
The ''Gille dubh,
Hoog orin O ! ---___
--____
ciar dubh," - - - 130
132
Sick ! Sick
A Maiden's Lament,
The Boatman,
-----
-----_
133
135
'-[37

Monaltri,
Mali Bheag Og,
-

----__ - - - _ _ .
^39
141
Breigein Binneach,
Màiri Laghach,
The
---_-_
love that will not fade,
- -

-
-

-
-

-
.

-
^44
145
147

ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

OssiANic Poetry,
The SAveetest Sound, -
---___- - - _ _
149
157
The Banners of the Feinne, - - _ i(j2
 CONTENTS. XXI

Ossian and Evir-Alin,

The Death of Oscar,
-----
----- 165
170
The Lay of Diarmad ; or Fingal's Revenge, 177
Ossian's Address to the Hising Sun, - - 184
Address to the Setting
Dan do'n Ghrein,
Translation of the same,
-----
Summer

_
Sun,

-
-

-
-

-
188
191
192
A Sail in the
The Bed of
Hebrides,
Gaul,
Fingal going to battle,
-----
-

-
-

-
-

-
-

-
194
196
198
The Four Wise Men at Alexander's Grave, 200
The Aged Bard's Wish, - - - - 203
Yerses addressed to Mr. E. Llhuyd, - - 212

ORIGINAL POEMS.
A Fair Day, ------
------ 219
Loch-in-daal,
Sir Lachlan Mòr, ------
-----
227
230
The Pious Labourer,
-----
Captain Gorrie's Ride,
The Haunted Water of Dubh-thalamh, -
235
239
244
Knowest thou the Land ? - - - - 250

Dear Islay, -------

The Islander's Guiding Star,

-----
- - - 251
253
Hollow Friendship,
Little Emmeline, ----- 255
256

Old Memories, ..-.-.

Oppressors and the Oppressed,

Farewell of the Emigrant, -

-

-
-

-
-

-
258
259
261
Haste from the Window,
Bi falbh o'n Uinneig, ----- - - - - 262
263
The Praise of Islay,
Moladh na Landaidh,
Notes on the Original Poems,
----- - - -
264
265
268
 INTRODUCTION

In the introduction to a small work which assumes the

flattering title of "The Book of Scottish Song," I find
the following sentences :
—
" Nearly all the beautiful music,
and delicious snatches of song, commonly considered to
be Scottish, belong to that section of Scotland known as
the Lowlands, and a country in which the people speak
one of the many 'Doric' dialects of the Saxon English
language." . ."If a line be drawn from Greenock on
.

the Clyde north-east by Perth to Inverness, it will be

found that by far the greater portion of the songs and
melodies which are known as Scotch, to Scotchmen and
to the w^orld, and of which Scotchmen speak and write
with the highest pride and enthusiasm, have been
produced to the south and east of it."
—
"North-west of that line is the land of the Gael of the
semi-barbarous and imperfect instrument the bagpipe, of
wild pibroch tunes, of rude melodies, very little known
and still less admired, and of a species of song which has
rarely been considered worth the trouble of translation.
But on the louth-east of the line, and all the way to the
English Border, where the Saxon tongue prevails, and
where the minds of the people have for ages had access
to English literature, the land is vocal with sweet
sounds." .... "The Highlander who has no right or title
to this music or song, is as proud of both as the
XXIV INTRODUCTION.

Lowlander; and not unfrequently claims for his own wild

melodies and for his rude attempts at lyrical poetry in
the language of the Gael, a large portion of the admiration
lavished upon compositions of a totally different origin
and character. The Lowlanders, while they admit the
claim of the Highlanders, take to themselves the little
that is good in Celtic music and song, in order that with
it they may swell the triumphs of a land, that not being
geographically English, is considered to be Scotch."*
When such utter ignorance, and such absurd mis-
statements, are found in a book which, both from its title
and its subject, ought to show better things when we —
know, moreover, that not merely strangers, but the
Scottish people themselves —
many even of the High-
landers, and almost all the Lowlanders are quite unaware
of the immense mass of popular poetry belonging to their
country, which is treasured in the Gaelic Language, and
do not frequently so much as know the names of poets
whose admirable works should do so much to raise the

* The following letter from Dr. Charles MacKay, who wrote

the introduction to "The Book of Scottish Song," appeared in
the Highlander, May 31, 1873.

Reforji Club, Londok, May 24, 1873.

Sir, — The Edinburgh correspondence of the Highlander

contains a mention of me, which requires a word, not of con-
tradiction, but of explanation on my part. It is true that twenty
years ago I wrote the sentences which your correspondent quotes
with good natured condemnation. I have only to plead ignorance
in excuse for the heresy of which I was guilty and to confess
;

that at that time, I knew nothing of the venerable and

beautiful language of my ancestors, and had imbibed erroneous
ideas from the ways of Dr. Johnson and other prejudiced and
incompetent critics. I am wiser now, and every day discover
new beauties in the Gaelic, and widely spread proofs of its
influence over all the languages now spoken in Western Europe,
as I hope to be able to prove in my forthcoming volume.
 INTRODUCTION. XXV

lyric glory of Caledonia, it is surely time for those who,

happening to have been more favourably circumstanced,
are on this point better instructed, to endeavour to show
their countrymen how much they have been neglecting
how unfair they have been to the Highlands and their
inhabitants, when they believe on the worst, or on no
authority at all, that the lyric genius, which has made
Scotland so famous, has been bounded by an imaginary
geographical line, and that the descendants of the people
who have given the northern half of the British Isle all
the names by which it ever has been known, have used a
language always unblest by the spoken music of sentiment,
and have done nothing to add to the glory of their land,
except what was reaped on the fields of battle by their
strong arms and their hardy valour. This shows the
folly into which peoj^le will stray, who take upon
themselves to dictate with regard to things they do not
even endeavour to understand. Of the Lowland Scottish
Language, and its claims to be considered something
different from, and higher than the provincial dialects of
the English counties, we have nothing to say at present,
neither does it come in our way to speak of Scottish
Music, or of its origin, Highland or Lowland, Celtic,
Scandinavian, or Saxon, or a union of them all but we
;

make this one remark in passing, that Highland music is

very unfairly characterised when it is termed "rude and
wild," meaning thereby, not that it has never received
any scientific culture, which is quite true, but obviously
that it is destitute of beauty, of natural grace and
artistic feeling, to afiirm anything like which is to assert
something outrageously false. Whatever of tenderness,
of freshness of natural elegance, of depth of sentiment
there is in the Lowland Scotch Music, any one who goes
about such inquiry, in an unprejudiced spirit, will find
in the Highland melodies too, and not in a inferior
degree. I remember hearing a gentleman, himself a
musician, well acquainted with music in its highest and
 XXVI INTRODUCTION.

most elaborate departments say, that Highland melodies,

—
Avhen properly played or sung that is with their own
—
simple and peculiarly expressive character thrilled him
through with an amazing power. He felt as in a moment
surrounded Avith Highland scenery, its lofty mountains
and sweet glens, its sounding winds and waters, its mists
and varied skies, and old historic associations, and he was
accordingly profoundly affected. I can well understand
this, for no music can be more like a living wail of
sorrow, or a living laugh of joy, than that which melts
our hearts, or makes them dance beneath its magic
influence in the sweet wild notes of the mountain melodies
of the Highlands. For my own part I will yield to no
Scotchmen whatever in admiration of everything that is
good and beautiful, and distinctively characteristic in
Scottish poetry, no matter where or by whom produced;
but I believe there is a chapter, and that not the worst
in it, yet to be added to "The Book of Scottish Song;"
and I believe, when that chapter is added, this book will
contain a treasure of popular national lyrics such as is
possessed by no other nation in the world.
In the following pages I attempt to show, not only
that there is as much Highland poetry, in proportion to
the population, as there is af Lowland poetry, but that it
possesses as much variety, and as high excellence of its
own, as the Lowland Scottish poetry, of which we are all
so justly proud, With regard to the poetry current at
one time or another in the Highlands, a sim})le statement
of one or two well-known facts will be sufficient to
render that strikingly evident, and to prove that poetic
genius was abundantly possessed by the inhabitants of
the mountain and insular districts of Scotland. In Roid's
"Bi])liotheca Scoto-Celtica, an account of all the books
that have been printed in the Gaelic Language," there is
a list given of fifty-eight different volumes of Gaelic
/^ poetry, containing the words of well-known bards, or the
result of collections made orally throughout the Highlands.
 INTRODUCTION. XXVU

Reid's book was published in 1832. Since then very

important additions have been made to the poetical
literature of the Highlanders. Besides many minor
publications, a collection of Gaelic poetry, made by Sir
Duncan MacGregor, Dean of Lismore, more than three
hundred years ago, and containing selections from the
compositions of fifty Gaelic bards, none of whom is
included in the fifty-eight volumes already mentioned, has
been published in 1862. About twenty-five years ago
MacKenzie's "Beauties of Gaelic Poetry" was published.
This work, without interfering with tJie Ossianic poetry
at all, gives specimens of the productions of thirty-six
noted Gaelic bards, along with a rather limited selection
of fugitive Gaelic lyrics, among which, it may be interest-
ing to notice, there is a song by the grandfather of the
late Lord MacAulay, so that there is no difliculty in
guessing whence that distinguished writer inherited his
poetical genius. The "Beauties of Gaelic Poetry"* is a
large book, with small print and double columns. It
contains more than thirty thousand lines of poetry, in
many difierent kinds of rhyme and rhythm, and on a
vast variety of subjects. These poems are in point of
style quite as polished, and in jDoint of structure quite as
complete, as elaborate, and as finished as any such

* To the excellent publications of Reid and MacKenzie may be

—
added: (1) Campbell (J.F., of Islay) LeaWiar na Feinne;
Heroic Gaelic Ballads, consisting of 54,169 lines, collected in i

Scotland chiefly from 1512 to 1871, copied from old manuscripts, f-*
preserved at Edinburgh and elsewhere and from rare books; and |
[
orally collected since 1859 with lists of collections, and of their
contents and with a short account of the documents quoted ; and
;

—
published in 1872. And (2) Archibald Sinclair (of 62 Argyle
Street, Glasgow) Ant-Oronaiche; The Gaelic Songster, a valuable
collection of 290 Gaelic Songs, composed by nearly as many
different authors, and published in 1879. There is also a vast
mass of unsystematised and uncatalogued religious poetry in
Gaelic. £d.
XXVlll INTRODUCTION.

collection has ever been or ever can be, although they are,
in a great measure, the compositions of authors who were
quite uneducated, many of whom could neither read nor
write. I am far from saying that they are all equally
good, or that they are all worthy of being translated; but
I can safely assert, that none of them is altogether bad,
and that a good many of them are really of the first
excellence in their class. They range in length from the
heroic or descriptive imaginative chant, sometimes eight
or nine hundred lines long, down to the little lay of
three or four stan-zas.
I know that he who would translate from the Gaelic must
brace up his faculties for the work, or else he had better
let the thing altogether alone. It will not be sufficient
to give a feeble echo of the Highland sentiment, in
dawdling slipshod English, or to dress it in some shabby
threadbare Lowland garb. In every Gaelic song that
deserves translation, there is not merely something that
is good, but something that is characteristic of its birth-
place, and that is not therefore in the English or
Lowland lyric. The air and sun of the great mountains,
and the tuneful sea-lochs, have breathed and shone upon
the poetry of the Highlands, and given its every feature
their own peculiar tan. The translator's difficulty is to
preserve this, and it is no small one. I am well aware of
that; but yet I trust, the Highland Poems here rendered,
will be found to retain something of their own look. I
hope that no one who knows them in the original, will
feel that they have lost all that is good in their old
expression, when I present them with an English face.

THOMAS PATTISON.
Glasgow, 1866.
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

ALEXANDER MACDOKALD.
Alexander MacDonald, always styled by his own
countrymen, Mac Mhaighstir Alastair, i.e. the son of
Mr. Alexander, a man of very vigorous parts, and to say
the least of it, unexcelled in point of general ability by
—
any of the Gaelic Bards was the son of the Episcopalian
clergyman for the parishes of Ardnamurchan and
—
Moidart at the end of the seventeenth, and beginning
of the eighteenth century.
His father resided at Dalilea in Moidart, and would
appear to have united the pleasant calling of the High-
—
land Tacksman with the functions not over-burdensome
probably in a Presbyterian country, of the Episcopalian
clergyman.
This gentleman is said to have been a man of immense
bodily strength — nor is it strange that this quality is not
forgotten, even in a man who exercised his sacred vocation;
for it was a gift not superfluous in his circumstances
not one which the habits of his Christian flock allowed to
rust in him unused. For instance, he had to walk to his
church many miles every Sunday, over a rough country,
at that time, without roads ; and then, after conducting
the service, back to his home in the evening.
Again, the funerals, which, in his clerical capacity, he
attended, were not always decorous scenes. His parish-
ioners, on such occasions, used to bring with them a
 2 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

—
quantity of whisky which being freely dispensed to the
mourners, caused a good deal of excitement that did not
always pass peaceably away.
When the war of words changed into actual conflict,
and the voice of reason could no longer be heard in the
tumult, then the clergyman dashed in person into the
fray, and settled the disputes on which his pastoral advice
was w^asted, by the strength of his right hand the —
stoutest combatant, it is afiirmed, seeing more than he
quite cared to face, when he found he had to reach his
antagonist through the intervening prowess of his
minister. This strong pacificator, however, laid himself
open to the charge of not dealing with perfect impartiality
in his interference w-hen the men of Moidart, wdio were
his friends and relatives, happened to quarrel with the
neighbouring men of Suainart who were comparatively
;

strangers to him, and to his flock. His hand was heavier

on the men of Suainart than on the men of Moidart.
Such was the well-known "Mr. Alexander," as the son
of wdiom, their distinguished poet, Alexander MacDonald,
is ahvays spoken of by the Highlanders."*^

Of the own life, very little more than a few

poet's
dates, is recorded. Even the date of his birth is nowhere
U- mentioned; nor do we hear much of his education, though
he was almost the only one of the Gaelic Bards who
received anything like a scholastic training. Not that

A kindred soul with the above, and also a contemporary of

*
his,was a Rev. Mr. Stewart, who followed Viscount Dundee's
army, in 1689. When the Highlanders made their impetuous and
decisive charge at the battle of Killiecrankie, this gentleman,
accompanied them wielding a heavj'^ broad-sword. He used his
weapon with such eflfect in the battle and pursuit, that eleven of
the Royalists sank beneath its sway. When his excitement
cooled down, howevei', he found that he could not draw his hand
from the basket-hilt of his sword; nor was it tifl a friend had cut
through the net-Avork, that the warlike ecclesiastic was able to
resume his ordinary appearance.
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 6

the influence of his scholarship, whateA^er its extent might

be, leaves any decided trace in his writings Far from it.
There he is always the pure Highland singer ; with the
exception, at most, of the occasionaj use of an English
word ; or of a proper name like Phcebus, borrowed from
the Greek mythology. His masters in poetry were those
of his own countrymen, who were his predecessors ; and
the inspiration which his country itself, with its history,
sentiments, and scenery, atforded him, as well as them.
With regard to his tuition, we are told that he studied
first under his father's superintendence and latterly, for
;

a year or two, at the Glasgow University. According to

one account, his father intended him for his own pro-
fession, but discovered something in his character, or
conduct, that did not suit well with this idea.
According to another account, the Clan-Ranald of the
day, being fond of patronising young men of merit, wished
to educate him for the bai-; but an early marriage,
imprudently contracted by the poet, interrupted his
studies before he was qualified for a profession. To
support his family, MacDonald was obliged to leave
college, and retire to Ardnamurchan where he lived,
;

—
teaching and farming, and composing poetry a Presby-
terian, and an elder of the Established Church, till the
year 1745 when, he not only forsook his all to join
:

Prince Charles, but even changed his religion, and became

a Catholic. The fiery and warlike songs with which he
roused his countrymen, and animated their devotion for
the unfortunate Stuart cause, show how true a Jacobite,
and how good a poet, the son of Mr. Alexander was.
He held a commission in the Highland Army, but whether
he actually served in the field or not, does not clearly Ij
appear. After the battle of Culloden, he lived in hidings,
in the wood and caves of Ceannloch nan TJamh in the
district of Arisaig, and was exposed to considerable
hardships for some time. On one occasion, when lurking
about with his brother Angus, the cold was so intense.
 4 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

that the side of MacDonalcl's head, which rested on the

ground, became quite grey in a single night.
After this, he lived a short time in Edinburgh, teaching
the children of some of his Jacobite friends. But he soon
returned again to the Highlands, where he remained till
his death, which happened (in what year is not stated),
when he had reached " a good old age."
Reid, in his "Bibliotheca Scoto-Celtica," gives a
description of the poet's personal appearance and habits,
which is certainly very far from flattering.
fr " In person," Mr. Reid says, " MacDonald was large
and ill-favoured. His features were very coarse and
irregular. His clothes Avere very sluggishly put on, and
generally very dirty. His mouth was continually fringed
with a stream of tobacco-juice, of which he chewed a very
great quantity. His manner of composition was to lie on
his back, in bed in winter, or on the grass in summer,
with a large stone on his breast, muttering to himself in
a low whisper his poetical aspirations."
It is in reference to this and other parts of Reid's
notice of MacDonald, that MacKenzie in his "Beauties of
Gaelic Poetry " says, " Like most men of genius, who
have made some noise in the world, Mac Mhaighstir
Alastair has been much lauded, on the one side, by the
party whose cause he espoused, and as much vilified, and
as much falsified, by the other jDarty. Mr. Reid in his
book, Bibliotheca Scoto-Celtica,' seems to have had his
'

imformation from the last mentioned source."

The grotesque description of MacDonald then, just
quoted, is probably a total fabrication ; or at any rate,
a gross caricature by one of his enemies. Who ever
heard of a poet, or any sane man, lying on his back in
his bed, or on the grass, with a stone on his breast when
he was composing ! A small spice of malice, or a drop of
envy to anoint the eyes, and a description of Burns might
very readily be given about as bad as the above
substituting the smell of whisky for tobacco-juice, and
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD.

the wet bundle of straw on which he composed "Mary

in Heaven," for the stone on the breast when he was
composing.
MacDonald's first work was a Gaelic and English
Vocabulary, published in 1741. His poems were pub-
lished in Edinburgh in 1751, They formed one of the
earliest volumes of original poems ever published in Gaelic.
A second edition appeared in 1764. This little book con-
tained only thirteen poems ; but a good many more were
added to it, after the Author's death. Tt is supposed,
however, that not more than a tenth part of his Songs
and Poems have been given to the world a number of
:

his MSS. having been torn, tossed about, and lost in the
house of one of his sons. So his poetry, though in respect
to quality, it holds a very distinguished rank, is in regard
to its quantity, far from being in the first place among
the works of Gaelic Bards.
Alexander MacDonald displays a great command of the
Gaelic language, and a vast deal of talent and energy.
He is a vehement, rapid, and exciting singer, as a general
rule ; but yet, he is by no means deficient in tenderness
and grace especially in his many sweet and pastoral
;

descriptions of Nature. He is the most warlike, and

much the fiercest of Highland poets, indeed almost the
only one of them all, at least for three centuries back, to
whom this trait can with any truth be ascribed.
Although his poems are few in number, only thirty-one
altogether, they exhibit more variety of excellence on the
whole than those, perhaps of any of his fellow singers.
While, although not so smooth and equable as Duncan
Ban Maclntyre, he is equalled by no other when at his
best.
The poem which follows, is considered by many
Highlanders to be the most important production in their
language. No poem is ever spoken of in the same breath
with it, except the " Coire Cheathaich" or " Ben Dorain"
of Duncan Ban ; and, even these, are perhaps not always
b MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

looked on, with quite the same pride though, being

;

easier understood, and composed altogether in a more

elegant style, they probably impart fully as much
pleasure, both to hearers and readers. Yet, if all Gaelic
poems were to be destroyed, and one only excepted from
the general ruin, I believe the voices of the majority of
Highlanders Avould fix on "The Birlinn of Clan- Ranald,"
as that one. The reason of this preference, ho^vever, may
be those very peculiarities of style and structure, the
tendency of which wdll be, perhaps, as much to repel as to
attract a stranger, at least, in the outset. I think,
however, no one can read this poem with attention and
intelligence, without deeming it, in every respect as —
regards expression, arrangement, conception singularly —
original without finding in it much graphic painting
;

and feeling it to be emphatically lively and energetic.

Such a reader will discover many minute touches in the
poem to please him, though they might escape a more
careless eye :
—
such for instance as the incitement to the
rowers to

*'
Wound the huge swell on the ocean meadow,
Heavy and deep.

Or this other,

" Let broad grasp

5''our fists' he loJdtening
In your rowing!"

Or how the effect of the cry " Suas oirr' !".

*' Hurls the Birlinn through the cold glens,

Loudly snoring.

Or again when they are iold in the Boat-song to

"Let the grey sea ever foaming,

Splash her forMard pressing sliouMers,
And the currents groan and mingle
Far behind her."
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD.

Or the description of the steersman, who is to he,

"A well set prop full of vigour,

Broad-seated, thick,
Stout and sure, and skilful and wary,
Cautious, yet quick."

Or that of the balesman,

"His trust he'll rigidly discharge it,

Neither faint nor slack,
Nor straightening, while a drop remaineth.
His bending active back ;
'Though her boards should all get riddled,
He must keep her snug,
As a well made lid, close fitting,
Keeps a polished jug."

Then, there is the description of the storm, in which

the Birlinn made her first entry on the open sea. This,
as a more elaborate and sustained effort of the poet's
imagination, cannot fail to attract the notice of a dis-
cerning reader. The elements are let loose in their
wildest fury, and terror is heaped on terror round the
good ship of Clan-Eanald, as she courses on her perilous
way from Uist to Carrickfergus and not until all her
;

sails are rent, and every board and plank in her are
strained, does the poet fiag or stop to draw breath, or let
" the rough v/ind bitter boaster" —
" ruffle round her fair."
But though possessing many such notable points as the
preceding, though altogether so remarkable a production,
so very vigorous, so very characteristically Highland,
" The Manning of the Birlinn" may not possibly abound
in some other qualities, which are perhaps more attractive
to the general reader than the lavish display of strength,
the mere powerful exertion of energetic and robust
faculties can ever be.
" The Manning of the Birlinn" is here translated line
for line, with the original. It is the longest poem in
Gaelic, except such as are Ossianic.
THE MANNING OF THE BIRLINN.
THE BLESSING OF A SHIP;

Along with an inciteiiient for the sea, that was made for the

crew of the Birlinn of Clan Ranald.

May God bless the ship of Clan-Ranald*

This first day it floats on the brine,
Himself, and the strong men who guide it,
AYhose virtues surpassingly shine !

May the Holy Trinity temper

The stormy breath of the sky,
And sweep smooth the rough swelling waters,
That our port we may draw nigh

Father Creator of ocean.

!

And each wind that blows from on high

Bless our slender bark and our heroes
Make all ill things pass them by.
O Son bless thou our anchor,
!

Our tackling, helm, and sail

Everything on our mast that is hanging.
Till our haven at last we hail.

*In Bishop Carswell's Gaelic Praj-er-Book, published in the

year, 1567 —
the first book ever printed in the Gaelic Language
there occurs a prayer somewhat similar to this one, to be used by
mariners going to sea. It, too, is a prayer to the Trinity very ;

well arranged and expressed, and full of devotional feeling. It

could hardly have been used or appreciated b}'^ a wild and savage
people, such as we are sometimes, I think, very incorrectly,
taught to regard the Highlanders of three hundred years ago.

[This Prayer Book was reprinted under the editorship of the late
Dr. Thomas MacLauchlan in 1873. Only two copies of the
first edition were known to exist then.]
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD.

Bless our yards and all our mast-hoops

Our masts and ropes, one and all
Our halyards and stays keep unbroken
Let no ill through them befall.
May the Holy Spirit be at the helm,
And guide to the proper place
He knows each port beneath the sun,
We cast us on His grace.

THE BLESSING OF THE ARMS.

May God bless all our weajions

Our blades of Spain, sharp and grey,
And our massy mails which are able
The keenest edge to stay ;

Our swords of steel and our corslets,

And our curled and shapely targets
Bless them all without exception
The arms our shoulder-belts carry.

Our bows of yew, well made and handsome,

Bent oft times in the breast of battle
Our birchen shafts not prone to splinter.
Cased in the sullen badger's hide.
Bless our poinards and our pistols.
And our tartans fine and folded,
And every implement of warfare
In MacDon aid's bark this hour.

Be you, our crew, not soft or simple

Hardily brave deeds encounter
While four boards shall hold together,
Or one plank to plank be tied
While beneath your feet she welters,
Or one knob remains above,
Oh defy each sight of terror
!

Your strong hearts to melt or move.

10 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

If you only battle it well,

And
the sea does not feel that you quail,
She will humble herself in that knowledge,
And her pride to your might will she vail.
Thus confront thy spouse on the land ;
Let her not see thee get weak,
And the chance is she yields in the strife,
Nor such contests will rashly re-seek.

Even so is the mighty deep,

Tho' fierce frenzy her bosom fills ;

She will yield to your might none the less,

As the King of theUniverse wills.

THE IXCITEMENT TO ROW TO A SAILING PLACE,

To bring the barge so dark and stately,

Whence we 'd sail away ;

Thrust out those tough clubs and unyielding,

Polished bare and grey ;
Those oars well made, smooth-waisted,
Firm and light
That row steadily and boldly
From smooth palm to foam white ;

That send the sea in splashing showers

Aloft unto the sky.
And light the brain-fire bright and flashing,
As when coal sparks fly.
With purpose-like blows of the great heavy weapons,
With a powerful sweep,
Wound the huge swell on the ocean meadow,
Rolling and deep.

With your sharp narrow blades white and slender,

Strike its big breast
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 11

Hirsute and brawny, and rippled and hilly,

And never at rest.
Oh stretch, and bend, and draw, young gallants!
Forward going !

Let your fists' broad grasp be whitening

In your rowing

Ye lusty, heavy, stalwart youngsters !

Stretch your full length ;

With shoulders knotty, nervy, hairy.
Hard with strength ;
See you raise and drop together
With one motion
Your gTey and beamy shafts, well ordered,
Sweeping ocean.

Thou stout surge-wrangler on the foremost oar.

Shout loudly, " Suas oirr' !"*
The song that wakes the arm's best vigour
In each cruiser,
And hurls the Birlinn through the cold glens,
Loudly snoring
Or, climbing, cleaving the swollen surges.
Hoarsely roaring.

When hill-waves thus are flung behind,

By your
stout shoulders ;

'*
Hugan"will the ocean wailing shouting say,
And " Heig" groan the oar holders.
—
From the strong surge a thud a dash of spray.
Goes o'er each timber.
But still oars creak, though blisters rise on fingers,
Strong and limber.

* *' Suas oirr' "" Up with her" i.e., the Birlinn, " Suas e," is a
common cry of encouragement. Whoever has seen Higlauders
dance their reels, must have witnessed the effect of "Suas e."
1'2 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

For the stiff, manly heroes

stout,
Must
Avork untiring,
Should every board of her be quivering,
Round oaken post and iron
While oar blades splash among the water,
And knobs clank on her side,
On with such force, you '11 make her course,
With fearless pride.

Strong arms can drive this slender bark

Through the wide deep,
Right in the face of the blue billows'
Rising, bristling heap.
Now for such mettled manly crew,
Our oars to sweep ;
To make the grey-backed eddies whirl
Where their strokes press'd,
And flag not, tire not, drowse not, bend not.
In the storm's rough breast.

Then men and ten are seated at the oars,

after the six
under the wind to the sailing place, let
in order to roAv
stout Galium, son of Ranald of the Ocean, shout the
lorram* for her and be seated on the foremost oar, and
let this be it :

Now since you are rank'd in order.

And seem all to be well chosen,
Give her one good plunge, like champions,
Brave and boldly.
Give her one good plunge, &c.

* lorram (pronounced, Yirram) is a boat-song, or an oar-song,

and sometimes a lament. This double meaning it acquired from
the fact of the lorram being so often chanted in tlie l>oats that
carried the remains of chiefs and nobles over the western seas to
lona.
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 13

Give her not a plunge imperfect,

But with right good will and careful,
Keep a watch on all the storm hills
Of the ocean.
Keep a watch, &c.

With a mighty grasp and manful

Stretch your bones and stretch your sinews
Leave her track in light behind you,
Stepping proudly.
Leave her track, &c.

Give a gleesome bout and lively

Stoutly rousing one another,
With this dainty boat-song chanted
By your fore-oar.
With this dainty boat-song, &c.

Kaise the foam-bells round the thole pins,

Till your hands are bare and blister' d,
And the oars themselves are twisted
In the strong waves.
And the oars themselves, ttc.

Let your brows be hotly lighted

Heed not should your palms get skinless.
And the huge drops from your forehead
Fast be falling.
And the huge drops, dc.

Bend, and stretch, and draw, young gallants.

Your shafts of fir, in hue light grey
And pass with heed the wild rough currents
Whirling briny.
And pass with heed, A:c.
 14 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Let your set of oars, full sweeping,

Mash the great sea with their vigour,
Going splashing in the wild face
Of the billows.
Going splashing, &c.

Row together, clean and steady,

Cleaving the great swelling water.
Work with life and work with spirit,
No delaying.
Work with life, &c.

Give a graceful and a strong pull.

Looking oft on one another ;

Wake the force that's in your sinews

All so strongly.
Wake the force, &c.

Be her ribb'd and oaken body

In the wild glens moaning sadly.
And her two thighs ever pounding
Down the surges.
And her two thighs, tkc.

Let the ocean, crisp and hoary.

Rise with rough and deep-toned heavings.
And the lofty wailing waters
Shout and welter.
And the lofty, &c.

Let the grey sea, ever foaroing,

Splash her forward pressing shoulders,
And the currents groan and mingle
Far behind her.
And the currents. &c.
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 15

Stretch, and bend, and draw, young gallants !

Your shafts,with smooth waist painted red

Work them with the pith and marrow
Of strong shoulders.
Work them, itc.

Sweep around yon point before you,

Tillyour brows are streaming moisture ;
Thence, with full-spread sail, leave Uist
Of the solans.
Thence, with full-spread sail, &c.

THEN THEY ROWED TO THE SAILING PLACE.

And they hoist np the new-blessed sails

Tauntly on high,
And rattle in six oars and ten
And lay them by,
Clear of the pegs that hold the sails
Along her thigh
Then, Clan-Ranald from his nobles order'd
Good ocean skippers to sail by
Men who fear'd not any spectre.
Or sight of terror came them nigh,*

The Birlinn having arrived at the sailing place, we have here

*
to suppose that Clan-Ranald himself, or some one else deputed by
him for the purpose, placing himself in a conspicuous situation,
calls out the men, one by one as they stand grouped before him,
waiting for their instructions. He singles them out, however,
not by name, but by a description of some of their personal
characteristics, and of their capacity for making themselves useful
on board the untried Galley, which they had just been rowing.
The poet had possibly a real personage in his eye for every
picture he draws, and assigned to each good boatman of his
acquaintance the post he would have been fitted to fill in the
circumstances imagined describing at the same time his appear-
;

ance so accurately, that he might readily be recognised by those

who knew him.
16 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Then was it ordered, after choice had been made, that

every man
should look after his own particular charge.
Immediately on this, there was a shout raised for a
steersman to take the helm, in these words :—

Let this broad heavy hero sit at the helm,

Powerful, ready;
No dash of the rising or falling sea
Must make him unsteady ;

A well-spread prop full of vigour,

Broad-seated, thick
Stout and sure, and skilful and wary,
Cautious, yet quick.
Never once hasty while watching the canvas,
Which swift winds unfurl.
When he hears the shaggy ridge of the waters'
Roaring whirl,
He '11smartly keep her narrow head
Against the swirl.
He '11 guide her so that she rocks or reels not
In her tack.
Ruling sail and sheet with eye that windward
Glances back;
He must not lose one finger's fore-joint
Of the right course,
In spite of all the tumbling surges,
And their force.
He '11beat so boldly, when there's need,
In the wind's eye;
He '11 make each oaken plank and fastening
Creak and cry.
He must not blanch or get confused
With doubts and fears
Not should the sea's grey-headed swell
Rise round his ears.
This stalwart seaman every terror
Must withstand
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 17

Nor nor move, but keeji his place

stir,
With helmin hand;
And, watching the old hoary ocean,
Stern though it be.
Must loosen or draw in the sheet,
As need he'll see.
And make her battle, run, or beat,
With fuU-sail'd glee.
Thus keep her stiff and stubborn,
he'll
Ontop of the wild wave
Straight and sure into her harbour,
Let storms howl and rave.

THE MAN WHO WAS TO WATCH THE RIGGING ORDERED OUT.

—
Place this shrewd man great-fisted there. —
To watch the rigging,
Who '11 be sedate and full of care,

—
With huge grasp strong-finger'd;
Who '11 haul the yards with right good will,
When the ship needs it;
And watch the mast and tackling still.
And bind and loosen.
And he must know the winds that blow,
What course best suiting;
And he must work in harmony
With him who holds the sheet.
And guide the tackling manfully,
So long as his stout ropes and high
Shall hold together.

THE MAN SET ASIDE FOR THE SHEET.

Let this man with mighty shoulders,
Sit on the thwart;
Who is so sinewy and hairy,
With his bones big
18 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

A thick-set, broarl, and craggy chamjiion,

With fingers huge.
The sheet he must he ever guiding
With scrambling force;
When the winds come fiercely blowing,
Pulling Avell in;
But when it slacks, and lags, and flutters,
He lets free.

THE MAN ORDERED OUT FOR THE EAR-RING.

Let this man who is tight and sturdy.
Handy, nice, and fine,
Work the jib sheet without flinching,
When she nears the wind;
Bring it up and down in order,
To each fitting hold,
As the wind may chance to follow,
Or the hightopp'd wave;
And if he find the tempest rising,
Or loud groaning come.
He '11 bring it, with good grasp heroic,
To the gunwale down.

THE LOOK-OUT ORDERED TO THE FORE.

Now, rising, let this slow man go
Up to the prow;
Our harbour Avith unerring knowledge
He must show;
Every art descrying keenly
Whence the wind can blow,
And telling to the steersman surely
The right way to go.
Each landmark he must note and gather
From afar,
Since with Him
it, who rules the seasons,
Is our guiding star.
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 19

THE MAN SET ASIDE FOR THE HALYARD.

At the halyard place this wight
Who is no sloven,
But athletic, full of might,
Skilled and well-proven.
Careful ever, free of haste,
AVith dark frowns ready;
And to guide his rope well placed,
Dainty but not heady.
With a tug and with a twist
The sail restraining,
Bending downward on his fist,

And strongly straining,

Hard and fast he must not tie
The tough tight rope;
He only dares a loose loop try.
Giving it scope
To run freely and to fly,
And murmur hoarse
Round the peg, with hum and cry,
So swift its course.

The reporter of the waters about to be set aside, and

just then the sea getting too rough, the steersman says
of hinij^^

Let a man to watch the rain-squall

Quick, come nigh;
And sharply on the weather's heart
Let him keep his eye.
Choose me a man half-frighten'd.
Cautious, sly;
But not a coward out and out,
And let him pry,
With curious watch, until the shower.
He rippling spy;
20 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Then mark keenly if the gusts

Before, or behind it, fly ;

Nor must he let my heedless thoughts

Securely lie,
But wake me up at sight of danger
With an eager cry.
When towards us the drowning waters
Wailing hie ;
He must say, " The beam's thin head "
Quick put about !

" A breaking wave !

" with thunderous accents
Must he shout.
He must thus inform me duly
When danger is nigh ;

But no other weather-watcher

let
But himself be by,
Nor make confusion, doubt, and tumult,
Through the whole crew fly.

Abalesman is ordered out ; in case the sea rush over

her behind and before :

To bale her let this strong man rise.

Active and brave,
Who will not blanch, or yield, or tremble
For the shouting wave ;

Who will not quail, who will not soften

For cold sea or hail.
Though they lash and splash his neck and breast
Onthe strong gale.
With a thick, round, wooden vessel
In his horny hand,
He '11 let not the inpoui'ing water
One moment stand ;

His trust he '11 rigidly discharge it,

Neither faint nor slack,
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 21

Nor straightening while a drop remaineth

His bending active back ;

Though her boards should all get riddled,

He must keep her snug,
As a well-made lid, close-fitting,
Keeps a polished jug.

Two are ordered to watch the ropes behind the canvas,

should there be any appearance that the sails will be
swept from her with the roughness of the tempest :

Now let this pair of strong and raAv-boned men,

Rough and hairy,
Be watch the ropes behind the sail,
set to
Well and wisely.
With pith and mari'ow", and great bone and brawn,
And tough sinews,

To draw well in when time of danger comes.

Or else let free
Careful to keep it always with smart hand
In the right middle.
Donald MacCarmaig let us choose for this.
And John Maclain
Two most audicious fellows and expert.
Of the men of Canna.

Six are chosen as a reserve, in case any of those T have

spoken of should fail, or that the fury of the sea should
pluck him overboard, then one of these could take his
place :

Now let these six agile men be ready,

Handy, lively,
To get up, and leap, and run
Fore and aft her,
2*2 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Quick as a hare upon the hill-tops,

And the hounds near by.
They musi climb the hard smooth ropes,
Fine and hempen,
Like a squirrel in the spring-time
Up a tree side.
They must be skilful, hardy, active.
Sure and restless,
And spring to rope, or chciin or sail, or an}-
Needful order,
Guiding the good ship, Avithout weakness.
Of Yic Dhomhnuill.

Now, when everything appertaining to the sailing had

been got under famous regulation, and every gallant hero
drew without softness, without fear, without trembling,
to the exact place where he had been ordered to go, they
raised up the sails about the rising of the sun on the day
of the Feast of St. Bride, and they bore out of Loch-
Ainneart, in Uist, looking southward.

The sun had opened golden yellow,"^

From his case.
Though still the sky wore dark and drumly
A scarr'd and frowning face;
Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun bellied,
Scowling and sea-blue
Every dye that's in the tartan
O'er it grew.
Far away to the wild westward
Grim it lowered,

*Any one who has watched a threatening February morning in

the Hebrides, will be at no loss to perceive that this vigorous
description has been taken directly from nature. The varied
colours of the sky, and the wild aspect of the sea, are particularly
striking
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 23

Where rain charged clouds on thick squalls wandering

Loomed and towered.
Up they raised the speckled sails though
Cloud-like light,
And stretched them on the mighty halyards,
Tense and tight.
High on the mast so tall and stately
Dark-red in hue
They set them firmly, set them surely,
Set them true.
Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,
Each its right ring through ;
Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,
Well and carefully.
Every man sat waiting bravely,
Where he ought to be
For now the airy windows oi)ened,
And from spots of bluish gray
Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds
A fierce band Avere they.
And then his dark grey cloak the ocean
Round him drew
Dusky, livid, ruflied, whirling,
Round, at first it flew ;

Till up he swell'd to mountains, or to glens,

Dishevelled, rough, sank down
And the kicking, tossing waters
All in hills had grown
Its blue depth opening in huge maws,
Wild and devouring,
Down which clasped in deadly struggles
Fierce, strong waves were pouring.
It took a man to look the storm-winds
Right in the face-
As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge hill,

In their fiery r.ice.

24 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

The waves before us shrilly yelling

Raised their high heads hoar,
While those behind, with moaning trumpets,
Gave a bellowing roar.
When we rose up aloft, majestic,
On the heaving swell,
Keed was to pull in our canvas
Smart and well.
When she sank down with one huge swallow
In the hollow glen.
Every sail she bore aloft
Was given to her then.
The drizzling surges high and roaring
Rush'd on us louting;
Long ere they were near us come,
We heard their shouting.
They roll'd sweeping up the little waves,
Scourging them bare.
Till all became one threatening swell.
Our steersman's care.
When down we fell from off the billows'
Towering shaggy edge.
Our was well nigh hurled against
keel
The shells and sedge ;

The whole sea was lashing, dashing.

All through other.
It kept the seals and mightiest monsters
In a pother.
The fury and the surging of the water,
And our good ship's swift way
Spatter'd their white Ijrains on each billow,
Livid and grey.
With piteous wailing and complaining.
All the storm-tuss'd horde,
Shouted out " We're now your subjects
Drag us on board."
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 25

And the small fish of the ocean

Turn'd over their white breast
Dead, innumerable, with the raging
Of the furious sea's unrest.
The stones and shells of the deep channel
Were in motion
Swept from out their lowly bed
By the tumult of the ocean ;

Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,

Troubled, muddy grew
With the blood of many mangled creatures,
Dirty red in hue
Where the horn'd and clawy wild beasts,
Short-footed splay ;

With great wailing gumless mouths

Huge and wide open lay.
But the whole deep was full of spectres,
Loose and sprawling
With the claws and with the tails of monsters
Pawing, squalling.
It was frightful even to hear them
Screech so loudly
The sound might move full fifty heroes
Stepping proudly.
Our whole crew grew dull of hearing
In the tempest's scowl.
So sharp the quavering cries of demons
Andthe wild beasts' howl.
With oaken planks the Aveltering waves were wrestling
In their noisy splashing ;
While the sharp beak of our swift ship
On the sea-pigs'^ came dashing.
The wind kept still renewing all its wildness
In the far west,

'
Sea-pigs (inuca-mara) are porpoises
26 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Till with every kind of strain and trouble

We were sore distress'd.
We were blinded with the water
Showering o'er us ever ;

And the awful night like thunder,

And the lightning ceasing never.
The bright fire-balls in our tackling
Flamed and smoked ;

With the smell of burning brimstone

We were well-nigh choked.
All the elements above, below,
Against us wrought
Earth and wind, and fire and water,
With us fought.
But when it defied the sea
To make us yield ;
At last, with one bright smile of pity.
Peace with us she seal'd.
But not before our yards were injured,
And our sails were rent,
Our poops were were weaken'd.
strained, our oars
All our masts were bent.
Kot a stay we had but started,
Our tackling all was wet and splashy.
Nails and couplings twisted, broken.
Feeshie, fashie."^
All the thwarts and all the gunwale
Everywhere confess'd,
And all above and all below,
How sore they had been press'd.
Not a bracket, not a rib,
But the storm had loosed ;

Fore and aft from stem to stern,

All had got confu.sed.

*Fise, false! pronounced as above, occur here in the origiual.

They are mere expletives, and have no meaning.
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 27

Not a tiller but was split,

Andthe helm was wounded ;
Every board its own complaint
Sadly sounded.
Every trenel, every fastening-
Had been giving way
Not a board rernain'd as firm
As at the break of day.
Not a bolt in her but started,
Not a rope the wind that bore,
Not a part of the whole vessel
But was weaker than before.
The sea spoke to us its peace prattle
At the cross of Islay's Kyle.
And the rough wind, bitter boaster !

Was restrained for one good while.

It rose from off us into places
Lofty in the upper air,
And after all its noisy barking
Ruffled round us fair.
Then we gave thanks to the High King,
Who rein'd the wind's rude breath,
And saved our good Clan-Ranald
From a bad and brutal death.
Then we furl'd up the fine and speckled sails
Of linen wide,
And we took down the smooth, red dainty masts,
And laid them by the side.
On our long and slender polish'd oars
Together leaning
They were all made of the fir cut by MacBarais
In Eilean Fionain.
We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,
And steady shock,
Till we reach'd the good port round the point
Of Fergus' Rock.*
* Fergus' Eock, or Carrickfergus.
28 MODER>r GAELIC BARDS.

There casting anchor peacefully.

We calmly rode
We got meat and drink in plenty,
And there we abode.

THE SUGAR BROOK, f

Passing by the Sugar Brook,

In fragrant morn of May
When, like bright shining rosaries.
The dew on green grass lay
I heard the Robin's treble,
Deep Richard's bass awake
And the shy and blue-winged cuckoo,
Shout " goog-goo " in the brake.

The thrush there threw its steam off,

Upon a stake alone :

And the brown wren so blithesome,

Had music of its own.
The linnet with a jealous bend.
Tuned up his choicest string ;

The black-cock he was croaking,

The hen did hoarsely sing.

The trout kept leaping nimbly.

With merry plunge and play ;

i AUt an-t-snicair, or the Sugar Brook, is a small fstream in the

north west of Argyleshire, that falls into the Sound of Mull.
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 29

Dimpling the burn with sprightly tricks,

Warm in the sunny ray.
Their blade blue back and spotted gills,
Gleamed with their gemlike scales
When with a dash they snapt the fly,

That careless wandering sails.

How sweet, and swift, and limpid,

Fast whirling soft of sound ;
The Sugar Brook's rough torrent wave.
That sweeps and murmurs round.
All grasses, herbs, and wild flowers.
Close to its borders rise ;

Which, with the sappy source of life.

Its pleasant stream supplies.

This clean transparent streamlet.

That flows so bright and clear
With the soul of growth and motion.
Fills all the meadows near :

Where fly the yellow-red bees.

And tickle golden flowers ;

To fill with store of honey sweet,

The wax-cell in their bowers.

A soothing sound is that which comes,

From the loud-bellowing kye ;

As to their speckled, giddy calves

From the fold the dams reply :

Where the milkmaid with her l.nara,*

Lists to the herdsman's tale ;

When sitting by the brindled cow,

She fills her foaming pail.

* Buarach, fetters made of horsehair, and used for those cows

that were apt to kick while being milked.
30 MODERN- GAELIC BARDS.

The wailing swans their murmurs blend,

With birds that float and sing
Where joins the Sugar Brook the sea,
Their tuneful voices ring.
Softly sweet they bend and breathe,
Through their melodious throat,
Like the mournful, crooked bagpipe,
A sad but pleasing note.
! dainty is the graving work,
By Nature near thee wrought !

Whose fertile banks with shining flowers.

And buds are fraught.
pallid
The shamrock and the daisy,
Spread o'er thy borders fair,
Like new-made spangles, or like stars,
From out the frosty air.

Ah what ! a charming sight display,

Thy ruddy, rosy braes ;
When sunbeams dye their flowers as bright,
As brilliants all a-blaze :

And what a civil suit they wear.

Of rib-grass hay and of ;

And gay-topt herbs o'er which the birds,

Pour forth their pompous lay.

O Lilyking of flowers— thou

!

The newrose hast outdone

In bunches round of tender hue,
And white-crown like the sun
To keep the Sugar Brook from harm,
As amulets are given.
Such stars to sparkle where it winds,
Like guiding lights in heaven !
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD, 31

Green sorrel tooand rushes,

Sprout thick around its wold
And slender waving stalks that look
Like well turned work in gold :

Its brakes are full of mossy nests,

Round wreathed for birds to stay ;
Where boughs wave o'er the tassell'd grass,
Or touch the curling spray.

'Twould med'cine any fading sight,

That could the swift ships spy :

In white and swelling canvas drest,

Close to thy banks go by :

Their fir-masts light and handy,

AVith hempen ropes arrayed
While down the cold torn Sound of Mull,
The north blast keenly strayed.

The corry best in all the land,

Of rich and sappy lea,
Is the corry of the Sugar Brook
The corry loved by me.
The corry rough and lovely,
Where soft tufts thickly lie
And water runs o'er sands that seem
Crushed sugar to the eye !

The corry of the foals and lambs,

Of kids and lonely cows
The corry of the verdant glens.
Where calves so early browse.
The wooded, rushy corry.
Where the cockoo sings in March,
And the otters and the foxes' haunts
The old grey cairns o'er arch.
32 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

The cony where the sheep in scores,

Spread with their young away
And stretch with fat their bursting skins,
So warm, and white, and grey
Thus, good for food and clothing,
Through thy wild glens they go
Thou lovely, lofty coj-ry.
That dost with grace o'erflow.

Thou corry where the ducks and drakes,

And curlews haunt the shore
Thou corry which the full grown stags.
And heath-cock wander o'er
'Tis time I ceased to number.
Thy many a pleasant show
Thine isles, and groves, and grassy plains.
Where milk and honey flow.

Alexander MacDonald lived so long in the small Island

of Canna, that he seems to ha^'e come to regard the
mainland of Argyle, at one time, with the eyes and feelings
of an Hebridean as the following poem, " A Hail to the
;

Mainland," shows.
The Island of Canna is thus described by Pennant, who
visited it in the year 1775 when it could have changed
;

but little, if at all, from the appearance it wore in

—
MacDonald's day: " As soon as we had time to cast our
eyes about, each shore apj)eared pleasing to hunuuiity:
verdant and covered with hundreds of cattle ; both sides
—
gave a full idea of plenty for the verdure was mixed
with very little rock, aud scarcely any heath
The length of the Island is about three miles, and
the breadth, near one its surfa(.'e hilly.
; This was the
property of the Bishop of the Isles but at present, that
;

of Mr. MacDonald of Clan-Eanald. His factor, a resident

agent, rents most of the Island paying two guineas for
:
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 33

each penmj-land ; and these he lets to the poor people, at

four and a half guineas each ; and exacts, besides this,
three days' labour in the quarter from each person.
Another head tenant possesses other penny-lands, which
he lets in the same manner to the impoverished and very
starving of the wretched inhabitants,"
According to Reid, MacDonald, when a young man,
was ground agent or under factor in this little Island
and was very much in the company of the head factor,
whose society, the same authority assures us, did him no
good. For it was principally to gratify the depraved
taste of this patron of his, that the poet, it seems,
composed some which are not very creditable
of his pieces
now to his memory in point of good taste and right
feeling.
An explanation of the lines in which MacDonald says
of the Mainland or Mor'ir, that

Blest with plenty, to thee never

Comes the spring-time trying

will be found in the following statement of Pennant's

when speaking of Canna: —
"The Isles, I fear, annually
experience a temporary famine perhaps from improvi-
;

dence perhaps from eagerness to increase their stock of

;

cattle, which they can easily dispose of to satisfy the

demands of their landlords, or the oppressions of an
agent."
The Mor'ir, on account of the richness of its soil, or the
beneficence of its landlords, was free from this periodical
suffering. This little trait is worth mentioning, since it
is pleasant to find MacDonald, notwithstanding his
connection with the factor of Canna, showing his
sympathies, however slightly, on the generous side of a
—
question as a poet ought always to do.
34 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

HAIL TO THE MAINLAND.

Hail to thee, thou bonny IMainland !

In the Beltane glowing;

Golden, sunny, green- clad Mainland!
Rosy burn-banks showing.

Blest with ])lenty, to thee never

Comes the spring-time trying
Bird-loved jewelled are thy hill sides,
With green tree-tops sighing.

Thy woods so gay, are surely clad in

Wedding garments fairly
Straths and mountains here are lovely,
Glens are tinted rarely.

When the sun-rise gilds the mountains,

Then the bee goes snoring
Ruddy bee that tickles flow'rets,
And hums —honey storing.

Now the brisk trout leaps the eddies,

And droll flies keeps chasing
While a green flag o'er the fountains.
Every knoll is raising

And buds are swelling, full of fragrance,

Blue, and red, and paly :

Musical the slender sprays are.

Where the birds dance gaily.

Cosy rushy beds the fold has,

In the summer weather
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 35

Foamy, creamy milk in beakers,

Herdsmen qiiafF together.

Butter, curds, and whey, in streamlets

Lappered milk they're sharing
Drink unmeasured set before us,
With no thought of sj^aring.

FLOWERS.
(from the ode to summer.)

O PRIMROSE that growest

!

So pallid and sweet on the brae,

In tender tufts blowing,
In curly leaves flowing
The hardiest flower art thou
Sprung from the clay ;

Thus wearing thy spring-dress

While others still slumber away.

And wreath of Cuchulinn* of cairns,

How pleasant the odour that's shed
Where tasselled and brindled,
With legs long and spindled.
Rough clustered, modest hued,
Yellow-tipt, high o'er-head,
Round the lone knoll we see thee
With wood-sorrel spread.

* Spiraea —
Ulmariu Meadow-sweet, queen of the meadow,
Gaelic: cncas, or crios Chu-chulainn.
36 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

BIRDS.
(from the ode to winter.)

SoRROAV lies on the earth all around,

And the hill and the mountain grow bare ;

Fast darkens the face of the ground,

Shorn and bare, faint and withered with care.
All the speckled birds, tuneful and sweet.
Erst that sang from the top of the tree,
Have their pleasant mouth's gagged when we meet
They have lost bow and string — lost their glee.

The winged folk now of the sky.

Cease their sunny songs here for a space
Nor their matins they carol on high,
Nor with vespers the holy eve grace.
But in chill caves all sleepy they stay.
And cow'r cold in the holes of the crag.
Where they miss much the warm glancing ray.
Whose bright sheen made their summer songs flag.

There's a dark frown on Europe throughout

Since the strength of the sun grew so wan,
Whose light spreads such solace about
The Lamp by which all things we scan
But when to the Twins he comes back,
And beams on these regions again,
A
bright hue the rough hills shall not lack.
Nor the gold gleaming heaps of the main.

And those psalmists, then spotted anew.

In their close leafy pulpits shall stand,
Hymns and praises to sing as their due.
Since the Summer time shines on tlie land
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 37

They have meetings the green boughs among,

And rare pews in each soft tender spray,
And they pour forth the offering of song
On their slender-tijDt wings far away.

There is none 'neath the cup of the sky,

But returns to his spirit once more.
When Phcebus that shines from on high,
The might of their souls shall restore :

Then they rise up at once from the grave,

Where the cold kej^t them chilly and dumb,
Saying, " gooly-dro-hidolo-haive.
Winter's gone and the Summer has come."

THE GEOUSE COCK AND HEN.

The grouse leaving the green buds.
That dapple the spray.
Takes his short beaked and speckled spouse
To the mountains away
Like a courtier there wooes her.
Where the shade of the heather is cool
Though still she laughs hoarsely,
" Pee-hoo-hoo, you 're a fool " !

€e}-^ii3
 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

MORAG AND OTHER BELLES.

A FACE I never saw,
Since my dawning days
Not one so free of flaw,
Full of glorious grace
Though Mally still was mild,
And her cheek like rowans wild,
As fickle as the wind she smiled,
When it drones and strays.
Peggy had a slight
Trace of age's blight
Marsaly was light.
Full of saucy ways.
Lilly's love was bright,
Though a speck had dimmed her sight,
But they were all as tame and trite
As washing suds to Morag.

It is unfortunate that from the nature of the Song in

—
Praise of Morag in many resj)ects, a very beautiful one,
—
from which this short extract is taken a fair translation
of it, as a wdiole, is a thing on which no one is very likely
to venture. MacDonald was a married man when he saw
the young girl, Morag, whose beauty he celebrates in a
strain very impassioned, though not always very decorous
or refined.
An idea of the poem he produced on the occasion, may
be formed from some of Burns' Songs in which the
rapture, though induljitable, is far from being of the
highest kind — with this diflerence, however, that Burns'
Songs consist of tAvo or three stanzas only, while
MacDonald's is an elaborate composition of about three
hundred and fifty lines in length. It is in a sort of
—
rhythm j^eculiar to the Highlands of which a further
account will be given- under the head of Maclntyre's
" Ben Dorain."
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD.

FROM THE SOKG OF THE HIGHLAND CLANS.

O LOVED and loyal Kindred,
!

Choice homage now give ye ;

Let no mote cloud your eyesight

Your heart from care keep free.
The health of James Stuart
With welcome send it round
AYithout reserve receive it
This holy pledge ^ve sound.

Now a draught for Charlie

fill

Kogue let this cup o 'erflow^

!

Ha 'tis a balm to heal our hearts

!

Revive us wdien we 're low.

Yea should death's hand be laying us
!

Weak, wan beside the grave,

Oh, Universal King return !

Return him o'er the wave.

Hard is the case of all his friends,

Because of his delay ;

They are like a callow orphan'd brood

Like garden bees, a prey
To the destructive fox, when faint
They drop along the brae ;

Come quickly with thy fleet, and drive

Thy people's plague away.

MacDonald is said to have gone over the Highlands

singing the Song from which these verses are taken, and
rousing his countrymen with its energetic appeals to rise
and join Prince Charles. The rest of the Song consists
of an address to all the Clans successively, so very similar
40 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

to that contained in the Clan Song in "Waverley," "There

is mist on the mountain and night on the vale," that a
reader of Sir Walter Scott's spirited imitation will be able
to form an exceedingly correct notion, both of the nature
of this and all other Clan Songs of the Highlands.
A species of Clan Song also, is Mac Donald's poem
entitled, "The Praise of the Lion," in which he celebrates
so cordially the prowess, valour, and greatness of all the
septs that bore his own distinguished name. It is. at the
same time, no unfair specimen oi those ^Yar-songs, or
Battle incitements, as they were called, with which the
bards, from very remote ages, used to animate their
friends and kinsmen when about to engage in battle.
Some of these, of an old date, are still extant and well
known. The most extraordinary of them, in every
respect, is one composed ijy Lachlan Mor MacYurich
Albanich, hereditary bard of Clan-Ranald, and chanted
by him to his clansmen at the battle of Harlaw, 1411.
This most unique production consists of three hundred
and thirty eight lines the theme of the whole being,
;

" Children of Conn of the hundred fights remember

!

hardihood in the time of battle." Round this theme the

Bard has gathered no fewer than six hundred and fifty
adverbial adjectives, arranged in alphabetical order, and
all bearing a special and bloody reference to the subject
in hand.
The Poem contains nothing else but these adjectives.
There is not much that can be called poetry about them ;
but yet, when supplied without hesitation by a good
memory in all their astonishing alliterative array, by a
ready speaker, gifted with a strong and sensitive voice,
they could not but have offered a rare opportunity for
imjDotuous, vehement and effective declamation. A man
of good ]>resence, as Lachlan Mor probably was, hurling
them forth in this way on his audience, with flashing eye
and fiery, and appropriate gesture, must have created no
small stir and excitement among the valiant children of
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 41

Conn : —
even with a string of sonorous adjectives a good
many of them too compounded by himself, with no little
ingenuity for the occasion.
Alexander MacDonald, in his Song in Praise of the ,

Lion, is sufficiently ferocious and complimentary to the LU*

MacDonalds to have pleased Lachlan Mor himself.
Rather than leave out any portion of his Clan's due meed
of praise, he has perhaps said nearly the same thing more
than once over, in slightly different words. This,
however, is not more than two or three times the case,
and does not lessen the value of the lyric, as a spirited,
energetic production —
full of ardour and poetic fire.
It will contrast pleasantly with those soft and tender
descriptions of Nature that have just been given ; and
show, along with them, the variety of bardic power
possessed by the author. As a piece of animated war-
poetry, not unworthy of any lyric writer, may be cited
the four stanzas in the succeeding Poem, following from, ,

" Strong rock, and everlasting," down to, " Groaning hard
and moaning, resound the site of battle o'er." These
display, not merely vigorous composition, but genuine
feeling. The Poet is describing what he really admired,
and would have joined in himself. He is not like too
many of our most martial poets, working up a safe
effervesence, for the sake of effect and crying, " Ha-ha!"
;

—
amid a dim fancy of trumpet sounds a proceeding not
commendable, being so evidently the very reverse of their
natural propensity,
42 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

THE PRAISE OF THE LION.

To the Air of ''CaberJa^

Hail thou rending

! Lion,
Of matchless force and pompons pirde !

"When up thy chieftains roused them,

Gay banners fluttered far and wide.
All thy tribes would gather.
With martial pace and manly grace ;

Then losses came and crosses

On every foe that met with them ;

Their line so splendid, far extended

Fiery, flaming, furious ;
A stormful path, their joyous wrath.
With gory blades carved curious.
With sharp rage, vvild war wage.
Heads, and limbs, and trunks they'd hack ;

No soft foe with swords could go

To keep the haughty heroes back.

Wake yet, thou battling Lion !

AVake and rise with sounding stir

So tawny on thy white flag,
With thy badge of heather, sir ;
Raise thy head so airily,
In the blue sky restlessly,
And to the fray, as well 's I may,
Will I go and fight for thee.
Oh ! let me raise the precious praise
Of that head, so royal held ;

This realm is fair, but none hath e'er

Throughout its bonds thy might excell'd :
 ALEXANDER MACDONALD. 4.^

In hardihood so firm and good

Lovely, free of fear and doubt,
"With vigorous zest in terror's breast,
Thee thy clansmen flock'd about.

Oh who could taunt or tease thee,

!

Or with mean things disparage thee,

Or venture to displease thee,
Or once hope to discourage thee.
Thou kingly splendid creature Ì
So fierce, full form'd, and fairly seen,
On thy silken pennon clean,
With fine smooth mast of sapling green.
There thou flutterest, proudly, loudly,
Flapping fast and saucily ;

While a gallant hostheroic

Stand beneath thee gaucily :

Rage for bloodshed makes their brows red

Rage and wrath to follow thee ;
Now slaughtering blades and death's cold shades
Will come on all who sighted thee.

Ne'er backward nor inglorious

The noble race thou well dost grace ;
But prosperous and victorious.
In battle bright and great in might
With guns, and swords, and shields of gold,
—
And corslets what a deadly set !

Their glaives they plied, and deep and wide

The wounds they gave to all they met.
Powder blazing— war smoke raising,
Till a cloud about them grew
The lively, fair, and quick youths there
Then cut ribs and marrow through :

—
With bitter blades thick-back'd, dark blue
In every stubborn stripling's hand,
44 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

That cleft the sturdiest body through

My joy ! I think their pride was grand.

Sufficient, strong,and manly

A daring band, and clannish all
The race of Collai red hand
Full of might and spirits, tall.
Keen their ire as flames of fire.
When March's wind put strength in them
Without failing rust, or ailing,
In the breadth or length of them.
With buoyant life they go to strife,
No dread of wounds can hold them back ;

They need no stain to make them fain,

Hearts, and brains, and reins they whack
—
Heads they sweep off hands and feet oft'
;

In the smoke, Avith battle's mirth

Each one so brave, with hardy glaive,
So manly, sharp, and full of worth.

—
The lovely race the daring
Well equipp'd in war array,
Their long, smooth muskets wearing,
So deadly in the dread affray ;
With lock, and flint and hammer
Ready trimm'd to give the blow
That sends away the powder grey,
In a bright and fiery glow.
Then bullets red in showers are sped,
Through smoke and roar and lustre quick,
That smash and slay and crush and bray
The cassock'd bodies short and thick
With broken bones and piteous groans
On the field they toss and kick.
When like wasps in your strong grasps
You wield your blades, so sharp and slick.
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 45

Clan-Donald, I am saying,
Right honourable race are they ;
Oft the conflict swaying,
Their foes they grandly swept away ;

They are fearless, bright, and peerless.

Full of stinging venom too
Like serpents on the mountains bred,
Their hardy blades so sharp and blue.
Smart and airy, wild and wary.
With quick hands that nothing mars ;

Hard as rocks and swift as meteors.

Their whistling strokes are heard afar :

My manly men, shamefast * and nimble,

Solid, strong, and firm and sure ;

Like the flood's course thatthunders hoarse,

Or flames that light the mountain moor.

Strong rDck, and everlasting,

Hard, and old, and undecay'd,
High thy royal crest show,
For thousands gather in thy shade,
With mirth, in their armour bright
The dauntless race that never yield
The spectres that stir panic flight,
When quick striking swords they wield.

* Shamefast ("nàrach," susceptible of shame.) This was a

much esteemed quahty in the Highlands, even in soldiers. The
Highlanders, while fighting the battles of their country, and
billeted among the various peoples, at home and abroad, were
designated, "lambs in the house and lions in the field." There
is another word something like this one in appearance
"nàisinn," implying a delicate and almost morbid sense of moral
—
obligation which is frequently heard still and always applied
only when a man is commended. These two words are very
characteristically Highland, and are both extremly creditable to
the moral feelings of the people among whom they took their
origin and are in constant use.
46 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Many gallant youths beneath thee,

With stout hands and shoulders great,
Go rushing on where honour's won,
For wild fight they're never late
With steady foot and agile hand
To thrust or cut, each weapon gleams
Red on the ground death gasps around,
But gay o'er head the Lion streams.

Thou roaring, frowning Lion !

Who fright and fear canst spread about

Often proved where war has moved.
In furious fight or turbid rout
When thy semblance, looking dire,
From the tough staff flutters free,
Then a kindling, troubled fire
On every cheek around we see.
Strong, and steady, stubborn, ready,
Is their rank where strife is hot
Fear of foe they never know
They are rocks that tremble not
Group'd together, fleeing never.
Unyielding wood of oak are they,
Their shout of triumph 's oft been heard
O'er fields of death where foemen lay.

If violence should assail thee

From strangers' bounds, and seek thy hurt
If foemen should draw near thee.
With ill will, andstrife, and sturt.
Many an Islay hilt* then.
With a strong smooth blade in it.

* Islay hilts, invented by a celebrated smith of the name

of
MacEachern, who lived in Islay, were famous all over the
Highlands. " Blades with Islay heads," were considered the
very finest and most efRcient Aveapons.
 ALEXANDER MACDOXALD. 47

Beneath thy silken stream would gleam

To fight for thee and succour thee.
Thine are men who would not bend
In showers that pierce the body through ;
Nor yet be slow to rise and go
Where heads were hack'd and fury grew ;
When, over all the tumult spread,
The thundering pipes were heard afar,
That might put spirit in the dead
To rise for gallant deeds of war.

Clan-Donald's tree is all thine

Its bough and branches ever held,
As true a wood as ever stood
Chieftain-like, unparallel'd ;

When all its tribes came trooping round

So -manly where the Lion's seen.
Then woe betide whoever tried
To pluck his beard or rouse his spleen.
Their hands and heads you'd lop and prune
AYith the glittering claymore's sweep.
Till on the grass their blood would splash,
And run in little streams and creep ;
Your stinging dark-blue blades would make
The heads of Galls^ to steam in gore
And groaning hard and moaning.
Resound the site of battle o'er.

Where in all this kingdom.

Are men of deed your race excel 1
When songs incite you to the fight.
Your thousand virtues who can tell ?

* Gall, though usually applied to the Lowlanders, here means

any one unfriendly to the MacDonalds. There is an old song on
the massacre of Glencoe, in Avhich the Campbells, and all who
had a hand in that bloody tragedy, are called Galls.
48 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

Your anvils strong and precious,

Of true steel that weakens not,
Who always have been faithful,
And word of truth have ne'er forgot
Hounds of fight, like arrows' flight,
Down with glistening swords you break,
Nor moment till a breach
rest a
Through and through your foes you make
Trunks are cleft and steel is shaken,
You feel a bloody, bloody thirst
Battle raves and whistling glaives,
And dreadful shout around you burst.

There are thousands now in Alba

As stout as are in any land
The grey Gaels from Scotia,"^
Who cheerful round your colours stand
With love of hardy deeds and bold,
They fasten round you steadily,
Where the Lion's furious hold.
And his paws shine bloodily.
Bring with you then your well fed men
Your stately, stalwart heroes show
Your dexterous, lively, active line,
Who with a will to battle go;
You ne'er were seen where strife was keen,
To blench or shun its reddest tide;
But foes have fled, where'er have been
Their speckled banner fluttering wide !

* "Scotia," in this last stanza, occiirs in the oi'iginal, but is

printed in italics. The Irish warriors who invaded Britain and
foup'ht with the Romans about the year 360, called themselves
Scoti, a Gaelic word that means warriors. Scotlt is an old Gaelic
word signifying warrior. Caledonia is not a Gaelic name but a
Pictish or Iberian one.
 DUNCSN BIN MSCINTYRE,
Duncan Ban Macintyre, the hunter Bard of (Jlenorchy,
on whom hisadmiring countrymen have long agreed to
confer the flattering title " of the Songs," was born on
the 20th March, 1724, at Druimliaghart in Glenorchy,
Argyllshire. His parents living on the outskirts of a
large and thinly populated district had no opportunity of
sending their son to the distant parish school the only
:

one, seemingly, which a wide extent of country offered in

those days, for the acquisition, even of the common
rudiments of education. So this future poet never
learned either to read or to write. Yet, though thus
destitute of the very elements of school learning —
though
he lived a simple life in a humble station, and never had
the benefit of a large experience of society to furnish his
—
mind with the materials of thought though he never
associated with learned men whose conversation might
stimulate, direct, and cultivate his faculties, he has left
behmd him a name which is not likely soon to perish.
He deserves to be remembered, not only on account of
his really genuine gift of song, and of his fresh and truly
beautiful poetry, but has also a claim on our remem-
brance, even on account of his wonderful memory. Well-
nigh six thousand lines of his poetry have been published
— all of which he must have composed, arranged, and
carried about with him in his mind for years and this
;

too independent of what he knew of the i)opular poetry

of his country, with which he was well acquainted, and
of which he is said to have picked up, by ear, a large
quantity. Along with this his poetry is thoroughly
national. It is pervaded and enlivened by the very
spirit of Highland scenery, and embalms though un-
consciously, yet with good eflect, the tone of that phase of
50 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

life of which the Bard himself partook, and even for

these reasons too he will have some hold on the consider-
ation of posterity, and a hold which will not likely
be, at least for a time, a decreasing one. Duncan Ban
is said to have early manifested that strong passion for
field sports which distinguished him to the very last.
As a youth, in his lonely and Avild but romantic
habitation, with his strong natural tastes, his inquisitive
and observant mind, and his musical and poetic temj)era-
ment, he may be supposed to have passed his time and
nursed his rising genius— having the appearance, to a
casual observer, of such another roving young mountaineer
as Captain Dalgetty describes in the grandson of Ranald
—
Mac Eagh " a smart and hopeful youth, whom I have
noted to be never without a pebble in his plaid-nook to
fling at whatever might come in his way, being a symbol
that, like David who was accustomed to sling smooth
stones taken from the brook — he may afterwards prove
an adventurous warrior." By and by, the pebble in the
plaid-nook would be exchanged for a fishing rod, and then
a gun; for Duncan Ban became a noted marksman in his
maturer years, and was so fond of his guns that he
mentions them very frequently in his poetry, as if they
were dear friends and companions, and composed a song
expressly for each of the three principal weapons of this
sort which he possessed during his life.
His first song was composed on a sword with which he
—
was armed at the battle of Falkirk where he served on
the royalist side as substitute for a neighbouring gentle-
man. This sword the poet lost or threw away in the
retreat. On his return home therefore, the gentleman to
whom it belonged, and whose substitute he had been,
refused to pay the sum for which he had engaged Duncan
Ban to serve in his stead. Duncan consequently com-
posed his Song on "the Battle of the Speckled Kirk"
as Falkirk is called in Gaelic, in which he good-humour-
edly satirised the gentlemen who had sent him to the war,
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 51

and gave a woeful description of " the black sword that

waked the turmoil," and whose loss, he says, made its
owner " as fierce and furious as a grey brock in his den."
The song immediately became popular and incensed his
employer so much, that he suddenly fell upon the poor
poet one day with his walking-stick, and striking him on
the back, bade him " go and make a song about that."
He was, however, afterwards compelled by the Earl of
Breadalbane to pay the bard the sum of 300 merks Scots
(£16 175. 6d.) which was his legal due.
The Earl of Breadalbane Avas always a great patron of
Duncan Ban's, and appointed him his forester and
—
gamekeeper in "Corie Cheathach" and Ben Dorain places
which the Bard has celebrated in his two finest poems, so
successfully that their names have now something of the
same charm to a Gaelic ear as Loch-Katrine or the Banks
of the Doon bear to that of the English reade)-. He for a
short time afterwards served the Duke of Argyll in the
same capacity of forester at Buachaill Eite.
Then he joined the Earl of Breadalbane's fencible
Regiment, raised in 1793, and remained with it, holding
the rank of sergeant until 1799, when it was disbanded.
For some time after this he belonged to the city -guard of
Edinburgh, so celebrated by Sir Walter Scott, and by
Ferguson the poet. He remained in the city-guard until
1806, after which time, according to his biographers, he
was " enabled to live in comparative comfort on his little
savings, and the profit of the third edition of his poems,
published in 1804." He died in Edinburgh, May, 1812,
in his eighty-ninth year. He Avas buried in the Greyfriars
churchyard, in that city, on the 19th of May, and over
his remains a suitable monument has since been raised.
A notice of his death appearing in one of the Edinburgh
papers, but not till the following October.
About twenty-two years after the composition of his
first song on the Battle of the Speckled Kirk, Duncan
Ban became so famous as a poet, that his friends thought
52 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

his verses worthy of a wider circulation than his singing

or theirs could give them, and the son of a neighbouring
clergyman, himself afterwards well known as Dr. Stewart
of Luss, one of the translators of the Gaelic Bible, was
at the trouble of taking them down to the poet's own
dictation, with a view to their publication. They were
accordingly printed in Edinburgh, and published in the
year 1768. with the following title:
—
"Gaelic Songs, by
Duncan Maclntyre." They were of course in one volume,
not large, consisting of 162 pages, 12mo.
A second edition, with many additions, appeared in
1790, when the poet travelled over a good part of the
Highlands, disposing of the issue. The third edition
came out in 1804. There have been three editions since
— making six in all.* But in the shape of extracts, the
favourite poems like "The last Farewell to the Hills,"
kkc, have appeared in many other books besides. There
are Highlanders too w^ho knew Duncan Ban, and have
learnt to sing his Songs, w^ho never read thein at all.
With regard to the poet's personal appearance we know
that he was called Ban, on account of liis fair hair and ;

his biographers tell us, that in his youth he was

remarkably handsome. There are still living people who
saw him, and have a distinct recollection of him as a fine
—
and striking looking old man venerable and patriarchal,
with his silvery hair and his long pilgrim staff a man to —
attract notice, and treated always with the greatest
respect, wherever he was known. It is said he possessed
a very easy and agreeable dis])Osition although, when
;

greatly provoked, he could let his enemies feel the power

of his satire, as may be seen from verses he composed
on an impudent ])iper, named Uisdean, who lampooned
him —he never failed in his attachment or his gratitude
to his friends. " He was like the rest of the poets, very
fond of comi)any and a social glass; and was not only
very pleasant over his bottle, but very circumspect."

* A seventh edition was published iu 1871.

 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 53

As a poet, his great characteristics are his clear and

sure perception, his fine ear, his excellent judgment,
and his command of his native language, which he
invariably uses with admirable precision, purity, and
effect. He sings always of things Avhich he knew well
—
things which he had learned for himself things which he
•was quite sure of —
which were not the least obscure to
him. He is always self-])ossessed and master of himself.
His mind never drifts helmless before an overpowering
emotion; yet his verse is essentially lyrical, even in
description — and frequently expressive of deep and
—
genuine feeling of sweet and unchanging devotion.
His style is clear and simple. His rhythm varied, free,
and sonorous. In reading Duncan Ban one feels that he
was a sweet-tempered, amiable, unaffected man. Perhaps
it is partly owing to this, as Avell as to the fine faculty his
poetry displays, that he is decidedly the best loved of the
Highland Bards. But so excellent were his gifts that,
notwithstanding his want of culture, no other of the
Gaelic Poets is held in the same esteem, or placed on the
same level with him, excepting Alexander MacDonald.
These two are universally considered and spoken of as the
chief singers among the mountain melodists. Sometimes
the one is preferred, sometimes the other. Duncan Ban
—
had less variety less wild vigour than his predecessor
but he is clearer, smoother, more equable, more har-
monious. Then something must be allowed for his
—
untutored efforts, for that ever blind "groping of the
—
Cyclops" that utter want of one limitless external aid,
which claims for him so unique a ])lace among his
country's most distinguished Barcls. If some consideration
might be demanded for Burns, and justly too, (were it not
for his mighty powers) on account of his imperfect
training, and his want of leisure for mental labour, still
more might be asked for this man for Burns was learned
;

—
compared to him, yet he too does not need it a proof of
the reality and purity of his master gift.
54: MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

The pictures of the external things, animate and

inanimate, with which he was acquainted, are not inferior
for truth, vividness and beauty, to tliose of any descriptive
poet. —
His address to his wife Mdiri hhàn òy may be
read beside the sweetest and most expressive of the
—
Lowland lyrics while it certainly breathes a refined
courtesy and a purity of sentiment which these do not
always possess, and which is not in any way insignificant
in such a man, whether taken as an index of his moral
nature, of his intellectual endowments, or of the kindness
of nature in gifting him with such unafiected manliness
and good taste. How much education and more favour-
able circumstances might have done for Duncan Ban
Maclntyre as a poet, it will ever remain impossible to
determine. As it is, his admirers need have no hesitation
in claiming for him a higher and more noticeable place,
than he now possesses, among the " tuneful dead, whose
names are honoured by his nation."

INTRODUCTION TO BKN DORAIN.

In the celebrated poem which Duncan Ban dedicates to
the hill, Ben Dorain, he throws the whole soul of the
hunter Bard, and true poetic son of natui-e into his
descrijition of the place and of its sprightly denizens.
This poem, consisting of five hundred and fifty-five lines,
is the longest of Duncan Ban's compositions. It is
adapted to a pipe tune, into all the varieties of whose
wild rhythm he moulds his languiige throughout with
such spirit and success, that even considered as a piece of
elaborate versification, carried out to such a length, and
on so unique a plan, it is no small feat to have been
achieved by such an author, and so circumstanced, that it
was only by crooning it over in his memory he could
give his diction the necessary finish.
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 5a

The poem divided into eight parts, corresponding to

is
the variationsof the pibroch, which, as Duncan Ban
understood it, seems to have be made up of what he calls
the "Urlar" and "Siubhal," played alternately —
the first
four times repeated, and the last three times the whole—
ending with the "Crunluath," or quick motion. The
following passage is entirely from the first of these heads
— the " Urlar," which is the one indeed chiefly used by
the poet — nearly the half of "Ben Dorian" being con-
structed altogether of this measure —
and its principal
peculiarity which consists of a regular and frequent
occurrence of the broad sound of o, or au^ to round every
cadence being found throughout the poem. This was
done to imitate a certain quality of the bag-pipe, which
goes far to give its tones their own fierce and warlike
character. The Gaelic language, in which the broad
sound of is very common, falls into this rhythm very
easily, and with good effect. It is more of a novelty in
English, and the reader will do well to bear its nature in
mind, when reading the following extract from "Ben
Dorain."

BEN DORAIN.
The honour o'er each hill
Hath Ben Dorain ;

Scene, to me, the sweetest still

That day dawns upon :

Its long moor's level way.

And its nooks whence wild deer stray,
To the lustre on the brae
Oft I 've lauded them.

Dear to me its dusky boughs,

In the wood where green grass grows,
And the stately herd repose,
Or there wander slow;
56 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

But the troops with bellies white,

When the chase comes into sight,
Then I love to watch their flight,
Going nosily.

The stag is airy, brisk, and light,

And no pomphas he;
Though his garb 's the fashion quite,
Never haughty he:
Yet a mantle's round him spread.
Not soon threadbare, then shed,
And its hue as wax is red
Fairly clothing him.

The delight I felt to rise

At the morning's call
And to see the troops I prize
The hills thronging all
Ten score with stately tread.
And with light uplifted head,
Quite unpampered there that fed,
Fond and fawning all.

Lightsomely there came

From each clean and shapely frame,
Through their murmuring lips, a tame
Chant, with drawling fall.
In the pool one rolled a low
With the hind one i)layed the beau,
As she trotted to and fro,
Looking saucily.

I would rather have the deer

Gasping moaningly.
Than all Erin's songs to hear
Sung melodiously ;
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 57

For above the finest bass

Hath the stag's sweet voice a grace,
As he bellows on the face
Of Ben Dorain.

Loud and long he gives a roar

From his very inmost core,
Which is heard behind, before,
Far and fallingly ;

But the hind of softer notes,

With her calf that near her trots,
Match each other's tuneful throats,
Crying longingly.

Her eye's soft and tender ray

With no flaw in it,
O'er whose lid the brow is gray,
Guides her wandering feet
Yery well she walks, and bold,
Lively o'er the russet wold,
Tripping from her desert hold
Most undauntingly.

Faultlessis her pace.

And her leap is full of grace

Ha the last when in the race
!

Never saw I her :

When she takes yon startled stride,

Nor once turns her head aside,
Aught to match her hasty pride
Is not known to me.

But now she's on the heath,

As she ought to be.
Where the tender grass she seeth,
Growning dawtily ;
68 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

The dry bent, the moor grass bare,

With the sappy herbs are tliere,
That make fat, and full, and fair,
Her plump quarters all.

And those little wells are nigh,

Where the water- cresses lie,
Abov^e wine she likes to try
Their waves' solacing
Of the rye-grass, twisted rows.
On the rude hill side it grows,
Than of rarest festal shows
Is she fonder far.

The choice increase of the earth

Forms her joyous treat
The primrose, St. John's wort,
Tops of gowans sweet,
The new buds of the groves,
The soft heath o'er which she roves,
Are the tit-bits that she loves.
With good cause too.

For speckled, spotted, rare.

Tall, and fine, and fair,
From such food before her there
She grows sonsily
And it is still mean
the surest
To cure the weak ones and the lean.
Who any time have been
for
Wasted, wan, and low.
Soon it would clothe their back
With the garb which most they lack-
That rich fat, which they can pack
Most commodiously.
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 59

She's a flighty young hind

When leaves ward her,
Near her haunts where they bind
The brae border
Lightsome and urbane
Is her gay heart, free of stain, ^

Tho' rash head and somewhat vain-

Somewhat thoughtless.

Yet her form, so full of grace.

She keeps hiding in a place.
Where the green glen shows no trace
Of a falling off;
But she's so healthy, and so clean
So chaste where'er she's seen
Should you kiss her lips, I weeu
'T would not cause you shame.

Oreatly prized is she, I know.

By the stag with crested brow, ^

Whose thundering hoofs around him throw

Such a saucy sound ;

When with him she meets the view

Red and yellow in her hue,
And of virtues not a few
That belong to her.
Of cold she is free of fear.
And in speed without a peer,
And the primest ear to hear
In all Europe 's hers.

Oh !how sweetly they embrace,

Young and fawning,
When they gather to their place
In the gloaming
60 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

There, till silent night is by,

Nevei' terror comes them nigh,
While beneath the bush they lie
Their known haunt of old.

Let the wild herd seek their l)ed,

Let them slumber, free of dread,
Where yon mighty moor is spread.
Broad and Ijrawly
Where, with joy, I've often spied
The sun colour their red hide,
As they wandered in their pride
O'er Ben Dorain.

INTRODUCTION TO "COIRE CHEATHAICH.'

Equally celebrated with Ben Dorain, and an equally
good specimen of Duncan Ban's poetic powers, is the
poem of " Coire Cheathaicli," which now follows. These
two poems divide the voices of Gaelic readers as to which
of them is the abler and more finished.
"Coire Cheathaicli," however, being divided into stanzas,
almost every one of which contains a complete picture of
its own, has the advantage of being better known perhaps
in some of its parts than Ben Dorain, where the de-
more extended. The verse that speaks of the
scription is
salmon leaping over the whirling eddies, is the most
famous thing of its kind in the Gaelic language.
There can hardly be any Highlander, with the slighest
turn for poetry, who has not repeated it approvingly
himself, or been called on by others sometimes to admire
it. In about equal esteem, however, are those verses on
the early morning and the singing of the birds and they
;

are even more musical with their fine metrical succession

 DU^X'AN BAN MACINTYRE. 61

of soft vowel sounds. But the flowers, trees, streams,

and living creatures, throughout his excellent poem, are
all nearly equally good.
To point out everything in it that was highly thought
of, would be in fact only to go over the whole of it.
"Coire Cheathaich" is considered as fine a specimen of the
harmony of which the Gaelic language is capable, as any
other production of the Celtic muse. This translation is
in the rhythm of the original, and verse for Averse with it.

CORRY CEATHACH.*
My misty Corry where ! hinds are roving
My lovely Corry my charming dell
!

So grand, so grassy, so richly scented,

And gemm'd with wild flowers of sweetest smell.
Thy knolls and hillocks, in dark green clothing,
Rise o'er the gay sward with gentle swell
Where waves the cannach and grows the darnel.
And troop the wild deer I loved so well.
A strong, well-woven and double mantle
A
lasting garment and good for wear,
All rough with rich grass, whose verdant ringlets
In each small dew-drop a burden bear
Is round Corry, my green-knolled Corry,
my
Where
reeds and rushes so thickly grow ;
They'd yield a harvest, were reapers able
Among their quagmires and bogs to go.

*C is always hard, and th frequently silent in Gaelic. Oeathach

is therefore pronounced ahnost as if it were spelt, "Kayach."
The name MacKeoch, comes from it, and means, "Son of the
Mist." ...,
62 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

'Tis a gay clothing, shows off the long plain,

With pastoral smooth grass from side to side
A painted garment, by rains well nurtured.
As fair as can be by man descried.
On this side Paris I do not fancy
A
brighter raiment hath e'er been seen ;
Oh may it fade not and then what fortune
!

To haunt, at all hours, its varied green.

About Ruadh-Aisridh long locks are hanging
Close, crisp, and clustering, and crested high
In every moist spot their tops are waving,
As this or that way the breeze goes by
There the straight rye-grass, the twisted hemlock,
The sappy moor-grass that ne'er gets dry.
And the strong bent grow, and close set groundsel,
Beside the dark wood where heroes lie.

The mountain ruin, where lived MacBhaidi,

Is now
a desert that howls alone
Yet near its white stones is often nurtured
The brown ox, shapely and fully grown ;
The cows with calves there that wander houseless,
Grand-group'd on hill-tops, are often seen
Their calves so peaceful, in light and darkness,
Frequent in numbers the south Clach-Fionn.

The garlic chooses the nooks and bendings

Of steps that climb up the mountain-head
While the kind sun-slopes are spotted rarely
—
With countless berries round, ripe or, red
The dandelion and penny-royal.
And cannach smooth-white, there wave or rest,
As from its broad base, they deck thy mountain,
Unto its lofty and haughty crest.

The tallest crag there is richly coated

With softest mosses above —below;
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 6S

Unsullied, stainless, whene'er they 'er needed,

O'er things unsightly these sweetly grow :

While in the hollows, beneath the sharp peaks,

Where shaggy verdure is thick] iest spread.
Beside the primrose, right often peeping,
The feeble daisy lifts up its head.
A frowning eye-brow of verdant cresses.
Round the fountains and wells is seen
all
And bunchy sorrel conceals the deep roots
Of those great rough stones the spring that screen :

With plunge and gurgle, and dancing motion,

In heartless boiling these quit the ground
And each dear streandet leaps, laughs, and lingers.
And runs and loiters in circles round.
The salmon leaving the wild-waved ocean,
Within the rough dell his white breast shows ;

There darts rejoicing, and snaps'^ the small flies,

So truly steers he his crooked nose :

On whirled eddies his pompous leaping

fierce
Displays his splendid and blue-gray mail,
His silver spangles, his fins, his speckles,
His outstretched, wing-like, transparent tail.

The Corry Ceathach is sweet and joyous,

A royal site for the hunter's pride ;

There the dark lead-shot his blazing powder

Sows thickly over the deer's dun side

* Kep, is the word used here in the original. It is a GaeHc

word, but adopted by the Scotch, and used by Burns as for :

instance in the "Lament for Captain Matthew Henderson,"

"Ilk cowslip cup shall Icep a tear."

The word means primarily, to prevent something from going

farther. Then, to stop anything which is thrown or coming
towards you by making a snatch at it, is to kep it. It is probably
tlie root of the English word, keep.
64 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

And there his needy and light-foot gazehound

With bloodyfierceness, without a fear
Ptuns madly, leaping with hardy spirit,
Pursuing boldly his red career.

Within thy lone brakes there never fail'd yet

The fawn, the red stag, the hornless doe ;

So 'twas our glory in sunny morning

Through deer-trod dingles a-hunting go :

Nor would the wild heath e'er leave us lying

Before the rain-storm exposed and bare.
No ! In the forest were low-browed grottoes,
With well-fenced couches to stretch us there.

Then when the morning's white calm would wake us,

Beneath the steep cliff 'twould charm my ear
To list the moor hen grown hoarse with croaking,
Or courtly red-cock bend murmuring near
The lively wren to his own small trump play'd,
And flung his steam off so brisk and boon ;
The starling bustled beside the red -breast,
Who lilted gaily a warbling tune.

All the hill-songsters, in flocking numbers

From leafy branches, there poured their praise
First came the gay lark, that noted lyrist,
And shrilly chanted its cheeriest lays ;

The merle and cuckoo, on tall thin tree-tops,

Gave out their music with might and main,
When up this sound rose so light and lovely,
The glen was breathing a choral strain.

Then every corry within the mountain

Sent forth the live things within its bound ;

First, treading proudly, the antler'd red deer

Stepp'd, snorting loudly and looking round
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 65

Throughout the wild fen he dash'd in rapture,

Or near the brown hind more gently play'd
His charming princess, so strong, so stately,
So sjjare, so active, so fine, so staid
!

In shy recesses the yellow doe crept

Beneath the light twigs, and cropp'd them bare
While o'er his proud couch the lordly buck stood,
And poked and stamp'd it with gloomy stare :

The little kidling of speckled, smooth side,

Of placid nostril and noble head.
Found sleeping snugly in some lone hollow,
Among the rushes a cosy bed.
How many a light foot, when autumn ripen'd,
Tripp'd gaily over that hill's brown side.
And sought and shared all the store it offered
"With manly kindness and gentle pride
In a soft round nest they got the honey
Of the small spotted and brindled bee.
That labours, flying from flower to flower.
With lonely murmur and peaceful glee.
—
There nuts well-season'd no scanty harvest
—
Of wither'd kernels were growing seen
In great abundance thin skinn'd, smooth cluster'd.
;

They'd suck'd the life-juice from branches green.

Where purl'd the streamlet throughout the sweet strath.
And rowans ripen'd their berries red.
And many a sapling, in'graceful mantle.
Kept waving gently in new-clad head.
From far, surrounding the lonely desert,
Lay moor and grey glen where small knolls stood.
With shaggy tufts and with warm soft shelter
Choice spots for wild birds to rear their brood :

Thence from soft couches in May's sweet morning

Hose up the dun doe and stag of ten ;

While glanced the red light upon the tall sides

—
Of the rough Corry the Misty Glen!
66 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

INTRODUCTION TO "MAIRI BHAN OG."

Duncan Ban was still a young man when, according to

hisown account, at " the board of the change-house " he
first saw ^^Màiri Bhàn bg,'" the Bonny Jean of Gaelic poetry,
whose name has been sung in some of the finest and
tenderest, manliest and sincerest of Highland songs,
Duncan Ban at the time of his meeting with her was
somewhat poorer than she was. The father of Mciiri
—
Bhàn had been a baron bailiff a small freeholder, or sort
of under-factor in the neighbourhood, and she, as the poet
tells us, had some cows and calves of her own for her
dowry. He, however, fell in love with her at once, and
for three months suffered a death-pang for he was afraid
;

she would despise him on account of his want of wealth.

He attempts to excuse his poverty in the first song he
addresses to her, saying that twelve things had kept him
poor; and of these he enumerates ten, viz., drink, the
feast, and weddings, music, manners, purchases, gay
meetings, wooers' gifts, and thoughtlessness and youth.
But Màiri Bhàn had too kind a heart, too fine a nature,
and too delicate a perception to tbink little of her
admirer because he was not rich. The poet got no reason
to despair, and he soon recovered, under her gentle treat-
ment, from his three months' pain.
Buncan Ban represents his young heroine as somewhat
tall and round, and graceful ; with a profusion of curly
fair hair, a pure complexion, white teeth, fine eyebrows
that knew not a frown, and a mouth from which, of all
others, the mountain lays had the sweetest sound. She
had a good tempei-, a lively disposition, a light foot, and
a happy heart. So gay was she, she made her love's heart
dance with rapture when she was playful. So winning a
way was hers, she could, when she pleased, draw from
him his dearest secrets; *' There was not a thing worth
the telling but she could soon wile me to say." She was
gentle, humane, almsgiving, liberal — she was like the
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 67

surpassing bougli in the forest that is covered with

—
blossoms like the fresh sea-trout just landed from the
river, and yet lying on the green bank, splendid, and
dazzling, and white. She was the star of the morning,
whose beauty delighted every bosom. But that which
delighted him most was that firmness in good which was
hers. Yet was she very accomplished and very useful
the best of dancers to the pipe or fiddle, the cli eeriest
of companions, the most attractive of speakers. On
summer evenings she could milk the cows at the fold by
the bend of the river, while the calves around her playedj
or in winter, with her well-formed and lady-like hand,
—
sew her bands, and her plain seams yes, and the rarest
embroidery, in the lighted room that shone like day.
This is the portrait^ drawn by a loving hand of the
most famous of Highland humble maidens. Duncan Ban
thought he had secured an inestimable prize, far more
than he deserved, when he got for his own this peerless
milker of the cows, this "prettiest low-born lass" that
trode the Argyllshire heather.

Màiri Bhàn is the heroine of three of Duncan Ban's

published Songs. One of these, "A
song to his Spouse
newly wedded," here given, is considered, on account of
its united purity and passion, its grace, delicacy and good
feeling, to be the finest love song in the Gaelic languao-e.
Kot but there is at least another, namely, MacDonald's
" Address to Morag," which is held to be quite as good,
tajien merely as an intellectual display, or a vehicle of
passion of a certain kind. The stanzas in the present poem,
beginning, " I went to the wood," àc, and, *" I cast out
my net," àc, have been very generally admired, but not
less commendable is the concluding verse, "I'd plouo-h
or drive in spring-time for thee," (fee. The verses that
follow from "Thy manners were womanly ever," give a
very fine picture of truly amiable feminine characteristics.
It is very pleasant to hear the poet tell his young ^vife,
68 MODERN GAELIC BARDS,

**
On the good thou has done, I'm persuaded
Thy spirit for ever shall feed."
And also, notwithstanding all her beauty, with which she
delights every bosom,

"What makes me rate thee the highest

Is that firmness in good which is thine."

Take notice too, how respectful he is with the amiable

young milkmaid,
" When I took her apart for a moment,
To speak of my love and my pride,
My ear caught the fluttering tumult
Of my heart beating fast on my side."

Then there is something very manly and sensible, surely,

as well as affectionate, in his assuring Màiri Bhàn, —
" Ne'er shall the hearth's harsh ^vrangling tease thee,
Nor make thy clear temper its prey."

While the deep feeling and delicate pathos of this truly

tender exclamation cannot be overlooked.
" Oh ! could I but take thee and hide thee
In a place well secured from decay."

This is indeed a poem which is altogether very

creditable to its author, and pleasant to comment upon,
in evidence of the goodness of both his head and his
heart.

A SONG TO HIS SPOUSE, NEWLY WEDDED.

Màiri Bhàìi òg,^ thou girl ever thought of,

Still where I am may thou be.

Since the clerk-given right, so long wish'd for,
I've got, dear wife over thee.
!

*"Màìrl Bhàn òq" means, Fair Young Mary, "The ai in Màiri

is pronounced like the a in father."
 DUNCAN BAN KACINTYRE. 69

With cov'nants and bands, strong and lasting,

A knot now ties thee to me
That thou art mine, with thy friends all consenting,
Fills me with health and with glee.

When sick in our courtship's beginning,

To me none in kindness came near
'T was then, at the board of the ale-house,
I marked the sweet girl now so dear
I drew to her side, and she promised
My life with her love to cheer ;

Oh the joy when I won her, and with her,

!

A part of the old baron's gear.

Monday morning — long though the journey

I travelled to meet with my bride
I ran like the wind to be bound in
The knot that will ne'er be untied :

I took her apart for a moment,

To speak of my love and my pride
And my ear caught the fluttering tumult
Of my heart beating fast on my side.

For Cupid had shot a whole bundle

Of sharp-winged darts in my breast,
That dried up my pulses, and downward
My strength like a burden press'd :

Then I told the sweet cause of my anguish.

How no Leech could give me rest
But my wounds, with her virtues, she cured them,
As myself she gently caress'd.

Then kiss'd I the round and soft maiden

Who'd grown up so mild and so sweet
So comely so tall, and so curly,
So womanly, graceful, and neat :
70 MODERN GAELIC BARDS,

In many a way am I favour'd,

Such a love as hers to meet
When her vows and herself she gives me,
A cheaply bought bargain I greet.
I went to the wood with its saplings,
And glorious it looked all around ;

But my eye caught a spray, all surpassing

High in the dusky shade found ;

It was quite covered over with blossoms

I bent it down to the ground,
And cut it —a sad sight for many ;

But my fate with it was bound.

I cast out my net in true waters,"*^
And strained hard to draw it to land.
And, lo I had caught a bright sea-trout.
!

That lay like a swan on the strand :

Pleased was my soul with the fortune

That came with such joy to my hand .

My spouse thou 'rt the star of the morning

! !

Blest be thy slumbers and bland !

Thy manners were womanly ever,

Gentle in word and in deed ;

* Water thatflows from a spring is called, "true water" in

Gaelic. It shows the originality of Duncan Ban's mind thus to
have drawn his similes from his own occupations, chosen them so
well, and used them so happily. A sea-tront, just fresh from the
ocean, is always pure and bright looking. Any person who has
had the good fortune to see one caught at the mouth of the sea,
as the darkness came on, will no doubt remember how it flashed
with a silvery lustre among the other fishes, almost indeed "like
the star of the morning." I once saw one caught accidentally in
this way, by some working people who were, with their nets,
dragging a little port near a river for saithe. Whenever the net
touched the shore, the stranger that was entangled in it, leaping
and glittering so lively and bright, attracted every eye, and when
landed it really did lie "like a swan on the strand." Something
of this sort must have been in Duncan Ban's mind. He had cast
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 71

So genial, so kind, and so glowing

Free of grudging, and closeness, and greed
Almsgiving, liberal, pitying.
Humane with all that had need ;
On the good thou has done, I'm persuaded,
Thy spirit for ever shall feed.

When I studied to form thy acquaintance,

With words that were courteous and gay,
Thy breath smelt as sweet as the apples,
Golden and ripe on the spray :

There was not a thing worth the telling

That thou couldst not wile me to say ;

And shouldst thou now leave me, the linen

And grave soon would hide me away
Thy talk and thy singing are pleasant,
Thy nature is charming always
Mirthful, noble, and free from
Ashade of reproach or disgrace.
For three months I suffered a death-pang
But once thou hadst heard of my case,
A treasure of solace thou gav'st me.
Of sorrow it left not a trace.

Since last year I've risen in value.

With the calves thou broughtest aud kine ;
Now a choice sheaf of w^heat, ripe and rustling,
AVith the best of corn is mine :

But what makes me rate thee the highest,

Is that firmness in good which is thine

his net into the waters, and instead of landing an ordinary fish
like the others, lo his v as a bright sea- trout, that lay like a swan
!

among the rest. So also with the preceding verse, he had not
merely got a green bough like others, but one that M'as "quite
covered over with blossoms," beautiful and blooming with sweet
hopes. The imagery is particularly fresh and charming in both
2 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Yet thy beauties delight every bosom,

So sweetly and softly they shine.

Thy fair hair, close set and excelling,

Rolls in curls and wavelets free ;
Thy features are mild, modest, womanly,
Fine eyebrows, where frowns never be.
A winning blue eye, full, smooth-lidded ;
No fault in thy face I see ;
Thy teeth are strong, white as ivory ;
Thy still mouth speaks modestly.

Thy
bi-east's like the fresh and smooth pebble
That lies on the shore day and night
Thy body so slender and stately,
Like cannach is pure and white.
Soft and thin is thy palm, tine thy fingers,
The lady's warm hand, shoulders bright
Thy foot in its shoe is close-fitting ;

Graceful thy step is and light.

The lone shieling glen canst thou traverse.

Where the wandering cattle stray ;

At the bend of the river to milk them,

While the calves around thee play ;
Nor less is thy worth near the candle.
In the room that shines like day ;
Sewing thy bauds and plain seams,
Or working embroidery gay.
Mild art thou, wife, come from Mam-Charry,
Thy love steals my senses away ;

For a heart such as thine is, Oh surely !

Small was the price I 'd to pay !

The blood of great nobles and famous

Rolls in thy bine pluses' play
Tlie blood of the King and Mac-Cailean,
And him who in Sleat held the sway
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 73

Oh could I but take thee and hide thee

!

In a place well secured from decay ;

For now, should deatli leave me without thee,

I'd love not another for aye ;

But ne'er shall the hearth's harsh wrangling tease thee^

Nor make thy clear temper its prey
Thou shall hear but the choice of clear measures
My mouth can sing or can say.
I'd plough or drive in the spring-time for thee,
When the young horse in harness is dress' d,
Or seek on the shore with the fishers
Whate'er to the hook wileth best ;

I'd kill for thee swans, seals, and wild geese.

And birds on the bough that rest
Nor e'er shall thou want while a forest,
Lies near with one antler's crest.

On occasion of some visit to Edinburgh, Duncan Ban

composed a song in praise Dnnedin, in which he
of
chronicles minutely everything he thought worth noticing
in the city ; but, as will be seen, he regards all the
novelties he speaks of with that clear intelligence and
steadfast heart, neither attracted or repelled by the mere
strangeness of the scenes and habits he refers to, which
indicate of themselves no small amount of talent. The
song on Edinburgh is as follows ;

THE PRAISE OF DUNEDIN.

'Tis a great town Dunedin,
Itcharmed me to be there ;

A broad and hospitable place,

And pleasant everywhere :
74 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

With a garrison —a battery

A rampart tight and good
A castle— and great houses
Where camps right often stood.

A royal camp stood often here

Andbeantif ul 't would be,
With troops of horsemen plentiful,
To guard it faithfully ;

And everyone so disciplined

In every art of war
Before you got a rank like theirs
You might search near and far.

Here's many
a gallant gentleman
Who polished and well-bred,
is
Wears powder plaster'd on his hair
To the crown of his head
With folds and plaits, and many curls,
Well-woven, over-spread ;

And, on the top, a bunch like silk

When the card has smooth'd its thread !

There's many a noble lady

Apoor man here may meet.
In gown of silk and satin
That sweeps along the street
And every })retty thing wears stays,
To keep her straight and sj^are ;
And beauty sjjots on her fair face.
To make her still more rare.

Each one, as well becomes her.

Polite among the rest
And proud, and rich, and ribbony,
And round and gaily dress'd :
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 75

The clothes on the young maidens

Just showing to your eye
A strong and pointed well-made shoe
I thougljt its heels too high.

When I went to the Abbey

It was a noble sight
To see the kings in order,
From King Fergus, as was right
But now, since they are gone from us.
Our Alba wants the Crown
No wonder, then, her once gay Court
Is like a desert grown.

There a lantern made of glass,

is
With a candle in each place,
That yields a light to every eye
Around a litle space.
Nor less a cause of pleasure
Are the instruments they play,
That give a sweeter music
Than the cuckoo does in May.

A stately sound the coaches make,

With and their whirr
their trotting ;

The hard-hoof 'd, smooth-pac'd horses

They ahvays keep a stir :

They frisk and raise their heads on high,

In their spirited career ;

Not such our heather pastures.

Nor the wild moorlands rear.

In the close of the Parliament,

There the same horse is shown,
Still standing where he used to stand.
On the bare way of stone ;
 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

They've bridled him and saddled him,

And set the King* thereon,
"Whose was the right of all these realms,
Though they banish'd far his' son.

The great House of the Parliament

worthy a good view
Is ;

There reasonable gentlemen

Deliver judgments true :

They have a power given them,

Will last them many a day
To hang the faulty up on high,
And let the good away.

And here a Healing-house I see,

Where the best Leeches go ;
And cure each kind of suffering
That limb and body know :

The man who is in want of health,

Whom Leeches long attend,
Here is the place for him to come.
And keep him from his end.

Dunedin is a bonny place

In far more ways than one
A town that must not yield to it
In this whole realm is none.
So many gentlemen are there,
Of tribute-raising line
Men who may daily quench their thirst
With the good Spanish Avine.

* The Statue of King Charles the Second, in the Parliament

Square, is here referred to, although Duncan Ban speaks of it a»
if it were that of King James the Second.
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE, 77

Though great and long the distance

From Glasgow unto Perth,
Yet am I sure, although I saw
Each mansion there of worth,
I could see none more charming
Than the Abbey or the Bank ;

Or houses rich and large, whose guests

Might be of kingly rank.

FROM THE "SONG OF GLENORCHY,"

The Bard's birth-place, and where there is now an
appropriate monument erected to his memory. Contri-
butions to the fund for raising this well deserved
monument, came from all parts of the w^orld.

CLACHAN-an-Diseirt,*
How pleasant to be there,
Sitting in its wondrous church.
Its pew so richly fair
And listening to his mellow voice,
Whose council none should spurn.
The Bible tale rehearsing,
That yields the great return.

That Glen is dry and balmy,

All good things there are grown

* The derivation of this name is interesting. "Clachan" means,

in the first place, a village where there is a place of worship.
Clachan-an-diseirt is resolved then into " Clachan an De 's àirde,"

i.e. The worshipping place of the highest God. This name, like
Dundee, had its origin probably in early Pagan times.
78 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

In little level inches,"^

Wherethe seed-corn is sown
And where the ripening crop gets white,
As curds upon the whey,
Productive, sappy, wholesome.
In regular array.

In winter was it cheerful.

Such sports in weddings gave,
When all, without a heavy thought,
Heard the smooth pibrochs rave ;

While fiddlers on the lively strings.

The dance-tunes played so well ;

And damsels lent their voices.

The cheerful sound to swell.

The salmon there

spring- water
Winds the streamlets through
all ;

Hill-birds are there in numbers.

And thousand black-cocks too.
The small doe paws beside her kid.
And strong bucks not a few,
In that Glen's wild forest scenes,
The gallant youths pursue.

Then when we all drew homeward

It was our pleasant way.
To gather to the tavern
For dance and song and play.
Cordial one to another.
The hides for pay were near ;
So when they cried " Another stoup,"
No hunter felt a fear.

* Inches— in Gaelic, Innis —sometimes an Island— sometimes

choice pasture land, such especially as the green round flats on
the banks of a river.
 DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 7^

Duncan Ban was the author of several convivial songs,

which are very popular. The one which follows is
certainly not the longest of the most elaborate of these,
but it contains at least some relics of old manners which
may make it interesting. Whatever opinion may be
entertained of the dram in the morning there can be no
—
doubt that there is a most estimable cordiality a cheerful
look of dear and genuine, though old-fashioned kindness,
about the hospitable lady in the second verse of this song,
who leaves her room in the early morning, and meets her
guests with the big bottle in her hand, filled to the brim
with Usquebay,
" And as we drink to one another,
You are welcome,' doth she say."

A RHYME TO THIRST.
Woeful after health is sorrow ;

Thirst isafter drink as sore ;

Sad to the board surrounding
sit
When the stoup is filled no more.
I like to see our cordial gentry.
With their store of wealth alway ;
Who can drink whene'er they're thirsty,
And oflf-hand the women pay.
A dram is pleasant in the morning,
When comes at peep of day ;
it
As the lady leaves her chamber,
To spread pleasure on her way.
The big bottle in her hand,
Full to the brim of Usquebay,
And as we drink to one another,
" You are welcome," doth she say.
80 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

'Tis the right fashion in the tavern,

With great might it fills the breast
He who does not like the brandy,
Abuses us because we taste.
But the boon companion says thus,
" Fill again the cup I pray
Much the jovial drink upbraids me,
But my thirst will not away."

INTRODUCTION TO
''LAST FAREWELL TO THE HILLS."
DuxcAN Ban visited the Highlands after an absence of
many years, and spent a whole autumn day in wandering,
with melancholy pleasure, over Ben Dorain, whose
beauties and delights he had, years before, sung and
celebrated so joyously in his longest poem. It was one of
the favourite haunts of his youth, and vigorous manhood.
Near it he was born ; on it he had a thousand times
hunted the deer, feeding his thoughts meanwhile with
music taken from the bards of other days, or drawn from
the sweet, unpretending fountain of his own inspiration.
Then his heart was full of life, his mind and body over-
flowing with energy. Then tlie fresh breath of young
vitality played about his nostrils like a mellow breeze of
summer, singing down the rude, rough gorge, and waving
the green heather, and then the wild hill and its environs
were oft times trod by gallant, friendly youths, and
sometimes cheered by the sweet lilt of kind, warm-hearted
women. But now the whole was changed. The poet
himself was getting old. He could run, and leap, and
press the heady chase no more. The mirthful shieling
had vanished, and the song of the women was terribly
and solemnly silent. The friends of his youth, with
whom he had trod the wide stretching moor so often
 DUXCAN BAN MACINTYRE. 81

where were those friends he loved Ì Alas even the

! hill
was changed.
itself Its proud sights were gone — its
grandly s\vee])ing troops of wild deer, its graceful does,
its innocent and lovely fawns. Its sweetest music, the
brave crowing of its red-cock and its black-cock was
nowhere to be heard. The very heather had disappeared,
and sheep, sheep everywhere, were all that could be seen.
" Oh dear," said the poet, " when I looked round and
!

perceived this I could not feel gay. Since the hill itself
has changed, surely the world has deceived me." Such is
the spirit of the song composed by Duncan Ban on
occasion of his last visit to IJen Dorain, as he looked in
the multitude of his tender thoughts on the well-known
scenes whose every step was alive to him with the stirring
—
sentiment the moving memory of other years. " Sweet,
though mournful to the soul, is the memory of the years
that are past;" and Duncan Ban, touched by that sacred
sorrow, so often the inspiration of his most celebrated
poetic countryman, and breathing this most natural of
human plaints, "Ah! for the change 'twixt now and
then " embodied the elevating emotion that filled him,
!

in melodious verse. This song of his is interesting, not

merely on account of its delicate, intellectual pensiveness,
its true love and devotion, and its pure sentiments ; not
merely on account of the originally humble condition of
its author, whose total want of education did not prevent
his feelings and reflections from being attractive, nor his
expression of them from being eloquent and delicate.
It is interesting even on account of the great age of the
fine old man at the date of its composition, 19th
September, 1802. Duncan Ban was then seventy-eight
years old. Not many poets have lived to that age, very
few of them have used their strength, and fed their lamp
so well, as to compose some of their best poetry so late in.
life. There is a sadness even in the title of this ballad of
fading years, "The last Farewell to the Hills." The poet
had made up his mind to look on the dear scene no more.
82 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Why, or by whom this clay is so carefully noted, does not

appear but this is the only one of Duncan^ Ban's^com-
;

positions which is so accurately dated.

THE LAST FAREWELL TO THE HILLS.

Ben Dorain I saw yesterday,

And trod its gorges grey,
Amid its well-known dells and glens.
No strangers did I stray ;

And think how joyful 'twas of yore,

To seek that mountain high,
As the sun shone o'er the morning hoar,
And the deer were belling by.
How charming was their lordly herd,
AVhen loud they rushed away,
While fawn and doe they scarcely stirred,
Where by the fount they lay ;

Then did the roe-buck bellow round,

The black-cock, red-cock crow,
I think, than these, no sweeter sound
Can morning ever know.

How cheerfully I rose and went

The rugged brakes to roam,
I sought them early, but unspent.
Though late I wandered home ;

For the breath of those great mountains,

Was health and strength to me,
And a fresh draught from the fountains.
Like a new life would be.

And once I stayed a little while,

In a gay shieling near.
 DUXCAN BAN MACIXTYRE.

With sport, and mirth, and laugh, and smile,

And woman'skindness dear :

Alas, 'twas not in nature's power,

That such blythe joy should last,
Too swiftly came the parting hour, —
I sighed and onward pass'd.

And now old age has struck me sore,

With long lingering blight,
its
My teeth are fresh and sound no more ;

Ah! me, my
fading sight.
I could not now give eager heed,
If the chase should cheer the day ;

Whatever now should be my need

I could not haste away.

Yet though my hair be hoary white,

And mybeard thinner grown,
Than when upon the proud stag's flight
My greyhounds fast have flown,
I ween the chase still charms my heart,
Though if it swept yon heath,
I could not do my wonted part.
With this remnant of my breath.

Ill could I drive its headlong pride

As once I used to do.
By glen, and dell, and mountain side,
Rough stream, and mosses through.
Ill could I join a social throng,
And share their autumn cheer,
111 could I sing a pleasant song
At the falling of the year.
My days were in their spring-time then,
And follies kept me poor ;
Though nought, save luck, renews to men
Their good, or keeps secure.
84: MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

In that belief content I live,

Though far from rich I be,
For George's daughter"^ still will give,
I hope, my bread to me.

And yesterday I trod yon moor

How many a thought it moved!
The friends I walked with there of old
Where were those friends I loved
I looked and looked, and sheep, slieep still
Were all that 1 could see :

A change had struck the very hill

O world deceiving me.
!

As I turned round from side to side,

Ohdear I felt not gay ;
!

The heather's bloom, the greenwood's pride,

The old men were away :

There was not left one antlered stag,

There was not left a roe ;
No bird to fill the hunter's bag
—
Such old things all must go.

Then wild heath forest, fare-you-well,

Ye wonderful bright hills ;

Farewell sweet spring and grassy dell

Farewell the running rills,
Farewell vast deserts, mountains grand,
With peaks the clouds that sever ;

Scenes of past pleasures pure and bland

Farewell, farewell for ever !

* "George's daughter" was the musket which he carried in

King George's name, as a member of the city-guard. The gun
which he used among the hills he called, " Nic Coiseam, " or
"Coiseam's daughter." He composed a characteristic song to
both these weapons.
 DUGULD BUCHINSN,
DuGALD Buchanan, a man of somewhat remarkable
character, one of the earliest, and still the most esteemed
of the Gaelic writers of Sacred Poetry, was born in
Strathtyre, in the parish of Balquhidder, Perthshire, in
in the year, 1716. We
are told by himself that both his
parents w^ere but especially his mother, who
religious,
taught him to pray as soon as he could speak and strove ;

earnestly to eugraft on his young mind those strict

principles of doctrinal piety by which her own life w^as
actuated. But she died w^hen he was only six years of
age, and for twenty years after he underwent a severe
moral discipline, in vain attempts to get rid of religious
convictions altogether, or in equally useless endeavours to
reconcile his heart to the stern form in which the
Christian faith seems to have been presented to him. Of
this momentous period of his life he has left a long and
elaborate account, written in English, in a good style
sometimes with considerable force, and displaying oc-
casional marks of his imaginative talent. From it we
learn that when still quite young he learned to curse and
swear, that he became very loose and immoral in his
habits, and associated much wdth bad company that on ;

these accounts he suffered frequently and severely from

the reproaches of conscience, and a remorseful sense of
guilt, until finally, and by slow degrees, he attained unto
the repose of steadfast principle and devout faith. The
book closes with a dedication of himself to God, which
the author solemnly signs. Its concluding words are as
follows :
—
" Now, Lord, let the dedication of myself to
thee, and my accepting of thee as my God in Christ, and
my being the subj(;ct of thy spiritual work, be not like
the day that is past and cannot be recalled again, let it —
be ratified in heaven and I will sign it upon earth.
DUGALD BUCHANAN."
86 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Buchanan's parents, wlio were in pretty easy circum-

stances, appear to have given their children as fair an
amount of education as the Highlands could afford in
their day :Dugald, particularly, was so well grounded
that at the age of twelve years he was considered qualified
to look after the education of a young family who lived
at some distance from his father's farm of Ardoch, In
his Memoir he adverts to this circumstance as follows :

" When about twelve years of age I was called to a

family for the purpose of teaching the children to read ;
for at that time I was sufficiently qualified to read the
Bible. This family, into which I came, was singular for
every species of wickedness ;each one of its members
exceeding the other in cursing, swearing, and other vices,
with the exception of the mistress who, I believe, feared
the Lord. She was like Lot in Sodom. I was scarcely a
month in this family when I learned to speak the language
of Ashdod ; yea, in a short time I exceeded every one of
—
themselves so much so that I could not speak without
uttering oaths and imprecations, and my conscience being
lulled asleep, I sinned without restraint, except occasion-
ally when I would think of death."
After leaving this situation, Buchanan attended school
at his native village for two years, and was then removed
to Stirling for other two years, and afterwards sent to
Edinburgh for six months, that he might enjoy the benefit
of the superior means of education these places possessed.
His have intended him lor
father, at this time, is said to
a profession, but changed his mind
in consequence of his
son's loose and reckless habits, and unsettled princÌ2:)les.
He urged on him therefore to make choice of some trade,
—
which Buchanan at last did binding himself a])prentice
for three years to a relative of his own, —
a house-
carpenter at Kippen. He quarrelled with his master,
however, before his term was out, and leaving him, went
to Dumbarton, where he engaged with some other person
in the same trade. He does not seem to have remained
 DUGALD BL-CHANAN. 87

very long here either, for in his twenty-sixth year we find

him settled in his native village of Ardoch, in possession
of a mill which formerly belonged to his father, and
following the occupation of a miller. In this situation he
does not appear to have been very successful, as he is next
found, not many years after, in charge of a small school
in a remote village in Perthshire. Out of this obscurity,
however, he })egan to be generally known and respected,
as the author of some excellent religious poetry, and
as a man of exemplary character, and interest was made
for him with " The Society for Propagating Christian
Knowledge in Scotland," who at once appointed him as
one of their teachers.

In 1755 he was appointed Schoolmaster and Catechist

at Kinloch Rannoch, and he laboured there faithfully
until his death, thirteen years after. Kinloch Rannoch
formed part of an immense parish in those days. The
minister, or his assistant,was only able to visit it once in
the three weeks, so the Sundays, according to Buchanan's
biographer, were spent "in vain and sinful amusements."
As he could not by any means induce them to come to
join with him in worship, he at last followed the people
to their own gatherings, and reasoned with them there
with such power and effect, that he gradually brought
them to a more sober and devout frame of mind, and
they attended readily on his ministrations. He preached
with such fervour and eloquence, that by and bye crowds
from all parts came to hear him, until his school- room
was found much too small to hold the numbers that were
attracted to his meetings. Then he used to adjourn with
them to a rising ground on the banks of the river
Tummel, where, in the open air, his hearers mingled their
praises with the sound of the murmuring waters.

Soon his fame as a preacher became so great, and his

usefulness so evident, that a request was made to the
Presbytery of Dunkeld, to give him a regular licence as a
88 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

preacher of tlie Church of Scotland ; l)ut there were

technical difficulties in the way of meeting this wish, and
so the matter dropt. Nor was the modest poet himself
at all disconcerted at this issue to the well-meant
kindness of his friends.
Buchanan was in Edinburgh in 1766, superintending
the printing of the Gaelic New Testament. While in
that city he took the opportunity offered him of increas-
ing his knowledge and cultivating his mind, by attending
the classes for Natural Philosophy, Anatomy, and
Astronomy, at the University.
In 1768 he died of fever, in the fifty-second year of his
age. In May of that year he returned home from a long
journey, to find his fapiily suffering from this disorder,
which soon seized upon himself. All his children, his two
servants, and himself, were ill at the same time. His
wife then about to be confined, could get no one to assist
her in attending on them so great was the dread of
;

infection entertained by their neighbours. In his de-

lirium Buchanan frequently sang psalms, and spoke of
the Lamb in the midst of the throne. On the second of
June he died.

In Beid's " Bibliotheca Scoto-Celtica," it is asserted,

that the poet's whole family, six in number, M'-as carried
off by the same fever, and at the same time as their father.
But this is a mistake. Buchanan left two sons and two
—
daughters behind him one of the latter was alive
in 1836.
In-person Buchanan was considerably above the middle
size,and of a dark complexion. His face is said to have
been very expressive of kindness and benevolence, es-
pecially on a near view. Among his familiar acquaintance
he was cheerful and sociable his company being much
;

sought after on account of his stock of pleasant anecdotes,

and generally intelligent conversation. His usual dress was
a blue bonnet and a black suit, over which he often wore
 DUGALD BUCHAXAX. 89

a blue great-coat. He was so highly respected that great

numbers gathered to attend his funeral, many of them
from a far distance. The people of Kinloch Rannoch,
fondly attached to him, wished to Lave him buried among
themselves, but that his kindred —
equally attached to his
memory — ^yould not permit ; and so they carried his
remains to his native place. A
plain stone with a neat
inscription, marks the spot where his ashes rest, in the
burial ground of the Buchanans, at Little Lenny, near
Callander. In 1883 a monument was erected to his
memory at Strathtyre.
His " Spiritual Songs," of which there are only eight
in all, were first collected and published in 1767. His
" Memoir of himself" was first printed in 1853. How
or where it was preserved so long does not appear ; but
its genuineness is not doubted. It has been translated
into Gaelic, and is now, in its original shape, out of print.
His poetry is extremely popular, and has gone through
nearly twenty editions. Ko other book that has appeared
in Gaelic has been so extensively circulated. This is
undoubtedly due, in some measure to its religious
character ; it being a work which can be conscientiously
and profitably read on the working man's "Great Leisure
Day." It is also partly owing to its being very widely
distributed through means of the " Colporteurs " that
travel over the Highlands. Something too mav be
allowed for its price, which is at present only threepence,
and a good deal still left for its own merits, which are
truly great.

Buchanan has been called the Cowper of the Highlands,

but his poetry bears little resemblance to Cowper's. It
is much more like Blair's, the author of " The Grave."
Once or twice he is indebted to Dr. Watts for his
subject, and partly too for his manner of dealing with it,
as in the hymn entitled, "The Hero; " not that there is
discernible here or anywhere else in his writings such
90 MODERN GAELIC BA.RDS

a thing as servile imitation. But he is the only one

of the Highland poets whose works display any trace of
their author's English reading. He was, however, the
one who, if not the most learned in some ])oints, was at
least the best informed, probably of them all.

There is a letter of Buchanan's extant, a somewhat

remarkable production, published originally in a volume
of "Consolatory Letters, addressed to bereaved mourners,"
collected and edited by Dr. Erskine, one of the ministers
of Edinburgh in the last century. In this letter we find
Milton quoted, a work of Dr. Watts referred to, and the
following passage which contains, either a striking, un-
designed coincidence with part of Constance's lamentation
for Arthur in ''King John," or manifests some sort of
acquaintance with Shakespeare. The letter is addressed
to friends of Buchanan's who had lately lost one of their
children, and the poet writes thus: —
"Our memories,
treacherous enough on other occasions, here are over-
faithful, and cruelly muster up in a long succession all the
amiable qualities of our departed friends, and thus tear
open our wounds to bleed afresh. Imagination is set to
work, and stuffs up their empty garments in their former
shape, when we miss them at bed or table." In like
manner, but in no better terms, Constance says, almost in
the same words however,

"Grief stuffs out his vacant garments with his foi'in."

Dugald Buchanan's " Spiritual Songs " exhibit, on the

whole, great vigour of thought and expression, and bear
the stamp of a solid understanding, and of an imagination
capable of lofty excitement. Perhaps the best and most
characteristic of his productions is the poem of "The
Skull," from which an extract is here given :
 DUGALD BUCHANAN. 91

THE SKULL.

The grave was new-made,

And a skull had been laid,
Close to its brink on the ground,
I stooped where it lay,
And my tears welled away
As I raised it, and turned it around.

No beauty was there,

No knowledge, no care
Of the men that passed it by
Its jaws both were bare.
And no tongue now could e'er
In its empty mouth sing melody.

Yet this cheek once was red.

And thick locks clothed this head,
And this ear once could list to my song
And these nostrils could smell,
That damp earth soon and well,
Now so weak where they all were so strong.

There no lusti'ous orb glows.

And no lids ope or close;
There's no sight the known pathway to trace ;

But the gross worms instead

Have for long made their bed.
And dug holes in the eyes' wonted place.

Aye, such looks will not show.

What thou wast long ago ;

Whether King's skull or JJuke's I now hold :

Alexander the Great

Thus owns no more state
Than his slave on the dunghill cold.
92 MODERN CAELIC BARDS.

Come thou grave-digger near,

Come and tell in my ear
Whose it is I have got in my hand ;

Till I question the head

Of the life it once led,
Though little 'twill heed my demand,

Wert thou once some young maid

In beauty arrayed,
And virtuous and pure in thy ways,
With thy charms fairly set,
To ensnare like a net,
The hearts of the young with their grace 1

And now those bright charms,

That woke love's sweet alarms,
Are thus loathsome to every one.
Out, out on the grave.
That sjDoiled thee so bare
Of that beauty such triumphs that won.

Or wert thou the Leech,

Who thy patients could teach
Every ache, every pain to allay
Boasting elate.
Thy specific so great,
That could snatch from Death's hand his prey Ì

Alas ! and that power

Was lost in the hour
When relief thy own sickness did crave
And then all thy skill,
' In the bolus and pill,
Could not keep thee a day from thy grave.
 DUGALD BUCHANAN. 93

Or in tavern rout,
Didst thou revel and shout,
With the mirth which the dram-drinking bred 1

And never a thought

Of God's providence sought,
If the barm raised it not in thy head 1

No music was there.

But to curse and to swear,
As you tried whose fist was the best
Till, as senseless and coarse
As a cow or a horse.
You lay dizzy and spewed in your rest.

Or some great man and grand,

Do I hold in my
hand
Lord and wide.
of acres, fertile
Who kindness would show
To the mean man and low,
And the poor from his plenty supplied Ì

Or didst thou, with hard mind,

Thy weak tenantry grind,
And thin their worn hair 'neath thy sway—
With thy law's cruel mock.
Distraining their stock,
Though their poverty moaned for delay *?

Letting them stand.

With bonnet in hand,
When they dared in thy presence appear :

And making so light

Of their locks thin and white.
And the wind that blew^ aches in their ear.
94 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Now the poor drudge,

Free of rent and of judge,
TJnrespecting lies down by thy side :

Great praise be to Death,

Who so soon stopt thy breath,
Nor 'neath the sod suflered thy pride.

Or once in this head

Was godly faith fed-
Didst thou walk in the way of the wise ;

Then, though thou liest there,

So naked and bare,
Without nose or tongue or eyes.

Be bold, — do not grieve,

For yet thou shalt leave
At the sound of the trumpet blast.
This baseness behind.
With the earth-worm that's blind,
When the grave and its power is past.

The opening stanzas of Buchanan's Spiritual Song,

called "Winter," are as follows. After giving a de-
scription of the season, the poet moralizes over it, and
applies it according to his manner:

The Summer now leaves us.

And near Winter grieves us
Vegetation's true foe
For our havoc who 's braced,
When for spoil thus he rises.
All grace he despises,
Free of softness and pity,
Full of plunder and waste.
 DUGALD BUCHANAN. 95

His dark wings overspreading,

And the soJar rays shading,
From their nest he calls forth
His chill ravaging brood ;

Snow pure white, and flying.

Or in drifts and heajjs lying,
And hailstones like shot,
And the north's stormy mood.

Once he breathes in his power,

Then its soul leaves the flower
His lips clip like scissors
The garden's pride bare
Woods and groves he assails them
Of their gay garb unveils them,
And the streamlets he chokes
While his dark flags they wear.

His breast's frozen whistle

Calls the wild winds to bristle
Tha barm-swollen ocean
That rolls rough and high :

And he curdles the sleet-shower

The that flits o'er,
hill-toiDS
And clean scours the stars,
Till they dazzle the eye.

FROM THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

Oh ye who did the world so prize,
!

Come now and see its doleful case

When, like a man that struggling dies,
It sinks in death's most fell embrace.

Its cold, clear veins that knew no rest.

But coursed the glen wdth playful pride.
96 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Now shrink within its burning breast,

And boiling, thread the mountain side.

How the world quakes Lo the great stones

! !

And rocks that fall f fom off the hill

Oh hear those hea^-y, deadly groans
!

That through its bursting bosom thrill.

There the blue curtain from the sun,

That, cloak-like, round the globe ^yas spread,
In fierce fire shrivels up, undone.
Like a thin leaf on embers red.

And dense clouds choke the air throughout,

With dark smoke-heaps about it wound,

For which the flames, far-flashing, spout

In curls that wreath and twirl around.

And over all the earth there rise

Dread and loud-sounding thunder peals.
Whose lightning, with the glorious skies,
Like sparks with the dry heather deals.

But more — to swell the tumult yet

From their arts the strong winds stray,
all
Like angels for destruction met.
And haste this wasting work each way !

"The Day of Judgment," consisting of one hundred

and twenty-seven verses, in the measure given above, is
the longest of Buchanan's poems. From what an early
period that theme occupied his mind Avill appear from the
following extract from his " Memoirs
" —
" Then the
:

—
Lord began to visit me with terrible visions dreams in
the night —
which greatly frightened me. I always
dreamed that the day of judgment was come, that Christ
appeared in the clouds to judge the world ; that all the
 DUGALD BUCHANAN, 97

people were gathered together before His throne; that He

seperated them into two companies, the one on His right
hand, the other on His left: and that I saw myself, along
with others, sentenced to everlasting burnings. I always
saw myself entering into the flames, and so would
instantly awake in great fear and trembling. These
dreams continued for about two years, so frequent that
scarcely a month passed by in which I had not some such
dream, and subsequently became so very frequent that I
did not regard them. At last, hoAvever, they ceased, and
I w-as no more troubled with them. This was about the
ninth year of my age."
It is told of Buchanan that when in Edinburgh super-
intending the printing of the Gaelic translation of the
New Testament, he became acquainted with several of
the distinguished men of that city, —
amongst others with
David Hume, who asked the poet to his house. When
Buchanan called he found the philosopher for a moment
engaged, so he sat down, and while waiting for his host
took up a book and began to read. The book was a
volume of Shakespeare, and the place where Buchanan
read was in " The Tempest." When Hume entered he
asked his visitor what he had been reading, no doubt
feeling curious to know what choice of book such a man
would make, or what opinion he would form of an English
classic. Buchanan told him, and pointed to those
celebrated lines :

'•
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great g:lobe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve
And. like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.'"'

Hume asked him if he thought he had ever read anything

so sublime before? Buchanan declared he had, and while
admiring these lines he professed there was a book in his
house which contained a somewhat similar passage, but
G
98 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

even more sublime, " and this is it," he said. \Ye have
been told that he was a man on whom anything great or
touching made a visible impression, causing him often
even to shed tears; so, he no doubt, repeated very
effectively those solemn verses :
—
" And I saw a great
•white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face
the earth and the heaven fled away and there was found no
;

place for them. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand
before God ; and the books were opened and another :

book was opened, which is the book of life And the :

dead were judged out of those things which were written

in the books, according to their works. And the sea gave
up the dead which were in it and death and hell de-
:

livered up the dead which were in them and they were

;

judged every man according to their works." Rev. xx. 11-

13. Hume said, "That is the Bible, sir. Yes, it is very
sublime; but it never somehow struck me so forcibly before."
Buchanan, in his " Memoir," tells us of his lying awake
a whole night in great terror during a storm of thunder,
lightning, and hail, expecting every moment that the heav-
ens were to open and the Judge to appear. He refers very
frequently throughout the book to the same subject, so
much so indeed as to show clearly that it was from first to
last his great point of contact with the invisible world.

[In the life of the Eev. Alexander Duff, D.D., LL.D., the prince
of Indian Missionaries, it is stated that "one of his constant
schoolmasters out of school was the Gaelic poet, Dugald
Buchanan, Catechist in the neighbouring Rannoch a century
before, who has been well described as a sort of Highland
repetition of John Bunyan in his spiritual experiences. The
fire, the glow, of the missionary's genius was Celtic by nature,
and by training. The fuel that kept the fire from smouldering
away in a passive peusiveness was the prophetic denunciation,
varied only by the subtle irony, of poems like "Latha 'Bhx'eith-
eanais" The Bay of Judycrii'nt, and "An
Claigeann" The
Skull. The boy's great and fearful delight was to hear the
Gaelic lamentations and poems of Buchanan, which have attain-
ed a popularity second only to the misty visions of Ossian read
or rehearsed by his father and others who had committed them
to memory."]
 ROB DONN.
Robert MacKay, the Sutherlandshire Bard, commonly
called," Rob Donn, from the colour of his hair which
was brown, was born in the parish of Durness, Suther-
landshire, in the year 1714. He very early showed his
poetical talents, — some verses which he is said to have
composed between his third and sixth year beino- still
preserved. At the latter age he had the good fortune to
attract, by his ability, the notice of a gentleman who took
him into his own house, and kept him in his employment
until the period of the bard's marriage. Shortly after
this he was entrusted with the charge of his Chief's
(Lord Reay) cattle, at that time an office, thouo-h a
humble one, of considerable responsibility and trust.
This office he held for the rest of his life, with the
exception of two or three years, during which he was a
soldier in the first regiment of Sutherland Highlanders,
and another much shorter time Avliile a misunderstandin<y
of some sort caused a slight estrangement between him
and his patron,
Rob Donn died in 1778, being then sixty four years
old. He was greatly regretted over the whole country,
where fame is still most warmly cherished. No other
his
of the Highland bards has had such justice done him
after death as Rob Donn. A
Doctor of Divinity col-
lected, arranged, and edited his poetry, and wrote the
Bard's biography. A
monument was raised to his
memory, and inscriptions composed for it in Gaelic, Greek
and Latin,"^ by a learned clergyman of the Church of

* The Gaelic epitaph has been translated into English by

Professor Blackie of Edinbvirgh.
100 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Scotland. And Sir Walter Scott* himself re-

finally,
viewed, in "The Quarterly," Dr. Mackay's edition of
Rob Donn's works, and gave his opinion that tins
illiterate herdsman was entitled to a place among the true
sons of song. Rob Donn was certainly a very shrewd,
clear-sighted mortal, with a certain musical turn in his
mind, and with no contemptible powers of satire. That
he was a poet no one can doubt who knows his wit, his
point, and his sharpness. But even the verdict of Sir
Walter cannot blind us to the fact, that Rob was not a
man of lofty character, that he was somewhat wanting
perhaps in deep feeling, and that, consequently, he had
no very high powers of imagination. Very few, if any,
of his own countrymen will be inclined to place him on
the same pedestal with MacDonald or ]MacIntyre, but all
are ready to acknowledge in him a sensible, intelligent,
and remarkable man, with a really refreshing and in-
fluential gift of song.
7 he following pithy little poem entitled, " The Greedy
Man and the World complaining against one another,"
may pass for a specimen of his satires. The Greedy Man
opens the dialogue thus :

GREEDY MAN.

Grudging art thou, O World and always art so.

!

Parting with those who have no wish to part so ;

The man whose greedy passions tie a string to thee,

Falls on his back with nothing when he pulls it free.

*Dr. MacKintosh MacKay's visit to Sir Walter Scott, at

Abbotsford, in May, 1881, was the occasion of introducing to
the notice of Lockhart the poems of Rob Donn, and this led to
the well known review in the Qnarterly of July, 1831. This
review has often been ascribed to Scott, but was really written
by Lockhart.
 101

THE WORLD,

'Tis you, ye fickle men who always start so

!

111 do ye keep by me who would not part so,

My sod supports you underneath, as you see
—
But away you flit at once and well may you be !

GREEDY MAX.

Oh if thou wouldst keep me, I'd be thine indeed,

!

Since beneath the sun lies all the good I heed:

How canst thou let me go, perhaps to endless pain.

When of heaven than of thee I am far less fain Ì

THE WORLD.

Nay but thou shouldst set thy wdshes much more

; truly
Where lasting pleasure in return comes duly.
Although the boor I nourish for a season.
To keep him long I've neither might nor reason.

Rob Donn composed a great many songs; some of

these are not considered of a very high quality, and some
of them are not of a very pure character. One which
took its rise on the poet's being forsaken by his
sweetheart is the best of the number. Rob Donn,
following his vocation in connection with his master's
cattle, was absent on a certain occasion for more than a
year from his native district. On his return he found his
faithless mistress engaged to a fair-haired Lowland
carpenter. The song is descriptive of his feelings on
making this melancholy discovery. But Rob appears to
have had so buoyant a temperament that he could not
help being a little smart, even in his grief. He was the
author of the music as well as the words of the song.
Its title is this:
102 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

THE SHIELING SONG.

Oh sad is the shieling,
!

And gone are its joys !

All harsh and unfeeling

To now its noise,
rae
Since Anna —
who warbled
As sweet as the merle
—
Forsook me my honey-mouth'd,
Merry-lipped girl
Heicli ! how I sigh ;

While the hour

Lazily, lonelily,
Sadly, goes by !

Last week, as I wander'd

Up past the old trees,
I mourn 'd, while I ponder'd,
What changes one sees !

Just then the fair stranger

Walk'd by with my dear
Dreaming, unthinking,
I had wander'd too near,
Till, " Heich " then I cried,—
!

When I saw
The girl, with her lover, draw
Close to my side

'•
Anna, the yellow-hair'd,
thou not see
J)ost
How thy love unimpair'd
Wearieth me Ì
'Twas as strong in ni}^ absence.
When banish'd from thee
As heart-stirring, powerful,
Deep as you see
 ROB DONN. 103

Heicli 1 it is now,
At this time,
When up like a leafy bough,
High doth it climb."

Then, haughtily speaking.

She airily said,
*' vain for you seeking
'Tis in
To hold up your head :

There were six wooers sought me

While you were away ;

And the absentee surely

Deserved less then they.
Ha ! ha ! ha !

Are you ill Ì

But if Love seeks to kill
"
you — bah !

Small is his skill !

Ach ! ach ! Now I'm trying

My loss to forget
With sorrow and sighing,
With anger and fret.
But still that sweet image
Steals over my heart
And still I deem fondly
Hope need not depart.
Heich and I say!

That our love.

Firm as a to^^er gray,
Nought can remove.

So Fancy beguiles me,

And fills me with glee,
But the carpenter wiles thee,
False speaker ! from me.
Yet from Love's first affection

I never get free :

104 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

But the dear known direction

My thoughts ever flee.
Heich when we
! stray'd
Far away,
Where soft shone the summer day
Through the green shade.

The haughty, heartless coquette of this little

airy,
ballad sketched with considerable spirit.
is "Ha! ha! ha!
Are you ill V
is a touch of Nature. One sees the poor
disconsolate bard standing bewildered before her without
—
a word in his head so utterly cast down is he at the ill-
placed mirth and cruel triumph of his fair-haired beauty.
He has contrived, however, to make the lady show a little
pique too, —
'' If love seeks to kill you —
bah small is his !

skill "
!
—
as if to console himself with the idea that his old
favourite was not so utterly destitute of feeling, nor her
old love, after all, so easily cast off without leaving a
trace behind.
It would not perhaps be altogether unsatisfactory to
know that " Anna, the yellow-hair'd," met with some
a disappointment herself in the end, in spite
little bit of
of her vaunted powers of attracting six lovers in one year,
— and such is said to have been the case. A Gaelic note
to this song declares that she married the fair-haired
carpenter, but led an unhappy life with him, and never
quite recovered her old spirits after the memorable parting
at the shieling, recorded above.
The date of the following song is 1784. On the day
when the news of the death of Henry Pelham, the prime
minister, reached Durness, Rob Donn sallied forth among
the neighbouring mountains in search of deer. After
wandering about the whole day he found himself towards
evening in a very remote glen, far from any human
habitation, except one where lay a solitaiy old man suffer-
ing fearfully from asthma. The gloom of night, the
 105

melancholy and desolate scenery, the lonely hut, and the

poor old man, whose every gasp seemed to be his last,
powerfully affected the mind of the poet, as he sat by the
fire he had made, and thought and listened sadly, until
blending the news of the morning so interesting to the
whole country, mth the scene before him, about which
nobody cared, he began to chant to himself as follows: —
He
spoke to Hugh as if he were already dead; but just as he was
closing the song, and going over the concluding verse for
the last time, and styling the old man the meanest of
mortals, he glanced up and saw that the miserable subject
of his elegy — —
indignant at the turn the verses took had
risen from his pallet, armed himself with a stick, and was
about to let it descend with all the force he could muster
on the singer's head. Rob had only time to avoid the
blow, and experienced some difficulty afterwards in paci-
fying the querulous sufferer, and leading him back to bed.
The bard's friends are said to have sometimes laughed at
this incident, but he himself always looked grave when it
was mentioned, and seldom could be brought to speak of it
at all.

THE DEATH-SOXG OF HUGH.

Death how
! oft we 're reminded
To cry out for aid !

When the small fall before thee

The great low are laid ;
Since autumn closed o'er us
The hint jou. renew,
With this stride from the court
To that death-couch with Hugh.
106 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Oh ! if we believed thee
Not blind should we go,
When there 's none of mankind
You disdain to lay low ;
High and mean dost thou take them-
That byeword is true
Yonder's Pelham the high one,
And here lies pooi- Hugh.

You come in the one way

Great griefs then arise
You come in the other.
And nobody sighs
Yet who can repose him
Where you ne'er pursue,
In a golden mean careless
'Twixt Pelham and Hugh.

They drop all around,

As struck down with ball
if

The report is our warning,

And loud is its call :

Thou, the least among many,

Hast thou heard of poor Hugh Ì

Thou, our chief man, forget not

Pelham, grandei" than 3'Ou !

Oh should we not tremble

! all
Brethren and friends.
When we're thus like the candle
That's burnt at both ends Ì
Where in all this wide world
Was one meaner than Hugh?
And the court the great Pelham
But one higher knew.
 WILLISM ROSS,
William Ross, a sweet lyric poet, who has been very
incorrectly styled, the Burns of the Highlands, but who
might, without impropriety, be called the Gaelic Michael
Bruce, was born at Broadford, parish of Strath, Isle
of Skye, in the year 1762. His parents were able to give
him a good education, and young Ross, at a very early
age, distinguished himself highly by his proficiency at the
parish school of Forres, which he attended.
His father having become a packman, and travelling in
pursuit of his calling over most of the NYestern Isles,
William, while still a youth, accompanied his father in
order that he might study all the dialects of the Gaelic
language at the fountain-head, and make himself thor-
oughly acquainted with them all. He was so successful
in this endeavour that he was reputed among the first
Gaelic scholars of his day. He is also said to have known
Latin and Greek well. He sang pleasantly, though his
voice was not strong, and he played on the violin, flute,
and several other instruments with considerable skill.
He became parish school master at Gairloch, Ross-
shire, and was very successful as a teacher. He showed
a great deal of kindness, which attracted and attached his
pupils, and possessed a pleasant humour with which he
used to amuse them and lighten the weary drudgery of
their tasks He held this situation, however, but a short
time. Asthma and consumption closed his life in 1790,
when he was only in his twenty-eighth year.
William Ross is a graceful poet, perhaps the most
polished of any of the Highland minstrels ; although he
is certainly inferior to more than one of them in point of
strength and energy. He is tender, and easy, and
108 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

plaintive never aiming at great things, nor reaching

;

lofty heights.In his system of versification he is

generally even more elaborate, and always quite as
successful as any of his compeers. In his descriptions of
nature he is very sweet and pretty but throughout all
;

his poetry there appears that soft shade, along with that
lack of vehemence and vigour, so observable in most of
those poets who die young.
William Ross is said to have been disappointed in love,
and to hav^e suffered such grief in consequence that it
shortened his life. After having been sometime confined
to bed, he rose one fine evening in May, and strolling out,
full of melancholy reflections, sat beneath a tree on which
a cuckoo soon settled, and began to shout over his head.
The beauty of the evening, the stillness of the scene, and
the sweet voice of the spring-bird, together with his own
sad condition, filled the heart of the poet and melted it,
until it flowed spontaneously in the following strain.
The poem is called, " The Cuckoo on the tree." In it its
author probably bade farewell both to love and poetry.
He speaks of the loss of his mistress, and of his own
approaching death, with sweet and tender pathos in —
diction that possesses his customary finish, and in a style
that is pervaded by his usual elegance and grace. The
beginning of the fifth stanza, with its pastoral beauty,
—
reminds one of Solomon's song especially the fourth
line :

The ciu'l of her hair was so graceful ami fair,

Its lid for her eye a sweet warden ;
Her cheeks they are bright, and her breast limy white,
And her breath like the breeze o'er a garden.

But altogether indeed the poem has no little beauty. It

might be compared, or rather perhaps contrasted with
Keats' pathetic and imaginative "Ode to the Nightingale,"
as at least the circumstances of the two poets, if not tlieir
 WILLIAM ROSS. 109

sentiments or their genius, were somewhat similar, in the

composition of poems which may, not inaptly, be styled
the elegy of each young and plaintive minstrel by himself.

THE CUCKOO ON THE TREE.

Small bird on that tree, hast thou pity for me,
Out through this mild misty gloaming?
Would I were now 'neath the dusk of the bough,
All alone with my true love roaming :

I Avould raise up a bield her fair form to shield,

From the chill moory tempest blowing
And rest by her side in my fondness and pride.
And kiss her young lips, sweet and glowing.

I slept late and dreamed, but 'twas no lie that gleamed

On my mind —
Oh so sad and despairing
!

When a husband I spied with his beautiful bride

Affection's pure transports sharing :

How my old love returned and cold reason it spurned,

Till I moaned and wept, wildly crying
Every pulse, every vein, boiling —bounding amain
With the blood from my heart quickly flying

Yes, —
I'm pledged to her still in spite of my will
Alas and I'm wounded badly
!
;

But a look 's all I lack of her face to bring back

The health I have lost so sadly :

Then I 'd rise without fail, and her would I hail.

Light with joy and not thus, sorrow laden
She 's my own tender dove —
my delight and my love
The sun over every maiden.
1 10 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

Yet nought to me but a sting all her bright beauties bring-

I droop with decay, and I languish :

There's a pain at my heart like a pitiless dart,

And I waste all away with anguish.
She has stolen the hue on m}^ young cheeks that grew,
And much she has caused my sorrow ;

Unless now slie renew with her kindness that hue,

Death will soon bid me, " Good morrow !

The curl of her hair was so graceful and fair.

Its lid for her eye a sweet warden
Her cheek it was bright, and her breast limy white,
And her breath like tlie breeze o'er a garden.
Till they lay down my head in its stone-guarded bed
The force of these charms I feel daily.
While I think of the mirth in the woods that had birth ;

When she laughed and sported gaily.

Her mouth was so sweet, and her teeth white and neat
Her eyes like the sloeberry shining :

How well will she wear, with her matronly air,

The kerchief where nobles are dining !

Oh if she could feel the like ardour and zeal

:

Which so long in my breast have been glowing

And if she were mine, with the blessing divine,
I might turn from the way I am going.

Softly, some day, will they make in the clay

My bed, since her coldness so tries me
I 've wanted her long, and my love has been strong,
And the greenwood bough still denies me.
If she were thus low, with what haste should I go
To ask how the maiden was faring:
Now short the delay till a mournful array

The brink of my grave will be bearing

 MSRY MSCLEOD.
Mary Macleod, authoress of the following poem, is
the first, in point of time, of the Modern Gaelic Bards.
Before her day all that exists of Gaelic poetry is fugitive,
and of uncertain authorship, or is Ossianic; that is
attributed to Ossian directly, or known, or sujDposed to be
by some noted and professed bard of the middle ages,
whose name is still attached to one song, or perhaps two
— mostly in the ancient style, and on some Fingalian
subject, but who has left behind him no body of poetry,
and set no stamp of his own character and manner on the
language of his race. Since her day, while the nameless
popular poetry has all along been vigorously flourishing,
there has also been a succession of bards who cultivated
their gifts assiduously and successfully, and whose works,
still extant, are classed under their name, and bear the
mark of their peculiar faculty. These have carried Gaelic
Poetry to as high an excellence as it is likely ever to
reach. The Golden Age of the Highland Muses was in
the middle of last century, when MacDonald, Duncan
Ban, Buchanan, Bob Donn, and others were all livino-
and composing together. The Mountain Melodies have
since been on the decline.
The earliest of this modern school of Gaelic poets was
Mary MacLeod, better known among her own countrymen
as, " J/àm nighean Alastair Euaid//," (Mary the daughter
of red-haired Alexander). She was born in Harris, in the
far away Hebrides, in 1569, and died at Dun vegan, Isle
of Skye, in 1674, at the great age of one hundred and
five years.She never learned either to read or to write, yet
her poetryis pure and chaste in its diction, melodious,
though complicated, in its metre, clear and graceful, and
frequently pathetic.
112 MODERN r4AELIC BARDS.

The song here given was composed by Mary MacLeod,

on her being banished from Dunvegan, for some real or
imaginary offence, by the arbitrary young Chief, whose
praises she sings with such delight and enthusiasm, —
as
sitting by the sea-side in Mull, her heart is oppressed by
the thought of her absence from her beloved Skye, and
from his gracious presence, who was to her its hero and
its sun. It is satisfactory to know that the young gentle-
man of whom poor Mary has given so flattering a portrait
—probably his only remaining title to consideration
relented sufficiently at the sound of his own praises, or in
respect for the genius of his clanswoman, that he gave her
permission to return forthwith to his dominions, and he
even sent a boat to bring her back. He is said to have
been particularly good to the aflectionate poetess ever after.

MACLEOD'S DITTY.
Alone on the hill top,
Sadly and silently,
Downward on Islay
And over the sea
I look and I wonder
How time hath deceived me :

A stranger in Muile*
Who ne'er thought to be.

Ne'er thought it, my island !

Where rests the deep dark shade

Thy grand mossy mountains
For ages have made
God bless thee, and prosper !

Thy chief of the sharp blade,

All over these islands.
His fame never fade !

* Mull.
 MARY MACLEOD. 113

Kever fade it, Sir Norman •

For well 'tis the right

Of thy name to win credit
In council or fight
By wisdom, by shrewdness,
By spirit, by might,
By manliness, courage,
By daring, by sleight.

In council or fight, th}- kindred

Know these should be thine
Branch of Lochlin's wide-ruling
And king-bearing line !

And in Erin they know it

Far over the brine :

No earl would in Albin

Thy friendship decline.

Yes the nobles of Erin

!

Thy titles well know.

To the honour and friendship
Of high and of low.
Born the deed-marks to follow,
Thy father did show,
That friend of the noble
That manliest foe.

That friend of the noble

From him art thou heir
To virtues which Albin
Was proud to declare :

Crown'd the best of her chieftains

Long, long may'st thou wear
The blossoms paternal
His broad branches bare !
114 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

O banner'd Clan Ruari

Whose loss is my woe,
Of this chief who survives
May I ne'er hear he 's low ;

But, darling of mortals !

From him though I go,

Long the shapeliest, comliest
Form may he show !

The shapeliest, comliest

Faultless in bearing
Cheerful, cordial, and kind,
The red and white wearing.
Well looks the blue-eyed chief ;

Blue, bright, and daring,

His eye o'er his red cheek shines,
Blue, bright, calmly daring.

His red cheek shines,

Like hip on the brier-tree,
'Neath the choicest of curly hair
Waving and free.
A warm hearth, a drinking cup,
Meat shall he see,
And a choice of good armour
Whoe'er visits thee.

Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,

And arms old and new ;
Long, narrow-bladed swords,
Cold, clear, and blue
These are seen in thy mansion,
With rifles and carbines, too
And hempen-strung long-boAvs,
Of hard, healthy yew.
 MARY MACLEOD. 115

Long-bows and cross-bows,

With strings that well wear
Arrows, with polish'd heads,
In quivers full and fair,
From the eagle's wing feather' d.
With silk fine and rare ;

And guns dear to purchase

Long slender— are there.

My heart's with thee, hero !

May Mary's son keep

My stripling who loves
The lone forest to sweep ;

Rejoicing to feel there

The solitude deep
Of the long moor and valley,
And rough mountain steep.

The mountain steep searching

And rough rocky chains ;

The old dogs he caresses,

The young dogs he restrains :

Then, soon from my chieftain's spear

The life-blood rains
Of the red-hided deer or doe
And the orreen heather stains.

Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe

Then stand on the heather,
Thy gentle companions,
Well arm'd altogether.
Well taught on the hunter's craft,
Well skill'd in the weather ;
They know the rough sea as well
As the green heather !
 MllCGREGOR'S LULLSBY,
"On the sixteenth of June, 1552,'' says the curate of
Fortingall,''
Duncan MacGregor and his sons, Gregor and
Malcohn Roy, were beheaded by Colin Campbell of
Glenurchy, Campbell of Glenlyon, and Menzies of
Rannoch." * The authoress of the following ballad was a
daughter of Colin Campbell of Glenurchy. and the wife of
Gregor MacGregor, whose death she so feelingh' laments.
The Black Duncan mentioned was her brother. He was
called "Donnachadhdubh a' Churraichd," or Black Duncan
of the Cowl, from some peculiar head-dress he was in the
habit of wearing, and in which it is said he is represented
in his picture, still preserved at Taymouth Castle. This
chief, the seventh laird of Glenurchy, was a man of some
mark in his day. He played his part in the fierce politics
of the time, and managed his own estate, as is seen from
contemporary records, in a very businesslike and careful
manner. Like his unfortunate sister, however, he had
also something of a finer turn. " Black Duncan," says
—
Professor Innes, " had a taste for books read history and
—
romance and is not quite free from a suspicion of having
dabbled in verse himself." Although his sister does not
spare him in her denunciation of her kindred, he must
have been quite scatheless of causing her sufferings, for
he appears to have been only seven years old when Gregor
MacGregor was executed. Duncan Laideus, alias Mac-
Gregor, father 'of this Gregor, has had his name, some
time or other, put at the head of an interesting old
Scottish Poem, from which Professor Innes gives some
very pleasing extracts. It is called " Duncan Laideus,
alias MacGregoi's Testament," and is " found written on
the blank leaves at the end of one of the copies of the
romance of Alexander," a favourite book with " Black
Duncan of the Cowl."
* Sketches of early Scottish History, page ?.55, (Src.
 macgregor's lullaby. 117

GREGOR MACGREGOR'S LAMENT.

Early on a Lammas morning,
With my husband was I gay ;

But my heart got sorely wounded

Ere the middle of the day.
Ochan, oclian, ochan uiri,
Though I cry, my child, with thee—
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Now he hears not thee nor me !

Malison on judge and kindred,

They have wrought me mickle woe ;

With deceit they came about us,—

Through deceit they laid him low.
Ochan, ochan, ifec.

Had they met but twelve MacGregors,

With my Gregor at their head ;

Now my had not been orphaned,

child
Nor these bitter tears been shed.
Ochan, ochan, &c.

On an oaken block they laid him,

And they spilt his blood around ;

I'd have drunk it in a goblet

Largely, ere it reached the ground.
Ochan, ochan, itc.

AVould my father then had sickened

Colin, with the plague been ill

Though Rory's daughter, in her anguish.

Smote her palms and cried her till.
Ochan, ochan &c.
 118 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

I could Colin shut in prison,

And Black Duncan put in ward, —
Every Campbell now in Bealach,
Bind with handcuff's, close and hard.
Ochan, ochan, ifcc.

When I reached the plain of Bealach,

I got there, nor rest, nor calm ;
But my hair I tore in pieces,
Wore the skin from oft' each palm !

Ochan, ochan, <fec.

Oh could I fly up with the skylark

!

Had I Gregor's strength in hand ;

/ The highest stone that's in yon castle

Should lie lowest on the land.
Ochan, ochan, tfec.

Would I saw Finlarig blazing,

And
the smoke of Bealach smelled,
So that fair, soft-handed Gregor
In these arms once more I held.
Ochan, ochan, <tc.

While the rest have all got lovers

Now a lover have I none ;

My fair blossom, fresh and fragrant.

Withers on the ground alone.
Ochan, ochan, S:c.

While all other wives the night-time

Pass in slumber's balmy bands,
I, upon my bedside weary.
Never cease to wring my hands.
Ochan, ochan, etc.
 macgregor's lullaby. 113

Far, far better be with Gregor

Where the heather's in its prime,
Than with mean and Lowland barons
In a house of stone and lime.
Ochan, ochan, Arc.

Greatly better be with Gregor

Where the herds stray o'er the vale,
Than with little Lowland barons
Drinking of their wine and ale.
Ochan, ochan, &c.

Greatly better be with Gregor

In a mantle rude and torn,
Than with little Lowland barons
Where fine silk and lace are worn.
Ochan, ochan, &c.

Though it rained and roared together,

All throughout the stormy day,

Gregor, in a crag, could find me
A kind shelter where to stay.
Ochan, ochan, &c.

Bahu, bahu, little nursling

Oh ! so tender now and weak ;

I fear theday will never brighten

When revenge for him you'll seek.
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Though I cry, my child, with thee
Ochan, ochan, ochan uiri,
Yet he hears not thee nor me !

The terrible jjersecution which the MacGregors were

subjected to —the cruel sufferings Avhich for many years
they had to struggle against, when their w^hole tribe was
120 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

outlawed, their lands confiscated, and their name pro-

scribed— Sir Walter Scott has made familiar to many who
would perhaps have never heard but for him of the
valorous endurance of the "clan that was nameless by
day." That the great novelist has done justice to the
indomitable energy, the terrible prowess, the courage, and
the wild heroic fidelity of this much-wronged sept, there
is no one can venture to dispute. But certain warm-
—
hearted Highlanders who feel peculiarly interested in all
the brave men who spoke the mother tongue of the Gael
in other days — assert that the poet, to say the least of it,
has fixed too exclusively on the fiercer and more savage
attributes of the banished clan. It may be Sir Walter
really did exaggerate, for artistic purposes, those harsher
traits of character which must have in some degree existed
among the MacGregors when subjected to such vile
—
treatment as theirs was unless they were actually some-
thing more than mortal or it may perhaps as likely be
;

that the kindly partiality of the modern Celts has closed

their eyes, when they think so, on some of the ruder
doings of the outlawed and exasperated mountaineers.
At any rate, there seems to be some force in the reasoning
which the novelist has put into the mouth of Ranald
MacEagh in Argyll's dungeon, when he says, "I am a
man like my forefathers while wrapped in the mantle of
;

peace we were lambs it was rent from us, and ye now

;

call us Avolves. Give us the huts ye have burned, our

children whom ye have murdered, our widows whom ye
have starved collect from the gibbet and the pole the
;

mangled carcasses and whitened skulls of our kinsmen;

bid them live and bless us, and we will be your vassals
aud brothers ; till then let death and blood and mutual
wrong draw a dark veil of division between us." There
is here a natural eloquence and logic of facts which cannot
fail to find an echo in the most peaceful heart amongst us.
If the Children of the Mist did not feel such sentiments,
at least they are amazingly like the sentiments by which
 MACGREGOK o' RUARA. 121

we can most we would be actuated in

readily suppose
their circumstances. But, however that may he, certainly
the following song does not breathe the fiery energy of
Ranald's hostility ; nor is it at all tinged with the vindic-
tive spirit which scandalized Captain Dalgetty in the
parting injunctions of the old cateran to his grandson,
Kenneth of the Mist :

There is sorrow, and sorrow, and sorrow now fills me

Poor pitiful sorrow no man can redress ;

It is sorrow, and sighing, and sadness that thrills me

Oh terrible sadness I cannot repress.
!

MacGregor has perish'd —

MacGregor, pine-banner'd
MacGregor, beloved in Glenlyon the green
MacGregor, the brave, by whose foes ever honour'd
The threatening roar of our pibroch hath been.

—
His badge was the pine known the steep hill ascending
His arrow were wing'd from the true bird's *brown side;
'T was a joy for a prince when the hero was sending
The smooth polish'd shafts from the bow of his pride.

By that strong arm well aim'd, son of Murdoch the

fearless
and deadly they darted from thee
Swift, silent, ;

Then, if e'er was done us, MacGregor the peerless

wrong
Soon our foes saw thy standard, and trembled to see

But now when they hurt us, we bear uncomplaining

MacGregor and all that would help us are gone ;

And the thoughts of our sad hearts with them are remaining
In the chapel that stands near the valley alone.

* The true bird [cun fior eun) is a poetic name for the eagle.
The commcn name is Fiolair, a word rather difficult to pro-
nounce with a right accent.
122 MODERN GAELIC BA.RDS.

My kinsmen, co-nurtured ! O you that could right me !

It grieves and it wounds me the blank you have made

Your death and your absence for ever affright me,
And the dark narrow bed where your heads low are laid!

Now you 're lying.

in shirts of pale linen so lonely
No bands and no silks and no tartans you wear ;

Ourselves sew'd your white robes, with sorrow and sighing;

—
No gentle dames Avrought with us wept with us, there.

Now this counsel of me, who your safety am seeking,

Take you for your guidance, young clansmen of mine ;

When you go to the inn where the strangers sit speakings

More than one draught, for your life's sake, decline.

Take the dish which they offer be cautious and wary

;

There is no man you meet with but may be a foe ;

"While you drink, remain standing, and then do not tarry,

—
But turn round and haste ye delay not, but go.

For summer take spring-time — for autumn take winter

And away and away to wild solitudes hie ;

Where the heat and the cold the crag shiver and s})linter,^
And see you sleep lightly wherever you lie.

The squirrel is rare, but the hunters deceive him,

And draw him away from his nest in the tree ;

And the falcon is noble, but men will not leave him
His daring, his speed, and the blue heavens free.

" More than one

draught, for your life's sake, decline.'^
At Grant makes the following remark
this place Mrs. :

"The single draught in this verse is particularly expressive

of the constant apprehensions which haunt the mind of
him who knows that this life is haunted with malicious
diligence. The ancients tell of dogs on the borders of the
 BRAES OF CEATIIACII. 125

Nile who always drank running, for fear of the crocodile.

This is one of the images of habitual terror."
liveliest
There are other parts of the song equally expressive.
There is another song of the Children of the Mist, which
is called, " Cruachan a' Cheathaich ;
" or the Braes of the

Mist. It is in print, and well known ; but I translate

from copy taken down from the singing of an Islayman,
a
who is a smith, and well acquainted with the traditional
poetry and legends of the Highlands. Neither this man
nor the transcriber knew that the song had ever been
published. Each thought he was doing his best to save
an ancient fragment that was just about to perish. This
again serves to show the care with which Tradition
watches over the few prized treasures which the tyrant,
Time, leaves with it. The ballad is sung to a wild and
melancholy pibroch tune, to which the translation has
been adapted. The story connected with it is interesting.
In the last line of the poem the singer speaks of her father,
but the tradition says it was her husband and two sons,
whom she had concealed in her house when some of the
bitter enemies of the MacGregors were observed ap-
proaching. They were already close at hand There was
no time for escape. The woman concealed her friends in
a bed, and then sitting down at the fire or at the door
proceeded to sing this song. She represents herself
waiting in solitude for her persecuted kindred; and saying,
since they had not then returned, they must either yet be
at Lochfyne —as when she last heard of them — or far
away in the glens of the Mist, hunting and fishing and ;

consequently, as it was now so late, obliged to pass the

night in a poor hut, where she had left some tokens of
her presence, and it is to be inferred some rude pre-
parations for their reception. She then concludes, pray-
ing for their safety, and expressing her own sadness on
account of their many dangers ;some of which she
enumerates with the minuteness of intimate acquaintance.
In such circumstances, the prayer must have come
124 MODERX GAELIC BARDS.

emphatically from the singer's heart. It v/as answered to

her wish on that occasion at least. The people outside
listened as the woman sung, and, believing what she said,
passed on without disturbing her. A
very good subject
surely for a picture this woman would make, singing so
at her fireside, in the hearing of her friends and her
—
enemies her heart's most precious wishes depending on
the effect produced by her ballad.
The song represents her sitting on the highway her —
most cruel foes not unobserved, though unnoticed by her;
her dearest friends in the powder of those foes if they only
—
knew it ; and she with the twilight, and the dim, misty
—
mountains looking down on her their deliverer, if she
could sing her lyric in the right character to the end.
Seldom, indeed, has song or ballad been composed or
chanted in circumstances of such intense excitement.

THE BRAES OF THE •'

CEATHACH."

I SIT here alone, by the plain of the highway.

For my poor hunted kin, watching mist, watching by-way;
I've yet got no sign that they're near to my dwelling;
—
At Loclifyne they were last seen if true be that
telling

Drinking wine w^ith the nobles, the street 2>roudly stepping

—
With Gregor Og Rua that hard hand behind weapon
And Gregor Mor Maimach, my household commanding.
Son of him of Strath-Startail, round whose hearth, often
standing
 BRAES OF CEATHACII. 125

I 've heard the bard harjiing, and oft seen them playing
With the dice, and with chess, and the fiddle's mirth
swaying.
In the Glen of the Mist is the stag from you flying?
On the moor are you leaving the bonny bird lying ?

For the raven a prey do her bloody plumes quiver Ì

Or draw you its dark blue flock from the bends of the
river 1

You must pass this lone night in a hut low and narrow,
Where the dagger I left, and the belt and the arrow.

May the King of the Universe save you for ever

From the flash and the bullet, and the store of the quiver;
From the keen-pointed knife, with the life-blood oft
streaming;
From the edge of the sharp claymore, terribly gleaming.

In Briagh-Bhaile, on Sunday, they won without fighting,

But since then no smile my sad face has been lighting ;

——
Small wonder I say so greater shame 't would be rather
Not to say so with grief when they call thee my father

From internal evidence, this song may be pronounced

at least two hundred years old. It forms a fit companion
for MacGregor o' Ruara," and the preceding " Lullaby,
— all belonging to the same clan and the same era, and
having been produced under somesvhat similar circum-
stances.
 FUGITIYE SONGS.
Many of the most popular of Gaelic love songs are by
unknown authors, or, as is the case also in Lowland
Scotch, by authors who composed one song and no more.
Their distinguishing characteristics are simplicity, tender-
ness, and expressive sincerity. There is a great deal of
music generally in their language and rhythm, and such
a correspondence with the tune to which they are sung,
as if they were the twin births of the one passionate
experience. This is also the case with their Lowland
kindred, which have very much the same rural grace and
freshness, which we discover in the Highland lyrics.
In them music and poetry are truly wedded, till they
become of one sound and nature, and are helps meet for
one another. Especially is this the case with the chorus
—
and with one or two verses of the lyric such as we
may suppose might be struck off in the first heat of
emotion. Sometimes, for a few lines, it would almost
appear as if it were difficult to say where the music
begins, or the —
words end they blend and lit so curiously
together. This, I su})pose, must be partly attributed to
the nature of the Gaelic language, which, without being
particularly soft, is very flexible, and full of vowel
sounds. But it must also be attributed, in a certain
degree, to the musical genius of the people, which I look
upon as decidedly evident, and one of their prominent
characteristics; though, of course, existing as yet in
some districts, in a very uncultured state.
The Highland melodies are often of the most touching
—
beauty sometimes wildly melancholy, sometimes ex-
uberantly gay. They remind one more than anything
else of what Mr. Carlyle says so happily of Burns' songs,
 FUGITIVE SOXGS. 127

Avben he calls them "fitful gushes; warblings not of the

^•oice only, but of the whole mind." Springing full-
formed and at once out of some real emotion, the few
sweet notes that form their music might pass for the
plaintive or cheerful tones of some singing creatures who
had been gifted indeed with melody, but denied the use
of articulate language to express their overmastering
feelings and who were therefore fain to utter them as
;

—
the birds do yet with all the difference of a profound
and intelligent consciousness. These little gushes of
melody have passed down from age to age, exciting or
soothing kindred feelings with those that were their own
origin —like pure fresh fountains that look so clear
and sweet, they at once excite a wish to taste them in
those who at the moment need them not, and help to
quench the longing thirst of those v.ho actually do.
There is little or no art manifest in the arrangement or
finish of these airs ; they are consequently to be regarded
rather as germs of sweet music than as perfect melodies.

OCH! MAR THA ML*

The following Islay song, known as, " Och mar tha mi,"
I give verse for verse with the original, and in its rather
peculiar metre, exactly as it was sung to me by a lady
well acquainted with, and much interested in Highland
popular poetry. It must be noted that words of two
syllables are in Gaelic invariably accented on the first ;

* The th lieing silent inand the i sounded as in all

Gaelic,
other languages except English, these words are pronounced,
"ha mi !" This is an exclamation of grief, and means literally,
"Och! how am I!" or, rendered more freely, "Alas! what a
"
state am I in !
128 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

the second syllable becoming frequently little more than

a mere breathing. There are also far fewer monosyllables
in Gaelic than in English. This will serve to account
for Gaelic verses ending as they often do —
not with a
long syllable as in English, but with a word of a long and
—
short syllable, as in this song what the ancients called
a trochee.
It is verydifficult to give verses constructed on this
principle a metrical sound in English at all ; but, to
adapt words to a great number of the Highland melodies,
such a form is absolutely necessary. Every one who has
heard Gaelic songs sung by those who give them the
raciest intonation, must have observed how prone they
were to dwell on the second last syllable of each line, and
drop the last almost inaudibly. That is the right style
for singing, " Och —
mar tha mi " the air of which is
!

very pretty.

Och mar tha mi here so lonely,

! I

Despair has seized me, and keeps his hold :

Oh, Avere I near thee, in Jslay, only

Before thou 'st taken that man for gold !

This doleful morning, how sad my waking

My eyes with tear-drops fast running over,
For old love leaving and old vows breaking
Thy banns are call'd with that other lover.

When sleeping sweetly the rest are lying,

Wild dreams of anguish my mind is weaving.
I 'm like the swan that drops wounded dying — ;

My love exhausts me with bitter grieving.

Alas ! thy kind eye, so brightly shining

Thy neck so comely, like cannach blowing;
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 129

Those ebon eyebrows thy forehead lining ;

Thy cheeks like berries on rowans glowing.

Though all earth's maidens my heart were seeking,

I '11 love no more from this doleful morning.
Thou spirit thrilling ! thou sweetly-speaking !

Since thou has left me, and without warning.

Since thou has left me, and withouL warning,

Alas and taken a man for gold
! !

Had I been by thee, false wisdom scorning,

Thyself, my dear one ! thou hadst not sold.

Thy love could raise me from wasting fever.

And fill my pulses with health abounding
Like the strong salmon that leaves the river,
And leaps, rejoicing, where waves are sounding.

Och mar tha mi here so lonely

! !

Despair has seized me, and keeps his hold.

Oh, were I near thee, in Tslay, only.
Before thou'st taken that man for gold !

'-^^^^fv^r^Cs--
130 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

THE "GILLE DUBH, CIAR DUBH."*

The following song is sung to a beautiful and winning

air, which, like many other Highland airs, only requires
the delicate touch of some true genius to become a melody
as deep, as noble and expressive as any of those national
lyric gems we are so fond and so proud of. I don't know
whether it spoils the sentiment, or gives another interest
rather, to be told that one who sung so sweetly and
loved so well did marry her " Gille dubh, ciar dubh " in
the end.

Once o'er the wide moor wending,

Or round the green hill bending,
Gay words and wild notes blending
SjDread far my good cheer ;

For then my heart, light-leaping,

In waking, in sleeping,
Had no dubh, ciar dubh keeping
Its joys far from here.

And now that, together,

Dubh ciar dubh, dubh ciar dubh,
We faced the rude weather
On hills bleak and blue !

Some peaceful spot near me

I'd choose, and there cheer me ;

No grey-beard to fear me,

And thou in my view.

* Pronounced "Gille doo, keear doo." "Gille " means a young

man ; and "dubb, ciar dubh," dark, dusky dark.
 FUGITIVE SOXGS. 231

Thy health-draught, if drinking,

My gille dubh ciar dubh,
Mud-pools, to my thinking,
Like sweet wine would be
Yet though I've no dower,
If some had the power,
They'd take thy wild flower,
From thee, love ! from thee.

My bonny dubh, ciar dubh !

Let sharp tongues assail thee.

One heart will not fail thee
That knows to be true.
Dubh ciar dubh dubh ciar dubh
!
!

Though poor, poor thou be,

No rich old man can please me
Like thee, love, like thee !

My gille dubh ! kind one !

I never will leave thee ;

I'd choose thee, believe me,
Amid thousands five :

Should they stand on the heather,

All ranged there together.
Like thee should I find none
With whom I could live.

In sadness oft sleeping,

I wake up, half weeping.
Such wild dreams, come creeping
Over me, dear !

I've heard the old folks say

That grief makes the hair gray
Then, gille dubh ! this love may
Make mine so, I fear.
132 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

HOOG GRIN, O!

The following the wild wail of an unhappj

song is

woman, whose had forced her to marry against her

friends
inclination or who had allowed herself to be more in-
;

fluenced by false sense and worldly policy, than she found

afterwards consistent with the tranquility of a powerfully
sensitive heart. It tells of that intensest misery, which is
perhaps felt among us more frequently than it is spoken
and which oftener, it may be, than either, lurks darkly,
like an inexorable Fate, where it is never acknowledged,
even in the shape of a distinct feeling, by the dull and
dreary heart that counts for years the heavy hours with
sad and listless beatings. All marriages of interest, by
whomsoever planned, cannot turn out well. Some of the
parties in them have surely reason to sing, with this
miserable Highland woman :

I am married,
Hoog Orin, O !

Married ! worried !

Hoog Orin, O !

They took me from my own lover

Gave me to the western drover.
Where I hated
Iam mated.
Hoog Orin, O !

Wife ill-fated.
I am married — I am worried,
Hoog Orin, O
Mated ! married ! wearied ! worried !

Hoog Orin, O I
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 133

They gave me to the clumsy drover

Like my father, not my lover.
I am dreaiy
In his dwelling !

Hoog Orin, O
I am weary
Of the knelling
Of myheavy heart
Hoog Orin, !

Of the tears for ever swelling

From this heavy heart —
Sadly swelling, faintly knelling
O my soul depart !

Leave this strife

With weary life
Hoog Orin, !

Ill fated wife.

I am married — I am worried,
Hoog Orin, O !

I am mated where I hated,

Hoog Orin, O
Mated ! married ! wearied ! worried !

Hoog Orin, O !

Equally unhappy with the ill-fated wife of "Hoog

Orin, O " was the unmarried heroine of the next song.
!

Her lover was long absent. She watched for him, but he
came not. Hope deferred made her heart " Sick sick ! !

sick "
!
—forcing the sad conviction on her that she was
wilfully neglected ; and she became " a- weary, a-weary,"
and even thought he " wished her dead."

Sick ! sick ! sick !

Oh, the pain oh, the gloom !

He has no wish to save me

From the cold tomb.
134: MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Love! love! love!

The fair cheek, the dark hair,
The promise forgotten
'T will go with me there.

False ! false ! false !

Oh, youth is false for ever ;

He loves far more than living me

The lifeless heather.

The hunting field,

The greenwood tree,
The trout, the running deer, he loves
Far more than me.

He loves —
loves loves —
To stalk the frighten' d doe ;

He never heeds the pain he gives,

His skill to show.

Oh, the dark blue eye

A flower wet with dew
Oh, the fair false face
Too sweet to view !

Fare-thee-well — well — well

Though thou'st forsaken me
May every good thing follow
—
Follow follow thee !

A very sensible literary lady, commenting on the con-

duct of Mariana in "The Moated Grange," who was
*'
a-weary, a-weary," and wished that she was dead, said
that it would have been better for Mariana to have
minded her household duties, and given over singing.
And so, perhaps, it would and better for our unfortun-
;
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 135

ate Highland singers, too. It is easy, however, for the

kettle on the hob to tell the kettle on the fire not to boil.
When their souls pierced through with bitter
Avere
sorrows, and their poor hearts were full and overflowing,
how were those tuneful females to accommodate them-
selves to the sedate proprieties of their cool and un-
disturbed sisters, whose feelings had perhaps never in
their lite given them much trouble in the grand concern
of looking after themselves? Nothing more, perhaps,
remained for the tender lyrists than to speak or die or, ;

it may speak and die. Their language betrays no

be,
guilt, at least. If anything was wrong in them, it was
—
merely an excess of feeling neither a great nor a
common fault. Whatever cool-headed ladies may think
of these poor sufferers, —
of our sex, at all events, it may
be said, that those of us who do not value a true and
unaffected sensibility more than any amount of practical
—
good sense in a woman who do not intuitively prefer
—
a Mary to a Martha, in fact will possess but little
sensibility, or sense eitlier, themselves. The title of the
next song is,

A MAIDEN'S LAMENT.
My heart is broken ! broken !

What was bright in it is bleak :

Its joys are gone, and gone away,

This many and many a week.
They are gone away with him
Who was fairest of us all
Fairest Avhitest, whiter
Than the snow-flakes as they fall

He was manly ; he was nobly brave

He was first in every need.
136 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

I loved him, and I loved liini not

In word, but all in deed.
Too well, too well I loved him ;

For now I can but mourn

I mourn and waste my heart away
And pine till he return.

My heart is like a lumj^ of lead

I walk, but feel a stone
I eat not, drink not with the youths
I always feel alone.
My soul is black with sorrow
Why should I lay it bare.
Or tell 'tis he who left last week
That causes all this care 1

When he rein'd up a prancing steed,

How waved his curly hair
How confident he look'd and proud !

How manly was his air !

Not like a boy or woman

Did he discourse wdth men
His words were choice and ])retty,
As if written w4th a pen.

He was to me a gem — a gem

Like the bud a brier wears
He was as choice as is the tree
Bent with the fruit it bears.
And I was willing secretly
—
To wed wed him alone :

He should have laid me, ere he left,

Beneath the cold grave-stone !
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 137

Ah me ! 'tis little wonder

I grieve that he's away,
AYhen I think how we two loved and lived,
For many and many a day,
The sweet, sweet love we cherish' d
The wandering alone
Oh, the change, if he has cross'd the sea !

Oh, my weary, weary moan

THE BOATMAN.
The number of boatmen, fishers, and half-sailors in the
"Western islands, is out of all proportion to the rest of
the inhabitants; especially on the margin of the thousand
creeks and inlets and arms of the sea that calmly nestle
in the land. When night is falling on the long and
winding loch that leads to a murmuring fishing village,
the heavy sound of oars is heard incessantly along the
silent shores; or in the summer twilight, when the wind
is favourable, many and many sailing-boats may be seen
gliding silently, as ghosts, over the smooth, hill-sheltered
floor of the fresh western sea-way. Then the far-carried
sound of voices comes to the wanderer on the bank, and
reminds him, as he looks into the dim gloaming whence
they issue, of the mysterious paths that are on the great
ocean. Sometimes wild storms overtake the fisher, and
anxious hearts tv-ait for him at his home. Sometimes a
fierce mountain squall leaps like a wild beast upon him,
as he passes by in his careless security, and drives him far
away from his warm and blazing hearth or, as I have
;

known more than once to happen, overturns his frail

bark, and sinks him in the hissing, tumbling waters.
138 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Where fishers have large boats they go a great

the
distance, and remain for weeks away. Very frequently
they take a voyage or two abroad, and all of them are at
least half, and many of them thorough-bred, sailors. The
fishing population and the agricultural population differ
a good deal in their dress, and a little even in their
appearance ; of course their associations are dissimilar.
The fishermen are a very much respected class, however;
and no doubt they think a good deal of themselves. It is
of one of them the following very popular song treats.
This " Man of the Boat " had gone over the sea, and was
like never to return. He had left some one behind him,
who mourned his absence greatly.

How often hunting the highest hill-top,

I scan the ocean thy sail to see :

Wilt come to-night, love 1 Wilt come to-morrow ]

Or ever come, love to comfort me Ì!

My soul is weary ; my heart is breaking ;

With frequent tear-drops mine eyes o'erflow.

Wilt come to-night, love Ì May I expect thee 1

Or, sighing sorely, the door put to ì

I question fondly thy friends, and ask them,

Where last they saw thee Ì where thou art now ]

But each one, jeering, some answer gives me,

That sends me homeward with burning brow.

They call thee fickle, they call thee false one.

And seek to change me but all in vain. ;

No thou'rt my dream yet throughout the dark

; night
And every morn yet I watch the main.

Dost thou remember the promise made me

The tartan plaidie — the silken gown
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 139

The ring of gold with thy hair and portrait Ì

That gown and ring I will never own.

—
For not a hamlet too well I know it
Where you go wandering, or stay a while,
But all its old folk you win with talking,
And charm its maidens with song and smile.

And yet I dare not deny I love thee

And not a month, — oh, nor yet a year.
But thee for ever, —
since first in childhood
I stroU'd beside thee, and thought thee dear.

My friends they warn me, and oft advise me.

To thy false vows forgotten be
let :

As vain their counsel, as if they order'd

Yon little streamlet roll back the sea.

So here I wander, a tearful mourner

A stricken cygnet, with music-moan,
That sings her dirge-note by grassy fountain.
When, all forsaken, she dies alone

MONALTRI
Went to the moor to hunt, and falling over a rock was
killed. The following verses, as if by a flash of lightning
in a dark night, gives us a vivid glimpse of the confusion
and grief which attended the accident. The lines are
very slight and sketchy ; but they serve their end better,
perhaps, than many more elaborate things. They remind
us a little of " Bonnie George Campbell." It treats of a
similar misfortune ; is equally rapid in its narration, and
140 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

catches as successfully the right tone in which to deal

with its kindred sorrow. Tf it falls short, in some other
respects, of the rare masteri^iece it resembles, that need
not surprise us, for "Bonnie George Campbell" carries
as much of a sad tale and a wild lamenting, in a very
small compass, as probably any song in the English
language.

There's a sound on the hill,

Not of joy but of ailing ;
Dark-hair'd women mourn
Beat their hands, with loud wailing.

They cry out, Ochon !

For the young Monaltri,

Who went to the hill ;

But home came not he.

Without snood, without plaid

Katrina's gone roaming.
O Katrina, my dear 1

Homeward be comino-.

Och ! hear, on the castle

Yon pretty bird singing,
" Snoodless and plaidless.
Her hands she is ringing !

-h-i-
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 141

'MALI BHEAG OG!"

There is a much-admired production of the Celtic muse

that goes by the name of " Mali bheag òg," which may-
be rendered " Young little May." Who the author of it
was, I don't think has been well ascertained. Its story
is nearly the same as that of the ballad of " Kirkconnel
Lea,'' and resembles in some respects the Laureate's
" Oriana " The slaying of young and lovely women
accidentally, forms the theme of several of Ossiaii's
episodes one of which, at least that of " Fainasollis and
;

Mayro Borb, the King of Sorcha's Son," or " Stormy

—
Borbar," as MacPherson calls him has all the appearance
of considerable antiquity, as may be plainly enough seen
from a version of it published in Ap|)endix XY. to the
Highland Society's Eeport on the Poems of Ossian.
Indeed, this most heart-rending misfortune is one which
we might expect sometimes to hear of in a state of
society where the red genius of war appeared armed and
openly at the board, the hearth, the trysting tree, the
hunting field, as well as in his own more legitimate
scenes, where the softer sex might escape meetino- with
his valourship. What can we conceive more natural
than wrath driving fiery and inflamed spirits, with the
tools of death always at their command, into instant and
ill-placed strife and women, as they would be sure to do
;

shrieking, and throwing themselves before the weapons 1

More than one strong man must, in past days, have felt
his angry soul frozen into dispair from hot furv in a
moment, when he saw the tender breast his hand had
blindly wounded, sobbing out its life-blood and the poor
;

pale face he liked the most to look upon turned

forgivingly upon him, in the last gleam of life's reflection,
full of love and pity that were inextinguishable bv death.
142 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

The heroof this melancholy Gaelic song we have now

to do with met his mistress, clandestinely, on a Sunday
evening, in a lonely glen near her father's house. Her
kinsmen waylaid him and, furious at his attempt to
;

cany off their relative, attacked him with their swords in

her presence. She rushed between her friend and her
angry brethern, and was killed by a chance blow of her
lover's hand. He was immediately taken prisoner, con-
fined, and condemned to death. The night before his
execution he sang as folloAvs :

Canst thou feel for a captive's sigh.

Young little May !

Condemn'd by thy friends to die,

Young little May
Though thy soft eye of heaven's blue.
Thy lip of the honey dew,
Never more can my
bless view,
Young little May !

Oh, the sad tryst —that fatal day

My own little May !

Its blood will not wash away,

Poor little May
Why, before thy sweet, startled face,
Just touch'd by thy meek embrace,
Did our fell foes beset my trace.
Dear little May !

'T was for thee that I trembled then.

Kind little May
Though surrounded by cruel men.
Sweet little May
Bub oh, that some hostile blade,
This hand on the ground had laid
Ere that wound in thy side it made,
Brave little May !
143 FUGITIVE SONGS.

Then didst thou lie so lo\y,

Pale little May
Wild flower, that so sweet did grow,
Loved little May
Like glimpse of the sunny glow,
In mild morning rising low.
Such brightness thy face did show,
Lost little Mav

Oh, the deep love I give thee.

My own little May !

Oh, could it not save thee.

My choice little May !

How thy hair like the sunbeam,

Thy cheek like my heart's stream,
Rejoiced my last flattering dream.
Dear little May !

Through the world I could roam away,

Loved little May
To meet thee some distant day,
Dear little May !

I could run, I could leap then

As the deer of the mountain glen
Bounds through the flashing fen.
Choice little May !

Curs'd be thy kinsmen's spite^,

Sweet little May !

That forbade me thy love thy sight. —

Dear little May !

But were their love as mine is, dear

Oh ne'er had T languish'd here.
!

Wringing this bitter tear.

Bright little May
144 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

Yet now were I safe from death,

Dear little May !

Cumbrous would be my breath !

Sweet little May

Much better to die, and go
—
Where no blood where no blood can flow,
my God than thus wail thee low,
!

Dead little May

"BREIGEIN BINNEACH."
I GIVE this song, as it was sung to me by a lady who was
a good deal amused with it, though ashamed of re-
membering such nonsense so well. It belongs to a class
of songs of which there are a considerable number in the
Highlands, though they seldom find their way into printed
collections. It would seem that both the genius and the
taste of the people lead more to melancholy than to mirth
in their compositions. At the same time, when they
happen to be cheerful, their efforts are not less effective,
while their grave faces still keep masking the quaint
humour and cordial mirthfulness which their words
embody. The verses, though only a mere sketch, serve
to explain her situation. The hero of the ballad she
calls"Breigein Binneach" —
words which may be translated
''The lilting little liar." It is a foolishly ambitious and
absurdly deceived woman who sings.

I went away with Breigein Binneach

And ÌMacGregor dairy.
He told me of his spltnulid house,
His kitchen, and his dairy
 FUGITIVE SONGS. 145

But not a house or hall' saw I,

Save, on the hillside airy,
A littly bothy where he lived
With his sister Mary

He has got but one dun cow,

Though he bragg'd so rarely
It hardly gives enough of milk
For himself and Mary :

In my father's barn at home

I could lie as fairly
As in this bothy by the hill,
AYhich is so damp and airy.

I would leave it fast enough,

If my sire forgave me
I would work, and work enough
Do anything to save me
From the Breigein Binneach's tongue
And his sister Mary's ;

I'd thrash, or plough, or keep the cows,

Or cart, or keep the dairy.

MAIRI LAGHACH.
This song was composed by the late Mr, John MacDonald,
Crobeg, Lewis. He was not one of the noted bards,
jand is not the author of any other song that has become
well known. He left in MS. a few paraphrases in verse
of several passages of Scripture. His grand-daughter,
Miss Maggie MacDonald, Carlo way, Lewis, inherited his

u
146 MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

fine poetical genius. The present, able, and cultured,

Free Church Minister, Eev. W. J. MacDonald, M.A.,
Kirkcaldy, is a grandson of the poet. The song is very
popular, and very few song collections are without it.
Several English translations of it have already appeared
in print.

Young wert thou and I, Mary,

In yon lone Glensmole,
When Venus' little urchin
Pierced me to the soul
And we drew together
With an ardent zeal
I think such love no other two
Have felt, or e'er can feel.

Oft wert thou and I, Mary,

In the desert wild,
And ne'er with thought of evil
Were our hearts defiled ;

Since each for each we cherished

Affection good and true.
And bright, as were the beams that shone
The high green branches through.

Though Albion all were mine, Mary,

Its silver and its gold
How could I contented be
Should that love grow cold ]
I'd rather hold thy hand
With love's own right, by far,
Than own the jewelled stores of wealth
In Europe's bounds that are.

How thy curly locks, Mary,

Round thy small ears stray ]
 FUGITIVE SOXGS. I47

O'er every other hair, by right,

They bear the prize a\vay :

Thy neck is like the sea-gull

Sailing o'er the sea
With thy fine eyebrows, Mary,
Dark frowns can ne'er agree.

Above a king's our state, Mary

That happy pride of ours,
When 'neath the budding leaves we sat
On tender grass and flowers ;

The desert with its scented air,

Our very hearts to feed,
Where the sweet streams roll'd past us
To nourish every seed.

There never was an instrument

Beneath the sun could play,
A music half so sweet as ours,
When thus we 'd steal away
The lark above the little pool,
The thrush on every spray.
The cuckoo with its "goog-go,"
In fragrant morn of May.

THE LOVE THAT WILL KOT FADE.

(An gaol nach fàilnich.)

The love that will not fade,

The love that will not fade,
For thee —for thee my fair-haired maid
I feel the love that will not fade,
The love that will not fade.
148 MODERN GAELIC BARDS,

Thy golden hair —

thy sunny hair
It seems to me the day beams there ;

And in thy face that is so fair,

Where ne'er I saw black passion's shade,
never passion's shade.

Thine eye is blue —

thine eye is bright—
And shining with celestial light
To watch thy smile was my delight,
O'er all thy face it sweetly played,
From thy red lips it played.
Beautiful— -O beautiful !

The kind, good thoughts within thee rule,

beautiful and beautiful
To see thy soul with meekness swayed,
My fair, my good, my Highland maid
Thy soul with meekness swayed.
The love that will not fade
1 give to thee my fair- haired maid ;

O in the grave let me be laid

Before I lose tliee — lowly laid
And in my winding sheet arrayed,
In winding sheet arrayed.

These Fugitive Songs were composed mostly by men

and women who knew nothing of any other literature
than such as happened to be contained in their own
language. They formed the heart-treasure of men and
women who wore generally no better instructed than the
authors of them. They come, for the most part, directly
from the mint of nature, and have, many of them, a
freshness and simplicity about them —
an artless confession
of sentiment, which appear in every case to have been
actually experienced and simple as they are, there is a
;

certain charu) pervades them, not always found in more

elaborate and ambitious compositions.
ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

OSSIANIC POETEY.
How MacPherson's Ossiaii took its present form,
whether it grew gradually in the lapse of ages into its
present size and dignity, or was moulded Ijy some single
— —
mind MacPherson's own or another's rolling together
all it could collect of the ancient remains, and wielding
them by additions of its own, where these were con-
sidered necessary, in the heroic dimensions and shape in
—
which it now appears, this is a question which has long
been agitated, but yet is not likely to be soon, if ever,
finally and authoritatively, settled. As the controversy,
however, has all along raged round the English Ossian,
it can easily be imagined that some new light may yet be
added to it, by a diligent and efficient examination of the
Gaelic, which has scarcely, hitherto, been touched. The
grand question now, and the key to the whole mystery
if there is any key to it— is, who wrote the Gaelic Ossian?

MacPherson is declared by all who knew him to have

been unfit for the task. He is said not to have been a
very accomplished Gaelic scholar. He required the help
of a friend in writing down the poems recited to him in
his journey throughout the Highlands and Islands. He
consulted his friends with regard to obscure words and
difficult phrases in his manuscripts. He has slurred over
some words, and mistranslated others and finally, there
;

is a well known story told of him and a witty Highland

150 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

bard, named MacCodrum, which proves that MacPherson

did not always use the most correct Gaelic idiom, even
in ordinary conversation. But the writer of the Gaelic
Ossian had need, not merely to have been a fine poet, but
so complete a master of the language which he used, that
he could compose it in a style which deties detection
supposing it to be modern, — and all this too, not as a
person would now do it, with his work before him, Vjut
altogether without a model. The style, besides, of the
Ossianic poetry, is totally distinct from that of all other
Gaelic comjDositions, and notably original the ring of it
:

is recognisable in a moment. Who then wrote it ì Is it

to be supposed that MacPherson, while reaping all the
honours and profits accruing from his connection with the
most famous work of the age, got a good easy Highlander,
qualified as a poet and scholar for the undertaking, to
— —
compose in secret in obscurity and in neglect a Gaelic
Ossian from the English, and that this Highlander could
have done his work, without giving a hint to any one of
what he was about, and even without being apparently
suspected, by any inquisitive acquaintance, of being a
little busier than usual ? Is this credible Ì To my mind
it certainly is not. But then again it may be said that
MacPherson, by diligent study, at last fitted himself for
the work ; for the Gaelic Ossian did not appear until after
his death. But on the other hand, we have to remember
that the seventh book of Temora was published in Gaelic,
along with the first English edition, and that MacPherson
positively declares, that " a copy of the originals of the
former collection lay for many months in the bookseller's
hands, for the inspection of the curious."
Let it Ije added to this, that the Rev. John Farquharson,
a Jesuit missionary, before the middle of last century,
that is about twenty years before the publication of
—
MacPherson's Ossian made a collection of Gaelic poems
about Strathglass. This interesting MS. was afterwards
unfortunately destroyed — torn up by the students of the
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 151

not understand Gaelic

Scots College of Douay, who did
and did not know its value, and used by
them as long as
it lasted, in lighting their
winter fires. The Rev. James
the year
MacGilvray, who was at the Douay College, from
Farquh arson was
1763 to 1773, "during which time Mr.
this MS. was a
Prefect of Studies there, states that
larcve folio, about three inches
thick, entirely m Mr.
pretty
Fa?quharson's own handwriting, and written
close, so that it must have
contained a good deal.
"Mr. MacGilvray could not say positively how
Mr.
Farquharson had collected the poems—that many of
them
hearing them
certainly must have been obtained from
recited; and he had a sort of
remembrance that Mr.
having got a
Farquharson frequently mentioned his
^rreat many of them from Mrs. Fraser,
and indeed it must
for Gaelic
have been so, as she first gave him a relish
poetry, by the fine pieces with which she made him
acquainted."
Mr. MacGilvray farther observes,
" that m
.

the year
1765 or 1766, Mr. Farquharson first saw MacPherson's
translation of Ossian. It was sent to him by Mr.
Glendoning of Parton. That he remembers perfectly
recollect the
well his receiving it, although he did not
had read
exact time but Mr. Farquharson said when he
;

it, that he had all the

translated poems in his collection.
him
That Mr. MacGilvray had, an hundred times, seen
translation, and
turn over his folio when he read the
could
comparing it with the Erse [Gaelic], and lie
positively say that he saw him in this manner go
through
the whole poem of Fingal and Temora."
Perhaps, however, we need not conclude from
this
" the whole poems of Fingal
that Mr. Farquharson had
by
and Temora" in the very form in which they are given
MacPherson. From all that appears, they may have
partly as
existed in his MS., partly as ballads, and
detached and polished poems, like Dr. Smith's
"Old
Lays" It is entirely credible that Mr. Farquharson
152 AXCIENT GAELIC BAUDS.

making and
his collection before the rebellion of 1745,
assisted by Mrs. Fraser, whose first acquaintance with
Gaelic poetry would date con.siderably farther back,
might have obtained such a quantity of Ossianic poetry
of all ages, that he could, very modestly, say he had
in his MS. " the whole poems of Fingal and Temora,"
and prove this too by turning up any striking passage
in either. We know that Dr. Donald Smith, using
only the MS. collections in the possession of the
Highland Society, put together out of their contents, as
—
many as eight hundred and ten lines, rather more than a
fourth of the epic poem of Fingal given in MacPherson's
Ossian. Now Mr. Farquharson enjoyed many advantages
in making his collection over MacPherson. He preceded
MacPherson by twenty years at least, and gathered his
poems before the Highlands had suffered those rude
changes, and great transition from one form of life into
another, consequent on the rebellion so he may have
:

made a much more extensive collection than MacPherson's.

We must, however, bear in mind that Mr. Farquharson
made no objection whatever to Mr. MacPherson's Ossian,
except that it did not equal the original in his hands.
" Mr. MacGilvray did not remember to have ever heard
Mr. Farquharson tax Mr. MacPherson's translation with
deviating essentially from the sense of the original, Avhich
he could not have failed to have done had he found reason
for it ; for he very frequently complained that it did not
come up to the strength of the original and to convince
;

his friends of this, he vised to repeat the Erse [Gaelic]

and to translate them literally, comparing
expressions,
them with MacPherson's This difference, however, he
seemed to ascribe rather to the nature of the two
languages, than to any inaccuracy or infidelity in the
translator."
To this remarkable and most explicit statement no
more need be added than that MacPherson was seen, and
even assisted, by various people while at his work.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 153

Amongst these was Professor Adam Ferguson, Limself a

Highlander, and acquainted with the Gaelic language.
He examined some of MacPlierson's MSS. "much stained
with smoke, and daubed with Scots snuflV' and compared
with the translations, the latter appearing exact and
faithful, wherever so compared.
From these considerations it may be seen, that there
is something yet unexplained about the Gaelic Ossian,
and that they are therefore overhasty who ascribe it
without reserve to MacPherson although I allow that it
;

is extremely probable that he had a hand in making, at

least part of it up into its present form. I consider it,

however, likely that MacPherson had, quite as frequently,

to supply blanks caused by his rejection of such passages
as did not come" up to his standard, or did not suit his
peculiar views, as by actual want of material. This may
be easily seen from the other collections which contain
things, — such as the adventures of Diarmad, of wliich he
takes no notice. But it is also obvious, especially from
Dr. Smith's "Old Lays," that there was a great quantity
of floating poetry, very readily accessible in his day
throughout the Highlands, as fine and tender, and
polished, and elevated, as anything in his Ossian, which
he seems somehow never to have come across.
Dr. ISIacIntyre of Glenorchy, charged MacPherson
with being the author of the greater part of Fingal.
" You are much mistaken," said MacPherson, " I had
occasion to do less of that than you imagine." Mr.
MacPherson was not the man to underrate his own
abilities, or understate his own performances. To be
*' much mistaken " in considering such a man the author
of " the greater part of Fingal," is to be almost altogether
wrong in calling him author.
its sole
In short, when we
consider that the finest parts of
]\IacPherson's Ossian are incontestibly proved to have
been popular poetry long anterior to his appearing, I
think we should throw all prejudice aside and aflirm,
154 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

that whoever composed the poems attributed to Ossian,

James MacPherson was not the man ; and whatever merit
may belong to him as a translator, or whatever claim he
may have to be considered their compiler in their present
form, he has no legitimate title to be called their author.
They are substantially older than he, probably by many
centuries, and the case, as it rests at present regarding
them, may be thus unhesitatingly stated : —
MacPherson
was not the first to polish the poems of Ossian, even
admitting that he did so; neither was his the earliest, nor
the ablest, nor the finest Highland mind that was kindled,
since the end of the sixteenth century, into a glow of
poetic fervour by the hero-lighted fire and hoary inspira-
tion of the blind old bard of Cona.
In giving translations of poetry that comes under the
general head of Ossianic, I may state once for all, that I
will make use of no part of it which is not proved, by
unimpeachable testimony, to be older than MacPherson.
I do no say that it is by Ossian; for I believe, that not
only has Ossianic poetry been handed down from the
earliest ages, by tradition, in Scotland, but that Ossianic
poetry has been composed throughout the Highlands, in
€very age, for six hundred years at least, down even to
our own times; but it shall, in every case, be genuine
popular Highland song.
Before giving any specimens of Ancient Gaelic Poetry,
it will only be proper to say a few words of him who is
—
the primal source, of all such poetry in fact the patriarch
of all Highland bards. The conception of his character
entertained in the Highlands is in itself a poem, and I
think one of the most touching and telling things in
literature. Ossian, " the sweet voice of Cona," is the
descendant of a race of heroes. T renmo re, in remote
antiquity, was the great founder of the family. The name
of this mighty shade, derived from his surpassing prowess,
was still familiar in men's mouths when Ossian himself
was an aged man. Trathal, his son, also a celebrated
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 155

champion and succeeded him, leading the Fingalians,

ruler,
in their own and west with joy, and
poetic phrase, east
winning for himself, on account of his military glory and
uniform success, the appropriate soubriquet, " of the
routs." After him came his immortal grandson, Fingal,
__Cumhars son, of the victories, conqueror in a hundred
fights, the hero of a thousand lays, and the father of the
])ard and warrior to whom he owes his fame. Ossian was
himself a hero, and his son, Oscar, the pride and hope of
Selma, after being distinguished in many battles after —
having met and vanquished the tyrants of the world on
the banks of the Carron, was treacherously slain, while
still a youth, and his grey stone raised on the field of his
fame. One by one the other heroes followed, the great
Cuchullin, the beautiful and brown-haired Diarmad, the
stout and valiant Gaul, the son of Morni, the rash Conan,
the hardy Kyno, and the swift and gallant Cailta. Fingal
himself, somehow and somewhere, departed to the fathers,
xind the bard was left alone, with the silent mountains
peopled by dim shades above him, and the rough streams
that roared beneath him, and the wands that breathed
around him, charged in their rising and their falling,
with the memory of what had been, and never more
could be. At last much of this too was gone. As age
increased and solitude became deeper, the eyesight of the
poet failed. He became blind, but was not even then
utterly without consolation ; for Malvina, the white-
arined daughter of his ancient comrade, Toscar, who was
to have married his son, and who still sometimes dreamed
of the fallen young hero, and mingled her tears with
those of his fond old father, as they mourned his untimely
fate, she ministered to the sightless bard. Often too, as
he basked in the bright sunshine, or meditated in the
calm evening, or sat silent in the still soft moonlight,
sweet, though mournful to his soul, came back the ener-
getic years that had elapsed. Then all their vanished
life — their asjnration and their power — murmured round
156 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

him, like the muffled voice of the far-distant waves, when

they spread moaning gently througli tlie deep inland calm.
Then the spirits of the mighty moved past him on tlieir
clouds —the harp strings vibrating and sounding as in
tlieir sad and awful majesty they swept voicelessly l)ut
;

the soul of the poet recognised the dear familiar ancestral

shades, and his mind's eye opening, kindled and flashed
on the ever-memorable deeds of old, while his rising voice
recited them, and sighed over them the heartfelt lamenta-
tion, — " last of my race!
"

This is the j)icture given of the great Celtic Bard,

Ossian, the son of Fingal, the assumed author of a vast
quantity of Gaelic poetry, who lived, let us say, in the
fourth century of the Christian era. It is a most poetic
picture, and is, in its most essential features, so old, that
this phrase, " Ossian after the Feinne," has passed long
ago into a proverb.
It is quite unnecessary to enter into the question, how
much of this picture is fact, and how much of it is fancy.
All we need ask is, does the picture, in any respect,
resemble the author or originator of the Gaelic Ossianic
poetry"? And for my part, I answer at once, that I think
it does. It would be casting all tradition, unique, and
uniform, and consistent as it is, most unwarrantably
behind us, to say it does not. But when I assert that
this picture does resemble the originator of the Gaelic
Ossian, I would be understood as meaning only, either
that such a man as the one described gave, at least the
key-note to which is set all the succeeding poetry which
is called Ossianic, or, at any rate, that this picture given,
was the conception and work of him who first set the
fashion in which the Ossianic muse has ever since been
habited. I think it, however, right to say, that the last
supposition ajipears to me much less probable than the
first, seeing that the aesthetic sense of a primeval people,

or what we might j)erhaps venture to call, their poetic

etiquette, is of too frank a nature either to admit of or
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 157

to admire, an undisguised f)ersonation of a fictitious

character. People like to see and to embody in their
pristine poetry, not merely truth but fact, that is to say,
not merely a lasting agreement with the principles of
thought, feeling, and action, which are always in nature
but even some actual m9,nifestation of these, or some
actual antagonism to these — something in fine, which
—
they doubt not has been so then, I think, we may safely
conclude, that he, who long ages past, first originated
the Ossianic poetry, was, with reverence let it be spoken,
Ossian, the son of Fingal— last of all his race. That he
—
was a great poet, cannot be questioned he whose name
and whose influence has survived so long, and spread so
—
wide who has been imitated so often, and who first
touched that tender note which, in so many an exquisite
fragment, still reaches our hearts so truly,
The first poem which I give, although not in this finer
style, still displays no small skill in the poetic art. It is
quite original, and a very pretty and fresh idea lies at its
root. With wonderfully delicate touches a variety of
personages are presented to us, and their distinct
characters most artfully revealed. Altogether it is a
pleasant little story, and most gracefully told. I give it
in the metre to which we are most familiar in our
Lowland ballads, although that changes sliglitly the
measure of the original. All other necessary explana-
tions I hope it will give for itself

THE SWEETEST SOUND.

Once, when the kingly feast was spread.
On Albin's golden slope.
The bards they sang of bliss and woe.
Despair, and love, and hope.
158 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

And, heroes as they drained the bowl,

With joy or sadness heard ;

For those good harpers, as they pleased.

Men's rising feelings stirred.

Lord of the feast there Fingal sat

His fair hair touched with grey
Kear his first son, the warrior bard,
Strong as the noon of day.

The good MacLuy there conversed

With Oscar, young and bright.
And bald-head Conan, rash and bold,
Who never shunned the fight.

And Diarmad there sat, beautiful,

And rolled his eye of blue.
When Fingal spoke, and all the board
His regal question knew.

"Come, tell me now, my chieftains good,

At Fingal's feast who be.
What sounds are they that form for each
The sweetest harmony ?

"What are the notes that charm you most.

And send your cares to llight
What sound most charms your inmost core,.
And thrills you with delight ? "

—
Then Conan the rash Conan spoke
Of all that company
The first to speak, the first to fight—
The last to think was he.
" The rattling dice I love the most,
When the play is running high
 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 159'

And my coiiiing chances strain my ear.

And almost blind my eye."

" When heroes rush together,

When battle wakes around
With clash and clang and crushing blows
I hear my sweetest sound."

So Oscar spoke. —Thus Diarmad said, •

''
When in my secret ear
Sweet woman whispers love for me,
My best loved sound I hear.''

" When I catch my good hounds' cry,

first
Where
the proud stag stamps the ground,
And stands at bay," MacLuy said,
"I hear mj sweetest sound."

Then Fingal said, " My music is

The banner's fluttering fold
When winds blow free, and the brave I see

Alas ! my sweetest sound

alas !

Wasonce in Fingal's hall

To hear bards sing, and heroes speak,
And now they 've perished all !

As these men spoke so admirably in character, we may

think that they all answered well except perhaps the;

rash and inpulsive Conan. He is always prompt, testy,

and foolhardy and never appears possessed of much
judgment. Diarmad is gay and gallant, as might be
expected in the lovely hero, of whom the prose tales say,
he had an irresistible beauty-spot on his forehead, on
160 ANCIENT (iAELIC BARDS.

^vhicll, whoever looked, loved liim. Another ballad

appropriately represents the last words of Diarniad to
liave been, " Farewell to courtship forever " He, there-
!

fore, gives his opinion quite in keeping with his peculiar

character. Oscar, the brave son of Ossian, speaks like a
—
hero of the order of Achilles, young, ardent, and
aspiring ; he utters his sentiments with the same rapid
and impetuous energy with which he entered the held of
battle. MacLuy again speaks as became a true hunter of
-deer and a fearless warrior, as he undoubtedly must have
been ; while Fingal himself is quite majestic, like the
great ruler and shepherd of the people, as he always
seems. Ossian himself appears in the last verse, looking
back from his after solitude on that pleasant, well-
remembered scene.
There is another little poem
in which Ossian records
his own and chaste strains, and much
tastes in sweet
more comprehensive than that of any of the hearers who
sf)oke above. Having altered the rhythm I may have,
consequently, slightly affected the expression of the
original in what follows :

Sweet is man's voice in solitudes, and sweet

The voice of birds amid the woods of spring
Sweet is the sound when rock and water meet,
Where Bun-da-treor hears the surges sing
Sweet are the light winds softly murmuring:
Sweet are the lonely heron's notes, and sweet
The cuckoo's, with tlie aged thoughts they bring :

Sweet the warm sun which whistling blackbirds greet

The sun that briglitly shines on Cona's rocky steep.

Sweet is the eaglo, with her far-heard cry,

Sailing above great Morven's mighty sea,
When sleeps the noonday in the deep-blue sky.
And o'er the pool the hern bends silently :
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 161

Sweet is the lark that sings from heaven on high ;

And —
one thing more is sweet, Fingal's my sire
Seven valiant bands he leadeth far and nigh :

When for the chase his hounds are all on fire,

—
Sweet is their deep-mouth'd bay sweet as the bardic choir.

I am sure the reader will agree with me in thinking

that our great and venerable bard had a very fine taste,
—
and has here made a very beautiful selection a choice
—
bouquet of what is still sweet and pleasant in the sights
and sounds of our beloved Highlands. From the last
lines of this littlepoem, as well as from the spirit that
pervades it throughout, we may fancy that it was com-
—
posed when the bard was still young when his heroic
career was opening out, and all nature lay bright and
beautiful before him. Here every object is bright and
happy but more frequently, in the Ossianic poetry, it is
;

no gay and glad eye that looks on nature: on the contrary

we feel, as we listen to him, what a deep melancholy fills
the heart of the singer.
The next specimen I give shows the same capacity
with the first one, of perceiving at a glance and making
instantly available, the most striking and pictorial treat-
ment of which a subject is susceptible. This power must
obviously be of the same use to a poet as that quickness
of eye, which at once detects the main point of attack or
defence in a position, is to a General ; for in like manner
it enables the poet so to arrange his conceptions, and so
to lead them up to one apprehension, that they, most
completely and efiectually, take possession of the imag-
ination. This power is displayed to good purpose in the
following ballad. The Fingalian heroes are marshalled
here in quite an imposing array. The original will be
found in "MacCallum's Collection of the Poems of Ossian,
Orrann, Ulinn, and other Bards who flourished in the
same age". The collection was made orally, about the
lieginning of this century. There is a poem which in part
162 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

closely resembles it in the Dean of Lismore's book l)ut ;

the present version treats its subject in a far more

picturesque and dramatic manner. I have not thought
it necessary to enter into all the minutiae of the slaughter,
as it is given in the original. Oscar, for instance, is
represented killing seven troops with his own hand, and
the nine sons of red-haired Manus besides. Cailta and
Gaul do execution in a like proportion ; and the Feinne
themselves suffer an immense loss.

THE BANNERS OF THE FEINNE.

On a hill stood the King of the North, and looked
To the sea, where his proud ships rode
Then he looked to the shore, where his camp strech'd along.
And the heroes of Lochlin abode.

Then he turn'd to the land ; and there, far away,

A terrible hero came,
And above him a banner of Albin's gold
Floated, and shone like a flame.

" Bard of sweet songs," said the King of the North,

What banner is this I see
" Ì

And the champion tall at the head of yon host.

Is he of the sons of Victory ?

" That," said the bard, " is Diarmad MacDoon,

His is the banner you see ;
When the hosts of the Feinn' to the battle go forth.
The first in the fight is ho.''
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 1G3

" But, bard of the songs, there's another now.

And it is red as blood
A mighty hero's at its liead,
''
High waves it o'er a multitude Ì

" That," said the bard, " is the banner of Eaine,

A
manly chief and a good :

Heads are oft cleft 'neuth its folds in twain,

An ankles are bathed in blood."

''
Again, what banner is this I see,
Thou bard of beautiful song,
Dreadful the chief by its side appears.
And heroes around it throng Ì "

" That is the banner of Gaul the C4reat ;

Yon yellow silken shred

fs the first to advance and the last to retire
From its shelter none ever has fled."

" There is another, thou tuneful bard,

And
a mighty man at its head,
It waves o'er a host —
has it ever waved
O'er a field of the conquer'd dead ?

''
The dark and dread banner of CailtV' said the bard,
" Comes fluttering now to your sight
Fame hath it won where the hosts have been great,
And bloody the terrible fight."

'•'
There is one other yet, bard of song and of tale !

Yonder itwaves o'er a host,

Like a bird in the air, o'er the roar of the surge.
As it breaks on a storm-travers'd coast:"
164 ANCIENT GAELIC BAP.I S.

" is the besom of Peril, you see,

That
The standard of Oscar," he said
"First in renown in the conflict of chiefs,
Still flutters yon banner of dread."

We rear'd —
up the Sunbeam the standard of Finn ;
Fair gleam'd that banner on high,
With its sprangles of gold from the fields of its fame,
As it greeted the morning sky.

There were nine chains of gold tied the flag to the stafl^,
There were nine times nine chiefs for each chain
Sad to the foe was that banner of light
They strove 'gainst its heroes in vain.

Then Finn spoke aloud, " Bend your heads, O my chitts

Andredeem your pledge to me
Show to Lochlin the hardy deeds he will And
On our hills that look down on the sea."

We rush'd to the fray like a torrent,

Down the mountain that rolls in spray
And the fire from the strokes of our heavy swords,
In columns of sparks broke away.

Many a shoulder, and head was gash'd

Ere they turned from us in our ire,
And we heard the wild shrieks of our foes, as they fled.
Like the snake when the heather's on fire.

That was the victory won by our king

And I, though now aged and gre\-
Many a warrior fell by my hand
On that dire and terrible day.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 165

With respect to the age of this ballad, it would be

needless to make any conjecture. It may belong to the
time of the Vikings, and therefore be subsequent to the
eighth century ; or it may be even older in its first form,
as there is said to have been a lively intercourse between
Scotland and Scandinavia at a much earlier period. The
following sentences, in reference to this subject, I quote
from the work of a very intelligent foreigner " They—
:
—
that is, the Songs of Ossian —
have quite a peculiar
interest for the Scandinavian North, from the striking
agreement both in tone and spirit which they present to
several of the Sagas and Edda. These last, again, afibrd
a strong proof of the genuineness of those attributed to
Ossian, since the songs of Sagas and Edda, at the time
MacPherson published his Ossian,' were either not at all
'

or but very imperfectly known even in Scandinavia itself,

not to speak of other countries. The real age of Ossian's
songs is very uncertain, and very difficult to discover
but this much is clear, that they indicate a lively inter-
course between Alba (Scotland) and Lochlin (Scandinavia)
long before the times of the Vikings, and previously to
all historical accounts of connections between those
countries." *

OSSIAN AND EVIR-ALIN.

A poet's wooing long ago.
''
SuiRiDH OiSEix," or Ossian's wooing, is one of those old
and popular bits of Highland poetry which, after having
been sung for many generations, or many centuries
])erhaps, in ten thousand huts and houses, ai-e still Avell

* "Warsae's Account Danes and Norwegians in England,

of the
Scotland, and Ireland." The Norwegians in Scotland. Section 9.
166 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

remembered and repeated by people who never read them

in a book. It, and the "Lay of Diarmad," and the
" Death of Oscar," and the " Banners of the Fingalians,"
and also the " Address to the Sun," are, to this day,
found among old people who learned them from their
fathers, who had again got them from theirs, and so on.
The legiti'nate traditionary lineage of every one of these
pieces can even yet be traced back with ease for more
than a hundred years, in a good number of Highland
cottages, w-heie heroic poetry is never seen in print.
In the middle of and before MaePherson
last century,
published his far-famed work, '' Ossian and Evir-Alin"
was one of the most ])oi)ular of Gaelic Ballads, as may be
seen by a reference to the correspondence printed by the
Highland Society in their report on Ossian. It is also
found in all the collections of Gaelic poetry. The
ditferent versions of it all agree in their essential features.
The age of the ballad it w^ould not be easy to determine.
It is probably one of the oldest of all the Ossianic
fragments :

Who is this friend that would soothe my grief Ì

Who comes my age to cheer Ì

I know that light step and that gentle approach

It is thou, my daughter dear !

Daughter a time was when T, now so weak.

!

Could speed in the wild roe's flight :

When I, now so blind, could the beacon descry

Far of in the dim dark night.

The time has been when, with sounding step.

Away with the chieftains I'd wend ;

Though this night thou must see me so lonely and sad,

Without father, son, or friend.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 167

My son ! O my
hero how mournful the tale
!

Which Cona's slow wave tells of thee !

And Fingal and Fillan are all pass'd away

Not one of the leaders I see.

Alas ! and my sight too has faded,

Nought around I descry, or above
—
Gone is the hue of my youth all is gone
But the grave cannot alter my love.

White-handed maiden this night though you see

! me
Old and forlorn in this place,
Renown'd have I been as a hero
In my youth, Avith the bloom on my face.

On that day when soft-hair'd Evir-Alin,

White-arm'd maiden follow'd me.
Daughter of Branno of the silver beakers,
Of many loved, herself of love still free.

Sons of kings and sons of nobles.

She refused them great or small
Cormac woo'd lier, gloomy chieftain,
But him she hated worst of all.

Her I resolved to win, for I loved her

With pure heart and steadf a st truth ;

And with twelve of Fingal's chiefs I went

We strode in the strength of youth.

We came to the dark lake of Lego

There a noble chief came to meet
And conduct us with honour to Branno
With honour and welcomings sweet.

Me —
he saluted the twelve youths he hail'd
We sat with Branno at the feast
168 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

But ere the evening pass'cl away,

Ere yet the mirth had ceased.

Branno inquired, "What is your purpose?

What would you have of me ?
And Cailta said, "We seek thy daughter,
Her M-ould we have of thee."

"
Then Branno said, " But which of you would liave her Ì

" Fingal's son," said Cailta " this is he."

:

"Mighty hero of the wide ship-havens,

Happy is the maid gets thee."

" So high the place, O Ossian I

Do men's tongues to thee assign,

If I twelve daughters had " said Branno,
"The best of them should be thine."

Then they open'd the choice and spare chamber,

That was shielded with down from the cold
The posts of its door were of polish'd bone,
And the leaves were of good yellow gold.

Soon as generous Evir-Alin

Saw Ossian, Fingal's son,
The love of her youth, by the hero
By me, young maid, was won.

Then we left the dark lake of Lego,

And homeward took our way :

But Cormac, fierce Cormac, waylaid us.

Intent on the furious fray.

Eight heroes Cormac had with him,

And their men behind thrm stood
The hillside flamed with their armour.
Their spears were raised like a wood.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. IGD

Eight heroes, with Cormac the stately,

Of the Firbolgs, the best at need
MacColla and Diirra of wounds, and Tago,
And Toscar's son good to lead

Fresdal, the dangerous son of the king,

And Dairo joyful and bland ;

With Dail in straits hardy and good,

He had Cormac's flag in his hand.

Eight came with Ossian the lofty,

All equal to shield him in war ;

Mulla and Skeno's son the generous,

True Skellachie, known near and far.

Fillan and Cairdal the rash were there,

And the black son of llevi, fierce and wight
And Toscar, placed on the western flank,
March'd with my standard to fight.

Toscar and Dail met face to face

Fierce was their strife and long,
Like the winds that rush forth on the ocean
When the waves are heavy and strong.

Toscar remember'd his little knife,

'T was a weapon he loved to hold
Nine wounds he gave to Dail, and then
The foe before us we roll'd.

But Cormac fiercely roused them, and look'd

Like the hammer a strong hand wields
While he shouted and roar'd, and rush'd through the fight,
And struck on our helmets and shields.

Five times he dash'd on my buckler :

Five times I hurled him back.

 170 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

Ere I struck him down on the green-sward,-

Cormac in battle not slack.

I swept the head from his shoulders,

And held it up in my hand
His troops they fled, and we came with joy
To Fingal's mountain land.

Whoe'er had told me on that day,

I should be thus weak to-night,
Firm must his heart have been, and strong
His arm in the desperate fight.

THE DEATH OF OSCAR.

I NOW proceed to give a })oem on the death of Oscar, one
of the most popular and touching themes of the Gaelic
muse. Oscar was the Achilles of the Fingalians, and
Ossian was both his Homer and his father. No Avonder,
then, his death aflords a favourite and pathetic subject
both for the oldest ballads and their most modern
imitations. The "Lay of Oscar" is still repeated.
There is a version of it in the third volume of J. F.
Campbell's " Popular Tales," got within the last five or
six years in the Hebrides. It is in all the collections.
If we take jNIacCallum's and Mr. Campbell's versions to
begin with, we ai-e carried on very well to near the end
of the story then, by filling in a little from Allan
;

MacRorie's and Fergus the poet's accounts, as they are

found in the Dean of Lismore's book, we see our subject
a good deal clearer ; and, finally, we can end the
sorrowful recital as we began. We thus get this old and
manly popular song in the most complete state possible
for us nowadays :
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 171

The feast was over ; and the last clay dawn'd

Which Oscar was to spend in Cairbar's hall
The parting cup was quaff'd,the heroes stood
Arm'd and prepared to go, when Cairbar said,
With his great voice, " Brown Oscar, come from Alba ;

Let us exchange our spear shafts ere we part !

" Why so exchange," said Oscar, speaking calmly

" Thou red-hair'd Cairbar of the port of ships 1
Why so exchange, and the feast hardly o'er 1
Thou knowest, in the day of war and conflict,
My spear is always ready for thine aid."

"Not much the rude Cairbar

for me," said Cairbar — ;

" Not much were cess and tribute paid me

for me,
By every warrior in your sea-beat isles j

Not much for me whate'er I need to get

;

From thee, from thine, whene'er my wish I tell."

" There's neither gold nor precious substance, Cairbar,
That might be ask'd for by a manly king,
Without dishonour to himself or us.
But thou or he should have whene'er 'twas ask'd :

But this exchange of shafts without the heads,

It were unjust to ask us such a thing.
Cairbar thou hadst not dared have spoken thus,
!

Hadst thou not known that Fingal is not by."

" Though Fingal and thy

father both were here,
As good wore a sword,
as the best day they
I'd ask of them whate'er I ask of thee
And what I ask of them or thee, I'll have,"
•'
If Fingal and my father both were here,
As good as the best day they wore a sword.
By thine own might thou couldst not then retain
The breadth of thy two soles on land of Erin."
172 ANCIENT GAELIC BAUDS.

" I make a vow," quoth Cairbar, " deer to drive

From side to side of Albin's sea-girt hills,
And spoil to carry from its plains to Erin."

" I make a vow, a vow 'gainst that," quoth Oscar

" When thou has come to Albin for thy sport,
I with this spear will drive thee back to Erin."

Then Cairbar " I make a vow ere that,

roar'd
A lasting vow, that I will plant m}' spear
Beneath thy breast, in thy fair body, Oscar " !

"A vow a vow " cried Oscar, in his wrath ;

! !

"I a vow that I will plant my spear.

make
Ere that shall happen, in thy forehead, Cairbar."

Cold fear and rage, by turns, the warriors shook,

When these fierce words they heard between the chiefs.
When Cairbar's lowering brow they saw, and mark'd
How rose the wrath of Oscar. 'T was then a bard.
With softest touch upon the harp, wail'd forth
The sounds that prelude a great hero's death.

Then Oscar seized with furious rage his arms,

And look'd around him where his followers stood
Few were the chiefs of Alba that were there,
And Cairbar's host was great but Oscar's friends
;

Were train'd to arms, and were full heroes all.

And so they gather'd undismayed around him.

Then waged the strife. We heard the shouts afar.

And all the din of deadly, furious battle ;

And up we rose, and hasten'd to the scene.

Each, as he reach'd it, joined the wide- spread fight
And thus the bitter struggle lasted long
And thus did many of our heroes fall.
 06SIAXIC POETRY. 173

But who could stay his hand or still his heart,

And Oscar's friends oppress'd, and Oscar's sword,
By numbers wearied, failing in its power 1

We saw him struggling on the woful field

We saw him rushing, in the tides of war.
Like a hawk darting on a flight of birds,
Or like the quick spray-spattering cataract.
He strove, like a great strong branch with the wind,
Like an old green tree with the woodman's strokes.
His course was the roll of the furious surge
In winter's storm, on the roar of the shore.

And, one by one, as we came, we engaged ;

But the long-lasting fight spread far and near,

Till the Sunbeam of battle rose, at last,
Finn's standard, with the heroes by its side
Then slowly backward bore the treacherous foe,
Foot after foot, until they fled away
Scatter' d like sheep, and falling like brown leaves.
The wild pursuit roll'd by, and w^e w^ere left
Alone — in silence —on the dreadful field !

I bent o'er Oscar, when the fight was done,

As he lay bleeding on the mournful plain.
He was my son yet was I not alone
;

In mourning for my dearest on that day.

Cailta bent over seven of his brave sons
And every living man amongst the Fèinn',
Amid the grevious slaughter found a friend.
And wept beside the dying or the dead.
Some of the wounded lay and languish'd low,
Unconscious how their life had drain'd away ;
Some moan'd, some writhed with pain, and could not speak.

But some were calm and knew their friends, and gave
Them a kind greeting from their couch of clov ;
174 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

But many, many heroes there were dead.

Oh, 't was a grief, an everlasting grief
A woeto be forgotten never, never
To —
look upon that field the swords, the shields,
That there lay masterless the broken spears,
;

The bloody garments, and the coats of mail,

Borne by brave chiefs unto their last of fields,
From Albin's hills, from homes of Innisgail.
"VVe ne'er had met so dire a day before
So bloody, so destructive, full of woe
So joyless and so sad a victory.

Among a thousand warriors stretch 'd and dead

1 found my son, my darling, living yet
Resting his head on his left arm he lay,
His broken shield beside him, and his sword
Grasp'd in his terrible and strong right hand.
His blood, his priceless blood, on every side
Flow'd, through his harness, soak'd into the ground,
Unstanch'd and stanchless, from a mortal wound,

I dropp'd my spear upon the earth, and bent

Above him as he lay, and thought O friend — !

How lonely I should be for evermore !

It was a grievous thought. Oscar turned round,

And forth he stretch 'd his hand one other time
—
To greet me one long last time ere he died ;

Kindly he and wished me to draw near.

look'd,
hand and knelt upon the ground,
I seized his
And gave a great and bitter cry of grief.
Then, my dear son, whose life was ebbing fast,
"
Said, " Joy, dear father, that thou art escaped !

And I, I could not speak but Cailta said

:

The noble Cailta come to see my son

"How dost thou feel thyself, dear friend?" he said.
 OfcSIANIC POETRY. 175>

*'
—
As thou woiildst have me dying on the field.
Red Cairbar's venom 'd spear hath pierced my side ;

Mine on the forehead struck him,'' Oscar said,

"A blow no Leech can heal."' Then Cailta probed
The wound red Cairbar's murderous shaft had made,
And gave a shriek, and fainting fell on earth.
When he found out how deadly was the hurt.

" Dear Oscar, we must part," at length he cried :

''
Thou and the Feinne must part thy fights are
: o'er.'""
My son replied not, but he press'd my hand,
Then we upraised him softly on our spears,
And to a fair green knoll we bore him silently,
While from the slain they gather'd round and round.
No man his son, his friend, his brother mourn'd,
But all stood near us, and with heavy sighs
They watch'd the hero as he slowly died,
And no one sj)oke as hour by houi- went by.

"Twas now the eA'ening. and the autumn sun

Shone bright and yellow on the fatal field,
When from afar Finn's standard we descried,
Keturning from his triumph and pursuit.
Gladly we met it, and saluted Finn,
But no salute return'd he as he strode
In his dark grief to where his grandson lay.
When Oscar saw the King above him bend,
And look with anguish on his dying face,
He slowly spoke, and said, " I have my wish
Thus dying in thy presence, noble Finn
Unconquer'd and with honour, mourn'd by thee."

Then Finn, the of heroes, cried with grief,

first
" Sad is my good son of my good son
heart, !

To see thee die before me. Now I'm weak.

A heavy curse is on me to my grief;
176 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

It follow'd me from east and west, till here,

On this sad plain, it struck this fatal blow.
Farewell to fame and battle and farewell ;

The triumphs and the joys

victor's spoils, the
Which in this body I have ever had
Farewell the feast ; farewell the concourse sweet
By Cona's stream, in Selma's banner'd hall,"
VVhen Oscar heard the great king's wailing cry,
H-e groan'd, and stretch'd his hands, and raised his head,
And, looking round on all of us, he sigh'd,
And said, •' Farewell I shall return no more."
!

Then he sunk back ; and so my hero died ;

And Finn turn'd round, and strode a space away,
And sobb'd and wept. He never wept before
—
In sight of man save when Bran died till now. —
And all the people gave three dismal shrieks,
And wail'd and wept until the night return'd.

Then Finn came back and, standing near my side.

;

He bent again o'er Oscar, while he said :

" The mournful howling of the dogs distress me

The groaning of the heroes old and grey—
The people's wailing, and their blank despair.
O son that I had fallen in thy stead.
!

In the dire battle with thy treacherous foes,

And thou hadst lived to be a chief and leader.
And bring the Fenians east and west with joy !

O Oscar thou wilt never rise again

1 !

O'er thee my old heart, like an elk, is leaping !*

Thou Avilt return, thou wilt return no more !

"
'T was rightly said, I shall return no more
' !
'

* "Like an elk, is leaping;" or, " like a blackbird, flutters."

The former, however, is at once the most literal, and, 1
thiuk, the most expressive. We speak ourselves of the lieart
"bounding."'
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 177

" The Death of Oscar " was MacPhersoii's iirst open

attempt at Gaelic translation. We have this on the
authority of Home,* the author of " Douglas." Some of
the incidents referred to remind one of a little of
Roncesvalles, and the death of Roland.

THE LAY OF DIARMAD; OK, FINGAL'S

REVENGE.
The " Lay of Diarmad " is probably one of the oldest,
and has. from time immemorial, been one of the most
popular of the Ossianic poems. It is still repeated in the
Highlands. Versions of it can be got, even at this day,
from men who learned it, not out of old books, but as it
was committed to their congenial care by that old
traditionary tutor, who is now about to perish, with the
last lingering remnant of his scholars, out of sheer
decrepitude and vast old age. By calling the " Lay of
Diarmad " an Ossianic poem, no more can be meant than

* The Rev. John Home, was the successor of the Rev. Robert
Blair, — —
author of the "Grave" at Athelstaneford in East
Lothian. Home wrote a few tragedies, one of which was
designated "Douglas", the plot of which is taken from the
beautiful old ballad of '
Gil Morice".
' "Douglas" was performed
in Edinburgh and in London with great applause. The Author
was present in the Edinburgh theatre at the first representation.
In consequence of this violation of clerical propriety, he was
compelled to resign his living in 1757. David Hume on hearing
Dr. Carlyle of Inveresk preach in Mr. Home's Church, said to
him, What did you mean by treating John's congregation to-day
'
'

with one of Cicei-o's academics ? I did not think such heathen

immorality would have passed in East Lothian." For his literary
works, the Prince of Wales, after his accession to the throne,
granted Home a pension of £300 a year. Home died September
5th, 1808, in his 86th year.
178 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

that it belongs to the Ossianic era; for it scarcely

possesses the character of the poems of Ossian, and
hardly harmonises with the sentiment which pervades
them, or with the manners which their blind old bard has
painted. This is especially evident in the conduct of
Finn ; also, in the absence of all the other heroes, so far
as appears, from the great hunting. Not one of them,
as will be seen, is mentioned by name. Grainne lives in
tradition as the faithless wife of Fingal —
the Guinevere
of ancient Gaelic song ; but she does not appear, I think,
in finer heroic poems. This "Lay of Diarmad"
any of the
is,however, as I have said, extremely popular and the;

"Hunting of the Great ^yild Boar" is one of the least

likely of any of the Fingalian legends to be soon
forgotten. There are good reasons why it should continue
to be remembered. The boar's head is the crest of the
Argyll branch of the Campbells, and all that great clan
trace their origin back to the Sir Lancelot of the
— —
Feinne Diarmad, the son of Duibhne who slew theAYild
Boar. There is a sept of the Campbells still called,
" Clann Diarmaid." This was probably the name of the
whole clan at one time. From a letter, written by
Mr. Pope,* minister of E-eay, in Caithness, to the Rev.
Alex. Nicholson, minister of Thurso, 15th November,
1763, and published in ApiDcndix, No. III., to the
Highland Society's Report on the Ossianic poems, we
learn that an old man of the name of Campbell, in that
part of the country, could never be prevailed upon to sing
the "Song of Diarmad" without first taking off" his

* The Rev. Alexander Pope, minister of Reay, Caithness-shire,

was the author of a Description of the Shires of Caithness and
Sutherland. He also wrote a Description of the Dune of
Dornedilla. In the summer of 1732 this Reverend equestrian
rode on his pony from Caithness to Twickenham in England, in
order to visit his famous literary namesake, Alexander Pope, the
poet, who presented his clerical friend with a beautiful copy of
the Odyssey, and a handsome snuff-box.
 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 179

bonnet in honour of the ancestral shade, Mr. Pope's

simiDlicity, and his manner of telling a story in his rather
peculiar English, are both so charming that it would be
almost inexcusable not to give his own words. It is a
pity he did not write more about the eccentricities
letters
of his parishioners. A collection of them, if they
resembled this one, Avould have made a very entertaining
volume. Mr. Pope writes as follows :
—
" There is an old
fellow in this parish who, very gravely, takes off his
bonnet as often as he sings Duan Dearmot.' I was
'

extremely fond to try if the case was so, and, getting hira
to my house, gave him a bottle of ale, and begged the
favour of him to sing Duan Dearmot.' After some
'

nicety, he told me that to oblige his parish minister he

would do so but, to my surprise, he took of his bonnet.
;

I caused him to stop and put on his bonnet. He made

some excuses. However, as soon as he began, he took off
his bonnet. I rose and put it on. He took it off. I
put it on. At last he was like to swear most horribly, he
would sing none unless I allowed him to be uncoveied.
I gave him his freedom, and so he sung with great spirit.
I then asked him the reason. He told me it was out of
regard to the memory of that hero. I asked him if he
thought that the spirit of that hero was present 1 He
said not; but he thought it well became them who
descended from him to honour his memory." This shows
the fast hold which the notion of a descent from the
Fenian hero took of the popular mind. Although
Diarmad makes no great figure in MacPherson's "Ossian,"
he is a very conspicuous actor in the prose legends and
other traditions of the Highlands. This poem
sometimes called Duan or Heroic Song, sometimes Laoidh
(with the dh silent) or Lay, sometimes Bàs Dhiarmaid
or the Death of Diarmad —
is in many of the collections
of Gaelic poems. That of MacCallum has been principally
but not wholly followed in this translation :
180 AXCIEXT GAELIC BARDS.

THE LAY OF DIARMAD.

Hearken a little, I sing you a song
Of the great and good who are gone
Of Gràinne, and Finn the triumphant,
And the woful fate of MacDoon.

Sweet Glen-Shee, and the valley beside

is it,

With
the voice of elk and deer ;
And pleasant its stream tinged so often,
With blood from the Fenian spear.

Fairest of hill is Ben-Goolbain,

Where the fawn and the doe wont to be ;

And the hounds bay loudly together,

When they drive the wild deer o'er the lea.
" Diarmad my own one " said Gràinne,
! !

" Let the dogs drive the chase o'er the lea
;

Come not thou near the proud son of Cumhal,

Who is wroth with my hero for me."

"In spite of his anger," said Diarmad;

" In spite of his wrath and pride,
I will go to the chase now as fearless
As ever I trode by thy side."

With the bay of the dogs, and the shout of the heroes,
In the calm of the morning air,
They roused the great Boar from his slumber,
And watch'd every pass from his lair.

Up he rose in his wrath when he heard them.

And rush'd round the glen where he stay'd ;

He turn'd east, he turn'd west, ere he darted,

Foaming with rage, from the shade.
 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 181

From the shade of the rock down he rattled

Past the hounds and huntsmen shear
His huge bristles pointed like javelins,
And his tusks like the point of a spear.

Then slipp'd they the dogs, and they drove him

Down Lodram's mossy side ;
Long strove they to tear him, but could not
While the hunters cheerily cried.
"
*'
Son of Doon, dost thou wish to win honour 1

Said Finn in his wrath and pride

^*
Slay that boar by thyself, thou gay victor,
Which the heroes so long has defied."

Diarmad's tough spear was soon chew'd into splinters.

Like reeds on Lego that grow
But the boar fell beneath his hard sword-blade,
Victorious o'er many a foe.

Then Finn he lay down on the green sward.

And moodily turn'd from the sight ;

He grieved that the son of Doon had escaped

Without wound, from the furious fight.

*'
O Diarmadmeasure the boar," he said,
!

" With thy

bare feet, for great is his size,"
He measured the boar with the bristles,
Sixteen good feet where he lies.

"O Diarmad measure him back again

!
;

He is not so much," Finn cries.

He measures him back and a poisonous bristle
Pierces his foot as he tries.

"O Fingal!" said Diarmad, "vouchsafe me

One draught from thy life-giving shell,
182 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

For my strength and my vigour forsake me :

With one draught, O my king make me

! well."

" Shall I bring thee a draught, thou fair hero

From the lake, with my life-giving shell,
When the ill in one hour thou has done me
Outweighs all the good thou canst tell Ì "

" Eastward and westward I've served thee.

And ne'er did thee ill, till the day.
When Gràinne, with love- witching magic,
Drew me her captive away.

" Rememberthe smithy of Luno,

How
I in that fray help'd thee well.
When that sword was first won thou now wearest,"
" Thou shalt yet get no drink from my shell."

*' Rememberthe conflict with Draidgal,

And
the strokes on thy shield that fell ;
'Twas I who then succour'd and saved thee."
" Thou shalt yet get no drink from my shell."

" Then, thou'st forgotten the battle of Conhail,

And the fate which that day had assign'd.
With the army of Bairbar before thee,
Had not I and the Feinn' been behind.

" Alas that I saw thee, Ben-Goolbain

! !

Alas! that I faced thee to-day.

With the strength of my youth streaming from me-
With my life-blood ebbing away !

" Hill of my love, O Ben Goolbain !

Where the deer and the roe wont to be

 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 183

Farewell ! thou wilt never come to me,

Nor e'er sball my steps reach to thee.

" Farewell! now to courtship for ever !

O king, what a sorrowful sight,

For the maids of the Feinn' thus to see me !

Sad will their dreams be this niglit."

"Alas! that," said Finn, "for a women,

I've slain my own sister's son
For an ill woman slain him ! Too noble
To be slain for the lovliest one.

" Yesterday, green wert thou, Goolbain !

To-day art thou bloody and red.

Hill of our sorrows, Ben- Goolbain !

Beneath thy grey stones is his bed.

" Beneath thy grey stones, O Ben-Goolbain !

The brown-hair'd chief is laid ;

His blue eyes are sleeping for ever
Under thy green grassy shade.

"Sad stood the heroes beside thee,

O youth of the noble race !

And dim grew the eyes of each maiden

When the mould went over thy face.

" And now, like the tree, I stand lonely

AVither'd, and wasted, and sear
With the rude howling tempest to tear me,
Where the shade of no green bough is near."
 184 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE RISING SUN.

The poem which, on every account, ought to he first, as
being the most ambitious in its nature, and certainly not
the least successful in its mode of dealing with its theme,
which comes under this head, is "Ossian's Address to
the Rising Sun." This poem is found in English in
MacPherson's Carthon. The version from which
MacPherson translated was imperfect, like that in
Stewart's Collection. It seems to have consisted of only
thirty-eight lines, the same as that supplied to the
Highland Society, in 1801, by the Rev. Mr. MacDiarmad,
as got by him thirty years before from an old man in
Glenlyon. This old man learned it in his youth from
people in the same glen, and before MacPherson was
born. Mr. MacDiarmad took down this " Address to
the Sun," along with the " Address to the Setting Sun,"
the "Bed of Gaul," and some other fragments, as he says
^ himself, "from the man's own mouth." Captain A.
Morrison depond to the Committee of the Highland
Society, that he got the " Address to the Sun " among
Mr. MacPherson's original papers, when he was trans-
cribing fairly for him from these original papers (either
collected by himself, or transmitted to him by his
Highland friends,) as it stood in the poem of Carthon,
afterwards translated and published. Now it is very
—
remarkable that notwithstanding this notwithstanding
that the poem of Carthon is included among the poems
published according to the terms of his Will, by
MacPherson's executors, yet the " Address to the Snn "
is not in the Gaelic of MacPherson's Ossian at all. Its
place in the poem of Carthon is marked by asterisks.
Why was this Ì Did 3IacPherson, knowing it to be
admired, actually wish to appropriate the glory of its
Hr production to himself, and so, by not publisliing the
Gaelic at all, try to throw discredit on those versions which
 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 185

other collectors might possess 1 Or had he lost it, as it

lay loose among and found himself unable to
his papers,
supply it Ì Was its omission an oversight 1 At all
events it is a strange circumstance that the " Address to
the Sun," is not found among the poems published by
Macpherson's executors, as the original of his " Ossian,"
and the stars which mark its absence in Carthon, point
the way to some curious inquiry.
The Address, as it is now printed, consists of fifty-four
lines, in place of Mr. MacDiarmad's, Captain Morrison's,
Stewart's, and MacPherson's thirty eight. Following Mr.
MacDiarmad's copy, and taking from MacCallum's, where
the other is imperfect, I present the following as a
complete copy :

O thou ! that wanderest there on high,

Round as a chief's hard shield and bright,
Whence comes thy gloomless lustre nigh,
sun ! enduring light 1

Thou comest with lovliest might,

Andthe stars their courses hide ;
Hueless the moon leaves the sky,
And shrouds in the western tide :

Then thou goest forth alone,

There is none dare keep by thy side !

Falls the oak from the place where it grew;

Falls the rock by age o'erthrown;
Ebbs ocean tide and it flows ;
And fades the pale moon from the view
Yet still thy bright triumph glows !

In the joy of thy light thou goest on !

Even when blackens the noisy storm.

When thunders roar and lightnings fly.
Thou lookest through the wild troubled swarm,
With thy smile of delight from the sky !
186 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

But me thou ^vì[\ never regard

Night banished from sea and from shore
remains in the eye of the Lard
Still
Thy face shall I see no more.
When thy golden bright locks, without stain,
The fair eastern cloud have drest
Or thou tremblest over the main
At thy dusky door of the west.

Yet aged, and feeble, and gray,

Thou too may'st in solitude go,
And grope through a dim sky thy way,
As blind as myself, and as slow.

Like the changing moon may'st thou fade,

And the morning may call thee in vain ;
For then shalt thou sleejD, lowly laid,
With the heroes who rise not again.

The hunter will look o'er the plain

He will look in his rising fears ;

His eyesight for long will he strain.

And then, in a wild burst of tears,
Returning in sadness, will say,
" Choice hound, no sun now appears
"
On our moors or our mountains for aye !

Yes, it may be that thou, like me,

But for a time with strength are blest.
Till our years all exhausted shall be.
And in one certain end take their rest.

Then rejoice, O sun and be glad

!

Thou prince, in thy vigorous noon

For age is unpleasant and sad,
Like the dim and faint light of the moon
 OSSIANIC POETRY. . 187

When it looks through a cloud on the heath,

Where the grey mists lag round the stone,
Ere the blasts of the cold north breathe
On the traveller, wearied and lone.

MacCallum's and the common versions here end with,

The light of the night will rejoice

When the sun of glory is gone.

Dr. Smith's version says :

The light of the night will rejoice

AVhen the sun of glory is as Trathal.

Trathal was the great-grandfather of Ossian, and the hero

of the poem in which the Address is introduced.
I will now give these passages as they were translated
for MacCallum's Collection by the late Ewen MacLachlan,
Rector of the Grammar-school Old Aberdeen "But thus :
—
aged, feeble, and gray, thou shall yet be alone ; thy
progress in the sky shall be slow, and thou shalt be blind,
like me, on the hill dark as the changeful moon shall be
;

thy wanderings in the heavens thou shalt not hear the

;

awakening voice of the morning, like the heroes that rise

no more ; the hunter shall survey the plain, but shall not
behold thy coming form ; sad he will return, his tears
pouring forth, My favourite hound, the Sun has
'

forsaken us ? " There is something, it appears to me,

'

singularly wild and imjiressive in that burst of the sun-

lorn hunter, " My favourite hound, the Sun has forsaken
us " ! It is altogether a very strange fancy this of the
final darkening of the day, and may be perhaps connected
with some forgotten Highland superstition. It is surely
very creditable to the intelligence, the taste, and the
sentiment of the Highland people, that such a high-
toned lyric as this belongs to their popular poetry.
 188 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

The "Address to the setting Sun," probably on account

of its shortness, was even better known than the
preceding. This poem as given by MacPherson in the
opening of Carricthura, consists of eleven lines, and so far
corresponds exactly with the popular version. It is
^ descriptive of a summer sunset ; but in Dr. Smith's
Cathula there are sixteen lines descriptive of the appear-
ance of the sun in a bleak wintry day, twelve of which
are generally joined to the above eleven, when the
Address is collected from among the people, I have
preferred dividing them, as I think they read better so,
and in a slightly varied rhythm. They are both beautiful
lyrics :

ADDRESS TO THE SETTING SUMMER SUN.

Hast thou left the blue depths of the sky,
—
Thou blameless Son tliou golden tressed ]

The doors of the night open lie.

To thy place of repose in the west.
Calmly the sea-waves come nigh,
To look on thy face bright, and best,
Raising their heads fearfully shy,
When they see thee so grand in thy rest
Now wan from thy side they've passed by
Then sleep in thy cave darkly drest,
O sun but with joy to the new dawning hie.
!

Here everything is in repose, but the rest, though usually

joined to this and equally beautiful is very diflerent.
The poet in fact here seems to have been forcibly
reminded of the contrast between the hopeful rest, the
undisturbed peace, the glorious beauty of the scene before
him, and the transitory life of himself and of all the
 OSSIAXIC POETRY. 189

benighted mortals around him. Heroes, perhaps, rose

to his memory who had run a princely course,
amid triumphs and abounding praises; but who,
lying down in had at last set in trouble,
blood,
slept and never woke again. The friends of his
youth and his manhood, where were theji The noble
and the brave, with whom he had exchanged sweet
intercourse, and whom his good strong heart had
—
cherished in its core the stately and the full-developed
hero, fit to guide his people east and west with triumph
and with joy, blessing them with his rule in peace, and
plucking them, even from the extreme of peril, not
—
merely safely, but with renown the aged man, whose
mind was like a storehouse of the wisdom of the past,
and who could teach the lays in which were treasured the
—
music and the worth of other times, all these had shone
a moment, lights of the world, and then had set as
mysteriously as yonder sun but not like him to rise
;

again next morrow. No; nor even for a chill and wintry
season to be absent, and then return once more. Alas !

they were gone irrevocably. Then, what were they like 1

Like a sun- gleam in wild wintry weather

That hastens o'er Lena's wide heath,
So the Feinne have faded together.
They were the beam the showery cloud sheathe,
"When down stoops the dark rain frown of heaven,
To snatch from the hunter the ray,
And wildly the moaning bare branches are driven,
While the weak herbs all wither away.

But the sun, in his strength yet returning,

The fair-freshened wood will espy.
In the spring-time that laugh for their mourning.
As they look on the Son of the sky,
Kindly unveiling his lustre,
Through the soft and the drizzling shower.
190 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

All theirwan heads again will he muster

From their drear and their wintry bower.
Then with joy will their small buds keep swelling :

Not so they who sleep in the tomb

No sunbeam, that darkness dispelling,
Shall waken them up from their gloom.

Thus then does the Highland Popular Poetry, philo-

sophically and instructively, unite the protbundest
sentiments of human hearts, with the fairest and most
suggestive aspects of nature. The lofty old bard, who
produced these old fragments, speaks of the glorious
appearance and effect of power before him, like one who
had heard, and felt, and thought over "the still, sad
music of humanity," and therefore his poetry is so
essentially lyrical, and overflowing with such fine emotion.
" Grian," the Gaelic word for sun, is feminine. The
sun is here —
addressed as masculine a circumstance
which, in the opinion of some Ossianic critics, creates an
odd confusion, and goes against the great antiquity of
this fine fragment. The supposed confusion, however,
does not appear to have been perceived by the unlettered
reciters of the poem — who preserved it among them for,
at any rate, several generations, and by whom it is said
to be still repeated. This is something singular; for,
both in Gaelic writing and conversation, the sun is
uniformly represented by the pronoun she, and not he.
Thus, in the 19th Psalm, we read in Gaelic as in
— —
German, where the sun is also feminine "»S'Ae is like a
bridegroom." ^^
SJie rejoiceth as a hero that runs the
course." Her going fourth is from the end of the
heaven." There is nothing whatever that may be hid
from the heat of her^
Goethe, in that most grand address to the setting sun,
which he has put into the mouth of the melancholy
Faust, makes his desponding hero address the great
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 191

luminary as "goddess," and not "god." It certainly is

very strange, then, that a Gealic scholar and poet
—
whether he was ancient or not should think of calling
" Grian " son, and not daughter ; and spoken of it as
"him of the brightest face," and not "her of the brighest
face." But it is still stranger to me that the Gaelic-
speaking people, who knew only their own language,
should have continued repeating this fragment to one
another, and should have given it unaltered to the
collectors, without appearing to see the least incongruity
in it, if there really is any.
In English, the sun is sometimes neuter, sometimes
masculine; and in Hebrew, the word for sun, "Shemesh,"
is also of common gender —
sometimes masculine and
sometimes feminine. There may be something of this
sort in the Celtic idea, though not in the Celtic word
" Grian."
"The Address to the Sun," as given in Dr. Smith's
" Old Lays," consists of forty-two lines. In the first
twenty-six it difiers entirely from what appears in the
other collections ; but in its concluding sixteen lines it
exactly corresponds with the like number of lines
contained in the Address already given. For the Gratifi-
cation of those of our readers who can understand the
original, but who have never met with it before, we »ive
it here :

DAN DO'N GHREIN.

A Mhic na h-bg-mhaidne ag eiridh !

Air sleibhtibh soir le d' chiabhan or-bhuidh

'S ait ceuma do theachd air an aonachj
'S gach caochan 's a' ghleann ri gàire ;
192 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

Tha croinn iiaine ro' dhriiclKl nam fras,

Ag gu bras a' d' chòmhdhail,
eiridli
A's filidli bhinn nan coillte fas
A' cur fàilt ort gu moch le 'n oran.

Aclic' ait' am bheil ciar-imeacbd na h-oidhche

Ro' d'gbnùis, mar air sgiathaibh an fhirein?

C'àit' am bheil aig duibhre a chomhnuidh ?
'S uamh cbosacb nan reulta soillse —
Tràtli leanas tu 'n ceuma gu luatb,
Mar shealgair 'g an ruagadb 'san speur ;

Thusa 'direadh nan aonach àrd,

'S iadsan air faoin-bheanntaibh fas a' leum Ì

do shiubbal, a Sholuis Aigb,

'S aoibhinn
A sgaoileas, dbeàrsadb, gach doinionn
le d'
'S is maiseach do chleachdan oir
A' snàmb siar, 's do dhoigb ri pilleadh.
Le seachran, 'an dall-cheo na h-oidhclie,
Cha gblacar thu chaoidh a' d' cbùrsa ;
'S doinionn nan cuanta gàbhaidb
Cha seid gu bràth as t-iiiil thu.
Le gairm na ciiiin-mhaidne bidh t' eiridh,
'S do ghniiis fhaoilidhdùsagdh le gean,
a'

A' fbgradh na h-oidhch' o gach àite

Ach gnùis a' bhàird, nach faic do sholus.

TRANSLATION.
Son of the young morn that glancest
!

O'er the hills of the east with thy gold-yellow haii-,

How gay on the wild thou advancest
Where the streams laugh as onward they fare
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 193

And the trees, yet bedewed by the shower,

Elastic their light branches raise,
While the melodists sweet they embower
Hail thee at once with their lays.

But where is the dim night duskily gliding,

On
her eagle wings, from thy face Ì
Where now is darkness abiding Ì
In what cave do bright stars end their race
When fast, on their faded steps bending
Like a hunter you rush through the sky,
Up those lone lofty mountains ascending,
While down yon far summits they fly.

Pleasant thy path is, Great Lustre, wide-gleaming.

Dispelling the storm with thy rays ;
And graceful thy gold ringlets streaming
As wont, in the westering blaze.
Thee the blind mist of night ne'er deceiveth,
Nor sends from the right course astray
The strong tempest, all ocean that griev^eth,
Can ne'er make the bend from thy way.
At the call of the mild morn, appearing,
Thy festal face wakens up bright,
The shade from all dark places clearing.
But the bard's eye that ne'er sees thy light.

Let us now pass from the Sun to the Ocean, and see
how the Ancient Gaelic Bards treat of it. The following
effusion, although in its original form it is only a kind of
—
a wild chant almost indeed half prose, yet it is the germ
of a ballad. It occurs in many of the Tales contained in
that wonderful repository of old Gaelic lore, the "Popular
Tales of the West Highlands," sometimes more, and
sometimes less perfect. The original of what follows,
will be found in of the second volume of the " Tales,"
194: ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

and is of course A^ery old. AVe see what daring

boatmen the Western Highlanders must have been, when
they could encounter and speak of the dangers of the
deep, in so gallant and dashing a fashion as it manifests.
But it may be thought, perhaps, that the Hebrideans
were thus taught by the ancient Tickings although, ;

surely they Avho lived in islands surrounded by the

Atlantic, to whom all its mighty moods were as familiar
as daylight — who had to contend with it manfully when
—
they sought to leave their homes or when they ventured
to tax its prolific waters for their maintenance, needed
no Tickings, nor any other people to train their hands to
skill, or fortify their hearts, when they rode on the strong
surges of their own immeasurable seas. The vigorous
and elastic spirit that pervades the following verses, must
have strung the heart of many a hardy mariner who
loved to feel the fresh and briny breeze drive his snoring
birlinn, bounding like a living creature over the tumbling
billows of the inland loch, or the huge swell of the
majestic main.

A SAIL IN THE HEBRIDES.

We turned her prow into the sea.

Her stern into the shore.
And first we raised the tall tough masts,
And then the canvas hoar

Fast filled our towering cloud-like sails,

For the wind came from the land.
And such a wind as we might choose
Were the winds at our command :
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 195

A breeze that rushing do^\'^l the hill

Would strip the blooming heather,
Or, rustling through the green- clad grove.
Would whirl its leaves together.

But when it seized the aged saugh,

With the light locks of grey,
It tore away its ancient root,
And there the old trunk lay !

It raised the thatch too from the roof.

And scattered it along
Then tossing it throughout the air,
Singing a pleasant song.

It heaped the ruins on the land.

Though sire and son stood by
They could no help afford, but gaze
With wan and troubled eye !

A flap, a flash, the green roll dashed,

And laughed against the red
Upon our boards, now here, now there
It knocked its foamy head.

The dun bowed whelk in the abyss.

As on the galley bore,
Oave a tap upon her gunwale
And a slap upon her floor.
She could have split a slender straw
So clean and well she went
As still obedient to the helm
Her stately course she bent.

We watched the big beast eat the small

The small beast nimbly fly,
196 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

And listened to the plunging eels

Tlie sea-gull's clang on high.

We had no other music

To cheer us on our way.
Till round those sheltering hills we passed,
And anchored in this bay.

THE BED OF GAUL.

This fragment forms the Lament spoken by Fingal over
the dead bodies of Gaul and of his wife. It occurs at the
conclusion of a much longer poem in Dr. Smith's " Old
Lays." The argument of the whole poem is thus shortly
stated:
—
" Fingal summoned his heroes for an expedition
to the Isle of Ifrona. A flood in the river Strumon
prevented Gaul from joining them in time but he
;

embarked in his ship alone on the succeeding day. On

his voyage, however, he passed his friends, who were
returning with victory, unperceived, and landed singly
on the hostile shore. According to the chivalrous idea
of those times he would not fly, but struck his shield as a
token of defiance to the islanders, against whom he singly
maintained a desperate conflict, till, fearful of a near
approach, they rolled a stone from above, which, striking
his thigh, disabled him, and there he w^as left by his
enemies to pine and die. His wife, Evirchoma, anxious
for his fate, embarked in a skiff with her infant son,
Ogall, at her breast, in quest of her lord, w4iom she found
in the pitiable situation described, and was able to carry
him to her boat, where they were discovered next
morning by Ossian, who had sailed in quest of them,
speechless and dying. He was only able to save the
child."
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 197

Prepare ye the bed of our hero,

O children of music's sweet tone
Lay his Sunbeam of battle beside him,
Where his tomb through long time may be known.
Let the high leafy bough overshade it,
Of the oak with its green-growing spray
First to bud in the breath of the spring shower,
That lasts when the heath fades away.

Its leaves, from the skirts of each far land.

Shall summer's gay birds behold
On Strumon's boughs, when they wearily come,
Their joyful wing they shall fold.

In his mist, Gaul shall hear their sweet singing,

And maidens lamenting, that say
" Alas, Evirchoma " Till these things shall perish,
!

Undivided in thought shall ye stay

Till this stone into dust shall crumble

Till with age this bi-anch shall fade
Till this stream run no more from its mother.
Far off in the mountain glade.

Till the age of the bard is lost in time.

And his tale and his song none can sing ;

No stranger shall ask, "Who was Morni's son?"

Or "Where lies Strumon's king"?"

There seems to be something like a scriptural and

oriental grace about this beautiful and pathetic fragment.
Whoever composed it, could have been no mean poet.
Gaul, the sun of Morni, it will be remembered, was a
great hero. The Ajax of the Fingalians, excelled by
none in strength and courage, he deserved to have so
noble an elegy spoken over him, by the ever-generous and
courteous Finn.
198 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

FINGAL GOING TO BATTLE.

There seems to have been favourite bits of poetry
floating about in the Highlands, not belonging to any
particular poem, but ready to be used by the reciters in
any place where they appeared to fit well. These formed
an elaborate description of the dress, the appearance, the
warlike equipage, or else some single great action of a
celebrated hero or, indeed, any one incident in the old
;

traditions, common perhapsto them all, which might

strike the fancy of a young and sensitive mind, that
would keep brooding over the favourite passage for years,
until at last it finished and refined it into such lyric
excellence that it thenceforth formed a noted piece of
popular poetry, and one of the famed and welcome gems
of recitation round a thousand firesides.
The following very splendid description is found in
Kennedy's Collection in one poem in Dr. Smith's
;

" Old Lays " in another and in MacPherson's Ossian in

;

a third place. It is a piece of popular Highland poetry.

I translate this truly grand passage with the closest
fidelity :

With loud-sounding strides he rush'd westward,

In the clank of his armour bright
And he look'd like the Spirit of Loda, that scatters
Dismay o'er the war- way and fight !

Like a thousand waves on a crag that roll, yelling,

When the ugly storm is at its heigjit,
So awful the clash of his mail and his weapons,
While his face wore the winter of fight

His smooth claymore glitter'd aloft

In his champion hand it was light
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 199

And the snoring winds kept moving his locks,

Like spray in the whirlpool's might !

The on each side they were shaken,

hills
And the path seem'd to tremble with fright !

Gleamed his eyes, and his great heart kept swelling

Oh cheerless the terrible sight
!

"The "Old Lays," collected by Dr. Smith, are not

inferior in any respect to MacPherson's " Ossian." They
breathe the same spirit, exhibit the same fineness of
sensibility, and are coloured by a mountain-bred imagin-
ation. They speak of the same superstitions, and they
look with that life-giving energy of deep and lonely
nurtured feeling, so characteristic of the Ossianic poems.
The following is contained in the opening of a poem
called " Finan and Lorma," where the young people
around him, looking upon the heavens, address the aged
Ossian in the following natural and beautiful verses:

White on the plains shines the moon, Bard !

And the shadow Con a holds ;

Like a ghost breathes the wind from the mountain.
With a spirit voice in its folds.

There are two cloudy forms before us,

Where its host the dim night shows
The sigh of the moor curls their tresses.
As they tread over Alva of roes.

Dusky come with one.

his dogs
And he bends his dark bow of yew ;

There's a stream from the side of the sad-faced maid.

Dyes her robe with a blood-red hue.

Hold thou back, thou wind from the mountain.

!

Let their image a moment stay ;

200 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

^N"©!' sweep with thy skirts from our eyesight,

Nor scatter their beauty away.

O'er the glen of the rushes, the hill of the hinds,

With the vague wandering vapour they go
Bard of the times that have left us
Aught of their life canst they show Ì

The years that ha^-e been they come back as ye speak

To my soul in their music they glide ;

Like the murmur of waves in the far inland calm,

Is their soft and smooth step by my side.

THE FOUR WISE MEN AT ALEXANDER'S

GRAVE.
It may surprise some people to find Alexander the Great
figuring in a Highland poem. But he is very well
known to the Gaelic-S})eaking people, among whom ho
goes by the title of " Alastair Mòr," words that may be
translated " Big Sandy," quite as naturally as Alexander
the Great. The first time I heard this name applied to
the Macedonian conqueror was by an excellent tale-teller.
who offered to illustrate something or other that had just
been spoken of in his presence, by giving a story about
" Alastair Mòr." I thought the man was going to refer
to some of his own cronies —the name lie used is so very
familiar in the Highkmds nor was it till, observing my
;

ignorance, he repeated the phrase with marked em-

phasis, and translated it, saying, with some impatience,
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 201

^'
Alexander the Great," that I understood him. He
then told his story, which was as follows :

" Alastair Mòr won so many battles, and took so many

cities, and subdued so many peoples, that his heart was
uplifted, and he became proud; and thought his glory
was for ever, and his power and majesty something more
than mortal. It happened that one day, when his heai-t
was big with these sentiments, and when his flatterers
—
were courting him, and they told him and he believed
—
them that nothing in this world had ever equalled him
lo! just then a very small fly went up his nostril, and
penetrated to his brain, put an end to Alexander."
"We perish before the moth." Such was the story,
and such, I fancy, would have been the moral of the
Highland sage, if he had drawn it but he did not. He
;

left his tale to make its own impression. So Alexander

the Great is well known in the Highlands. This ballad
that speaks of him is a very old one —
at least three
hundred and fifty years old; for it is one of those in the
Dean of Lismore's book, whose collection was made about
that time. The poem is also found even yet among the
people. A
very few years ago, a version of it, almost
identical with that of the Dean of Lismore, was got from
a old woman in the north. The Dean's book was not
then published. This shows the accuracy with which
tradition can, for generations, preserve a favourite tale
or ballad. The poem seems to consist of two parts —
lament in the first part, and a eulogy in the second.

Four wise men met beside the grave

Where the Prince of Greece was laid
The mightiest Alexander
And these true words they said :

" But yesterday, to serve his need,

The world's great hosts would rise
202 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

And there, alas !

" the first man said,
" Today he lonely lies."

" Proudly rode he on the earth

Not many days bygone :

And now the earth," the second cried,

" It rests on his breast-bone."

Then did the third wise speaker say,

" Not many days ere this
He own'd the whole round world ; and^now
Not seven sliort feet are his !

" Alexander treasured gold

To serve his every whim ;

And now," the fourth man sagely said,

" 'Tis gold that treasures him." *

"Like gold was Philip's son the gold —

That binds the jewels bright
Like the palm among the trees the moon ;

Amid the stars of night ;

" Like the great whale among small fish ;

The lion 'mid the slain

The eagle when she drives the birds
From the rock of her lone reign.

" Like Sion hill amid the hills

The hill that holiest seems ;
Like the great sea unto the floods ;

Like Jordan 'uiid the streams.

*Alexander the Great the pupil of Aristotle, died in 323 B.C.

and was buried ia a golden coffin at Alexandria, Lower Egypt,
city founded by himself. This explains the accuracy of the
phrase: — '"Tis gold that treasures him."
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 203

" He
was a man above all men,
Save the High King of Heaven ;

To him were armies, towns and lands,

And herds and forests given."

Thus o'er the great man's tomb they spoke

Wise do I count their lore
Unlike to woman's idle prate
Were the sayings of these Four.

The ballad of "The Four Wise Men at Alexander's

—
Grave " is a quaint poem not destitute of vigorous
expression, of good strong reflective capacity, or of the
marks of genuine workmanlike fancy. At the same time,
though it carries its years well, the poem has on the face
of the evident signs of a long bypast age.
it Its air and
manner do not quite belong to our day. It has traces in
its bearing of having been in company Avith the Muses
when the society they cultivated difiered much from ours;
when the Bardic fellowship had a stated gravity, and
cultivated true speaking more than the arrangement of
words, or the artistic effect of sentiment, doled out by
weight and measure.

THE AGED BAED'S WISH.

This poem is supposed to be one of the oldest in the
Gaelic language, subsequent to the Gssianic era. It is
said to be older than the conversion of the Caledonians to
Christianity. I am not aware, however, that there are
any other grounds than the internal evidence on which
this very remote antiquity is claimed for the poem.
204 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

Judging from its contents— its train of thought and its

—
tone of sentiment there is certainly no reason to suppose
that its author was acquainted with any of the doctrines
of Christianity but, on the contrary, every reason to
;

—
think that he was not that is, of course, granting it was
really an old heathen bard, and not some one assuming
such a character, who composed the verses. In the
closing lines, as will be seen, the singer wishes his harp,
his shell, and the shield that defended his forefathers in
battle, to be laid in the grave by his side ; and he speaks
of his soul floating in its mist, on the breeze of the ocean,
to Flath-innis — the Heroes' Isle— where Ossian and Dail
reposed and slept in the house of the Bards on Ard-ven.
All this is certainly quite heathenish. But all this could
easily be done by a bard who lived all his life among
Christian Caledonians, and merely took on himself, for
the occasion, the person of an imaginary predecessor.
It is difficult to indentify the locality of the poem.
Mrs. Grant of Laggan says it was composed in Skye. But
the editor of the "Beauties of Gaelic Poetry," says, "The
poem itself seems to furnish some evidence, that at least
the scene of it is laid in Lochaber. Treig is mentioned as
having afforded drink to the hunters. Now, Loch-Treig
is in the braes of Lochaber. We know of no mountain
which is now called Ben Ard or Sgorr-eilt. Perhaps Ben-
Ard is another name for Ben Nevis. The great waterfall
mentioned near the end of the poem may have been
Easbhà, near Kinloch-Leven, in Lochaber." Like almost
all reflective poetry that extends to any length, tliis poem
is sometimes a little obscure. It is not always very easy
to trace the connection of one train of thought with
another, nor is it always very obvious what the old man is
turning his mind to at all. The objects of his thought,
and the terms in which he was in the habit of referring to
them, were both so familiar to himself that he, like other
poets of his class, seems never to have suspected they
might be less intimately known to his readers. " The
 OSSIANIC POETRY.
205

although a fine poem upon the

Old Bard's Wish," then,
in the original, does not,
whole and very much admired
bear translation so well as some
others.
perhaps,

brook,
Oh! place me by the little
Of (^ently wandering pace and
slow.

And lay my head near some green nook

glow.
That kindly shades the sunny

Atease upon the grass I'll rest

brae
Of the balm-breathing flowery ;

d
My foot by the warm wave caress
plain away.
That winds throughout the

There the pale primrose let

me see,
hand,
There the small daisy close at
And every flower so dear to me
For grateful hue or odour bland.

About thy lofty banks, my glen.

sprays,
Be bending boughs and blooming
small birds sing from bush
and fen,
Where
To aged clifis, their amorous lays.

Break rolling o'er the ivied rock

moan,
The new-born spring, with heavy
And let the answering echo mock
tunful tone.
Its crowding surges'

And let each hill and

mountain steep
Return me back a joyous sound,
When thousand herds with lowmgs deep
From east and west will murmur
round.

Let frisking calves before me

play
By spreading hill or streamlet pure,
206 ANCIENT GAELIC BIRDS.

But the tired kid hishead shall lay

Upon my breast and sleep secure.

Then, flowing on the breeze's wing,

Come the soft plainings of the lamb,
And let the mellowing distance bring
The answer of its bleating dam.

Oft let the hunter's step go by,

let me hear
His whizzing javelins ;

And to my cheek youth's blood will fly

When comes the chase with tumult near.
Now marrow to my bones 'twill bring
To hear the string, the horn, the hound.
When loud, "The stag is down," they sing,
I'll leap to hear the darling sound.

My dog, I'll see him in that mood

Who late and early follow'd me,
And O our dear hilly solitude
And crags that heard my bugle's glee.

And I shall s'ee the welcome cave.

That saved us from the darkening night
Its flikering flame shall Avane and wave
Its quaichs once more shall give delight.

The sweet dear-flesh we'll roast it well

Treig's singing brook our thirst allay
Though mountains roar and ghosts should yell,
We '11 calmly rest us there till day.

Then high Ben-Ard"^ his form will rear

Chief of a thousand hills is he

*Ben-Ard is apparently Ben Kevis, the grandest and the

highest mountain in Britain, 4,406 feet high.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 207

His locks, where dream the antler'd deer,

His head, where sleep the clouds, we'll see.

Sgorr-eilt looks o'er the valley's brow,

Whence first the cuckoo's music flows
The hill fir-trees grow,
where thousand
And green herbs for the elks and roes.

The young ducks cheerily skim the pool.

Round which the fir-trees wave their heads,
And toss their green arms beautiful,
Above the ripening rowans red.

With snowy swan comes nigh.

breast the
And waves wàth graceful jmde
crest the
Or, raising up her wings on high,
Amid the clouds she'll lightly glide.

Oft doth she journey o'er the sea

To lands where breaks the cold white spray
Where sail or mast shall never be,
Nor oaken prow shall cleave its way.

Come to the brakes and mountain caves

Thy mouth full of love's plaintive sighs
O swan from the land of the waves,
!

And sing me to rest from the skies.

O rise, with thy mild and sweet song

Tell thy piteous tale from on high,
The echo will spread it along,
And ^end thy grief mournfully by.

Raise thy wing o'er the ocean's bound.

Grasp its speed from the strong wind above.
For sweet to my ear comes the sound
From thy much pain'd heart of sad love.
208 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

Whence do the wandering breezes roam,*

That waft us thus thy grief and care,
O youth who went so far from home,
!

And left my hoary head so bare I

Are thine eyes tearful still, young maid.

So white of hand, so fair and wise 1
Peace rest with him that ne'er will fade,
AVho from his strait bed may not rise

O winds ! tell me, whose eyes have fail'd,

The sighing reeds where now they grow,
Past which the trouts have often sail'd
On wings that never felt you blow

Oh raise me 1 raise me with strong arm

Beneath a new shade let me lie
The sun is riding high and warm.
Let the green branches shield ray eye.

Then wilt thou come, O vision mild !

That wand'rest 'mid the stars of night

And in thy music sweet and wild
Thou'lt bring me thoughts of past delight.

Oh see, my soul ! yon maiden fair

Beneath the oak-tree, king of groves 1

* At this place Mrs. Grant of Laggan who has given a —

translation of " The Old Bard's Wish," among her poems published
in 1803 —
makes the following remark :
—
"As there is very little
frost or snow in the Islands, great numbers of swans come there
from Norway in tlie beginning of winter. Some stay to hatch,
but they mostly go northward in summer. This furnishes the
bard with the fine image, very strongly expressed in the original,
of the north wind bearing towards him the moan of the departed;
upon which he inquires of the swan from what cold country
that well-known voice came. This aflfords him a pretence for
digressing.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 209

Her hand amid her golden hair

Her soft mild eye on him she loves.

She silent while he plays and sings

Her beating heart swims in the song
From eye to eye his way Love wangs,
Who melts the deer their hills among.

Now stops the strain, and her soft side

Is growing to her lover's breast,
And her fresh lips, the rose-tree's pride,
To his are long and longer press'd.

May joy attend you both, for aye,

Who wake my long-lost joy once more ;

But on thy soul, thou fair-hair'd May,

My warmest, dearest blessings pour !

Oh dream of bliss and art thou gone

! !

Return, return one moment still

You hear me not and I 'm alone
; !

Then, fare-you-well each long-loved hill

Farewell, O ye youths in your prime !

Farewell, lovely maiden, to thee !

I see not your bright summer time

'Tis winter forever with me.

Not far from the waterfall's swell

That moans round its grey rock afai",
Let me lie with my harp and shell.
And forefathers' shield in wild w^ar.

And come o'er the sea as a friend,

Thou mild-moving zephyr and slow.
Raise my mist on thy wings, and wend
To the isle where the heroes go !
210 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

AVhere tlie heroes go —

where they lie
And sound without music's tone,
sleep
Hall of Ossian and Dail open fly! —
The night comes and the bard is gone

—
But ere it comes ere my mist wings its way
To Ardven, the house of the bards for aye
With harp and shell for the road let me play
Then farewell to the harp, the shell, the lay "* I

The paradise of the ancient Celts, Flath-innis, or the

—
Heroes' Isle a word now appropriated to a sacred use
was supposed to lie in the Western Ocean. There was
another place called Eilean na h-Oige, or the Island of
Youth, which is still frequently spoken of in Highland
tales. I once heard a long story told in prose in which
it made a considerable figure. It differed, however, from
the above, or at any rate, did not accord with the Old
Bard's idea of Flath-innis. For there w^ere not only an
uninterrupted felicity and unfading youth enjoyed in
Eilean na li-Oige, but there were also activity and con-
sciousness —
not sleep. Neither was it a place for disem-
bodied spirits merely. The story I speak of represented
a man having been carried thither by a fairy wdfe w^hom
he had married, and with whom he had lived for some
years in the world. He was a middle aged man when
he was carried off, but his youth was renewed in even
more than its early bloom whenever he set foot on the
island. He" stayed there, with the most perfect enjoy-
ment, for a few weeks, as appeared to him. Then he
expressed a wish to go back and see another wife and
family whom he had left behind him in his own home.
His wish was complied \vith, after he had promised his
fairy wife to return with her whenever his curiosity was

* Tlio measure is changed in the last verse of the original,

as above.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 211

gratified. He was carried back as he had been at first

carried awaj, in the shape of a swan, his fairy wife accom-
panying him. He was set down on his own old farm;
but as soon as he touched the soil he became extremely
—
aged and withered looking " a mere fistful of a man,"
the narrator said. His fairy wife then left him for a
short time, and lie wandered about, exciting a great deal
of curiosity in all who saw him, but knowing nobody, and
even noticing changes in the very localities he had been
so familiar with, as he had thought, about a year before.
At last some people that were working in a field near by
gathered about him. To them he told his story; and one
of them recollected having heard his grandfather speaking
of a great farmer to whom that place once belonged, and
who had suddenly disappeared one day, many many years
ago, no one knew whither. A
little after this, the old
man's fairy wife returned, and carried him ofi", in the
shape of a swan. He was never more seen in the world
at all. So much for Eilean na h-Oige.
Of the author of the "Aged Bard's Wish" nothing is
—
known, not, so far as I am aware, any suspicion enter-
tained. It was first published as an old poem, in Gillies'
Collection, in 1786. It has been frequently translated,
much oftner than any Gaelic poem whatever. Other good
Gaelic poems are still waiting for a translator, but of
-

this one there have been some six or eight renderings,

between prose and verse.

Miann a' Bhàird Aosda, the Aged Bard's Wish, has been admir-
ably translated into English by the Rev. Hugh MacMillan, LL.D.,
D.I)., Free West Church, Greenock. See Scottish Celtic
Eeview, edited by the late Rev. Dr. Alexander Cameron,
Brodick.
212 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS.

YERSES ADDRESSED TO MR. E. LLHUYD.*

"When Mr. Edward Llhiiyd published his "Arch^eologia
Britannia," in 1704, so pleased were the Highlanders
with the interest with which he invested their language,
that many of them addressed complimentary verses to
him, exf)ressive of their apj^reciation of his work, In

* What follows is the original of these verses, Math the spell-

ing somewhat modernized, to make them more intelligible to the
Gaelic reader :

Air teachd o 'n Spàinn do shliochd a' Ghàidheil ghlais,

'S do shliochd nam Milidh, 'n fhine nach bu tais
Bu mhòr an sgleò 's gach fòd air cruas an lann,
Air fil'eachd fùs 's air fòghlum nach bu ghann.
'N uair dli' fhàs am pòr ud mòr a bhos as thall
Bha meas a's pris de 'n Ghailig anns gach ball
An Teanga lionmhor, bhrighmhor, bhlasda, bhinn,
'S a' Chànain thartrach, liobhta, ghasda, ghrinn.

An ciiirt nan Pagh, re mile bliadhn' a's treall,

Gu 'n robh i 'n tùs mu 'n d'thog cainnt Dhù'-ghall ceann.
Gach fili 's bard, gach leigh, aosdàn' a's draoi,
Gach seanachaidh fòs, gach eoladhain shaor a's saoi,
Gu'n tug Gathelns leis o 'n Eiph't a nail,
'S an Gailig sgriobh iad sud le gniomh am peanii.
Na diadhairean mòr, bu chliù s bu ghlòir do 'n Chleir,
B' ann leath', gu tarbhach, 'labhair iad briathra Dhè.

B'i labhair Pàdruig 'n Innisfàil nan righ,

'S am Fàidhe naomh sin, Calum caomh 'an I.
Na Frangaich liobhta lean gacli tir am beus,
O I nan Ueòraidh ghabh gaeli fòghlum freunih.
B' i b' oide-mùinte luchd gach dùthch' a's teang'

Chiiir Gaill a's Dnbh-ghaill chum an iùil 'so 'u claim.

Nis dh' fhalbh i uainn gu tui-, mo thruaigh 's mo chreach
! !

'S tearc luchd a gaoil —

b' e s^ud an saogh'l fa seach !

Thuit i 's an tùr m' araon r'a h-ùghd raibh ft^in,

'S na flaith' 'm bu dùth' i ghabh d' a còmhdach speis.
Reic iad 's a' chùirt i air caiunt ùr o 'n de,
A's threig le tàir, 's bu nàr leo 'n cauain fein.
 OSSIANIC POETRY. 213

1707 a second edition was issued, wherein some of these

verses were given. The following is a translation of
what Mr. John MacLean, minister of the parish of Kill-
ninian, Island of Mull, composed on that occasion. The

Air sàr O
Liath biodh àgh, a's ctiimhn' a's buaidh,
A rinn gu h-iir a diisgadh as a h-uaigh.
Gach neach 'tha fhreumh o'n Ghàidheal ghleusda gharg,
'S gach droiug d' an diith a' chhnaia ud mar chainut
Gach aon a chinn air treubh 's air linn a' Scuit
An duais is f hiach thu 's coir gii 'n ioc iad dhuit. ••
O'n Blianrigh'nn air am bheil an tras an criin,
Gu ruig am bochd 's an ait' an nochd an dun,
Bha 'n ainm 's an eiichd, o linn nan ceudan àl,
Tre mheath na Gàilig 'dol a cuimhne chàich:
Nis cliù an guiomh ciiluinn criochan fada thall,
'S their iad le cheil', "Bha Gàidheil aon uair ann."

'S ni 's fearr, a shaoi, bidh briathran liobht' 'n ar beul,

Làn seadh a's brigh le 'n nochdar firinn Dhe.
Cia fios an Ti chuir 'n Aholiab tnr
'S am
Besaleel, a thogail arois ùir,
Nach e so fein a ghluais Lnid 's a ghleus
Gu 'shaothair thoirt gu buil le 'thuigse gheir,
Bhrigh bhi 'na rim 'ainm dheanamh cliiiiteach, mòr
Air f eadh nan crioch 's an d' f huair na Gàidheil coir ?
—
Gu'm b'amluidh bhios, 's gach neach a chi an lò
Biodh t'ainmsa sgriobht' 'n a chridh' 'an litir'eau òir,
—
Agus 'na chuimhn' a's gheibh thu choidhch' uam fein,
Beannachd a's fàilt' le m' chridh', le m' làimh, 's le m' beul

Mr. James Macourich, minister of Kildalton, Islay, addressed

the following verses to Mr. Llhuyd at the same time.

'S e do bheatha, Fhaoclair chaoimh,

Gu criochaibh ard Chlanna Gàidheal ;

Gu Innis fòs nan Cùig Còigeamh

Is e do bheatha g' an uibhir.

Gheibh thu fàilte 'an criochaibh Ghàidheal,

'S e do bheatha 'n Innse-Gall
214 ANCIENT GAELIC BAEDS.

verses are interesting as showing the enthusiasm of a

Highland clergyman on seeing his native language duly
honoured by such an eminent man as Mr. Llhuyd was.

When first from Spain the grey Gael hither came

With the ]N[elesian race,— a dauntless stock
Their hardy blades were not in tales more famed
Than were their lays and lore, through every land.
Once this fair seed had spread out far and near,
Then honour meet and due the Gaelic gained :

That copious, tasteful, sweet, expressive, tongue,

That polished, sounding smooth, well-ordered speech.
In regal courts a thousand years and more
It reigned, ere raised its head the dark Gall's tongue:
Then bard, and lyrist, prophet, leech and sage.
All trace and record of achievement brave,
Since first Gathelus left the Egyptian strand,
Wrote down in Gaelic with effective pen.

Ki gach triath riutsa comuun,

Gheibh thu moladh 'an Eirinn thall.

Dhùisgeadh leat as an uaieh

A' chànain chrnaidh a bha fo smal
Teanga Lha cian fo gheasaibh
Do chaireadli leat an clò re seal.

Tuigseach, saibhir do theagasg,

Soileir, saibhir, sèimh do ghlòir;
Lìonmhor, brìghmhor do sheanfhacail
Sgiamhach, taitneach, ciallach mòr.

Thoir mo bheannachd do Mhaisdir Liath

A dhùisg, le bnaidh, Foclair fial:
Bheir gach Gàidheal dhuitse beannachd
Is e leatsa thar na dh'àirmhear.

Seumas MacMhuir, Sagart Chill-Daltan.

 OSSIANIC POETRY. 215

Thus long the clergy glory won, and fame,

And thus with native accents praised their God.
Thus Patrick spoke, in kingly Innisfail,
And sainted, mild Columba thus in le.
The polished French, from whom all people learn,
Their own first rudiments of learning got
In that fair Isle of penitential tears :

There spoke the nurse of every tribe and tongue

For Gaelic then was not the guiding star
Of Gaelic youth, more than of Galldic too.
—
Kow is it circumscribed, woe! woe! and well-a-day!
—
Few love it now. Alas the weary change,
!

—
Oh the decline, its authors all forgot.
!

Heroes who lisped it first, then cherished it;

But courtiers sold it for a poor exchange
A —
modern tongue, a tongue of yesterday :

Thus with contempt, deserting from their own.

Great fame great praise, great thanks to noble Llhuyd,

Who has revived it from the grave again.
All from the versatile, fierce Gael derived,
Each tribe in whom their language still inheres,
—
All men, the increase of the Scottish root,
Should now requite thee with a due reward,
Down from the Queen at present on the throne.
Even to the wandering, houseless poor this night.
Back from a hundred generations come
The memory of their exploits, —
retained
In this most worthy language —
slighted now.
Their deeds of fame, yet distant lands can learn;
A
And one to other say, " Gaelic race hath been."
But, better still, with polished rhetoric,
We can express, with might, the truth of God.

Who knows but He who Aholiab erst,

And Bezaleel taught to build the ark.
216 ANCIENT GAELIC BARDS

Hath moved thee and inspired thee now, O Llhuyd

To do thy work with energy and art
And make His own great name adored and praised
In every region by the Gael possessed.
So neither let, nor distant be the day,
When shall thy name in every heart be writ.
And every memory, in lettered gold.
And, now, a blessing, and adieu from me,
From heart, and hand, and tongue attend on thee.

e
ORIGINAL POEMS.
 ORIGINAL POEMS.

A FAIR DAY.*
For it was their feist day.
They said
Of Peblis to the Play.
Old Poem.

A VILLAGE looks the keen and lucid north

Full in the blue and weather-beaten face;
Before it lies a long and winding bay,
Within whose shelter, in the gloom and storm,
When winter revels o'er the roughening sea.
Full many a coasting brig, and drudging sloop.
And tempest-baffled bark at anchor ride,
And rest from wand and tossing wave without.
Then is the village crowded with the crews,
The taverns thronged, and hard-won earnings spent,
And sometimes squabbles raised by Jack ashore.
Beyond the anchorage, a range of hills,
In mellow, undulating line, is set;
With parti-coloured culture, varied so.
They seem in Autumn as with tartan clad.
Westward, and looking from the hither side,
Down on the beach and o'er the bending bay,
A rocky eminence the village flanks.
Whose top is crested with a broken tower,
Scene of much talk and observation long.

*See Note I.
220 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Eastward, isoffered with the tide at full,

A peaceful, pleasant, variegated scene
From the green margin of the swollen loch
Deep, to the background resting on the sky.
With three high hills, its giant guardians raised,
Together standing, conical and blue.
High up the brae on which the village stands
—
Runs one wide street its pride and ornament
With its quay jutting in the sea below,
And at its head the church spire high in heaven;
Its tiled or slated houses rise between,
And in the midst of all, the ancient pump,
That mark of Terminus, the steadfast god,
Once painted blue, with freestone trough aj^pears.
This is the scene, then, of my song to-day.
And evening is the time.

An August afternoon —blue sky —bright sun

The wont so quiet be,
village streets, that
All and busy talk.
full of bustling life
And tread of men, and tramp of horses' feet;
With hundreds occupied in countless ways,
Single, together, moving or at rest.
Spreading a murmur like a cataract.
There, on one spot, are sunburnt faces seen.
With massy features and bluff hardy look,
And broad and brawny forms, all clad in blue.
The deep sea fishers these, whose luggers ride
The breezy sea that clips the Hebrides
And these their wives, so garrulous and glad,
Who sell their hard smoked fishing by the score,
And black coarse oil, to meet the winter night.
With them their daughters come, all trig and smart,
And youngsters eager for the holiday,
Now wildly staring, for they never looked
On such a crowd of busy men l^efore.
 A FAIR DAY. 221

Leaving that scene of busy interchange,

You see the group about those liorses met,
One is the ploughman in his best array
That broad squat man, so round and corpulent.
With dry black hair, and full brown eye and bright.
The shabby coat, and clothes that once were good,
"With his hands deep into his pouches held,
And look of ready cash about his face,
That man who, jingling, jingling, stands and looks,
Is a horse-couper. And the tall thin man
With the broad shoulders who, witli out-stretched neck^
O'erlooks his comrade's round and dusty hat,
And wears a coat that reaches to his heels
He is the friend — the friend and referee.
But an amateur whose brows are knit.
that's
Who, better dressed and sprucer on the whole
Than the two dealers, sees a bargain close,
And stepping up, with calculating care
Pokes on the ribs the horse that's to be sold,
Looking as wise as Solomon the while
Then with one weighty sentence turns away.
These are his friends and satellites behind,
Who —
hang upon his skirts, look as he looks.
Turn as he turns, and wander as he goes;
Thinking him paragon of mortal men.

See, here another ripening bargain grows,

Where the crowd severs fast from side to side,
And from its bosom rushes, at full trot,
A stalwart horse, and groom that stirs him on.
Displaying two grave figures to the view
Clad in loose clothes of no decided shape,
And darned, by'r lady, in more spots than one.
Ay, there they stand, like Damon and his fere.
Acutely watching the steed's heavy i:)ace.
And much engrossed in cogitations deep
 222 ORIGINAL POEMS.

As any statist gives a nation's hopes

What is his age, his quality, and breed 1

Pass yet along, and see this dusty close,

With many hundred pattering feet impressed,
When, with a whirr, the flock together run
At near approach of some stray dog, or man
Who comes to choose a wether, or few sheep,
To eke his stock and bring next summer gain.
That tall stout man, in the grey homespun dressed-
Who moves about with such a manly stride,
And whose large hand, so oily and so tarred,
Picks for the buyer what he wants to take
Is owner both and keeper of the sheep.
To all and each alike, or high or low.
He speaks sedately in his native tongue.
With easy flow of past'ral rhetoric.
And self possessed, —in conscious rectitude
Dispenses courtesy and nice regard
So quick to feel indignity himself.
For though his station bears no glossy show,
Yet, filled with treasured memories of old,
With deeds of valour, gentleness, and birth,
The shepherd holds within his secret soul,
A grace like David's with the pride of Saul.
And thus he feels, though poor the mode of life,
What truly makes the man may yet be great,
Although he owns not much, if he but knows
And acts in self-collected dignity
Unmoved but thus: not what the eye perceives,
But what and living in the mind
is felt
Ennobles man, and doth the earth adorn
So lived the prophets in the days of old
Long may such spirits permeate our own.

Still further pierce into the deepening crowd.

Cautious you give the frequent steeds, the while,
 A FAIR DAY. 223

No chance to make but small bones of your legs;

Careful to steer between the talking groups
Of busy men and dressed and showy girls,
And as you slowly pass along, you note
Where, in the thoroughfare, the stands are set.
And boys with open mouth and staring eyes,
In soul devour the whole delicious stock.
They want the means one pennyworth to buy.

There, in his cart, the glib-mouthed auctioneer

Deals old, old wit,' and long used up, around,
And cheats the rustics with his fluent tongue.
And much amazes them —he talks so well.
There, in bewilderment, a culprit stands,
Beneath the rattle of his brazen slang,
Who gave a bid in utter ignorance,
And much perplexed, now hesitating looks,
Hearing his opposite, with deep respect.
Quote in a breath his license and his Queen.

There, with his stand, the vendor of the nuts

Offers his bow, "Only a penny, gents!"
And eager youths come vieing for the prize,
"Sixty large nuts for him who hits the ring."
There is the draper with his goods and clothes,
All ready-made, or bundled up in bales,
And moleskin, duck, or woolen garments, ranged.
Attract the eydent housewife's careful eye;
While pen-knives, walking-sticks, umbrellas blue.
Marked with huge tickets, tempt with tiny price.

There with her plain deal table, covered clean,

A spinster stands, or pawky auld
guidwife.
Who dearly loves a cheering cup of tea.
Spread are her bowls and largest cups to view.
Half-filled with comfits purchased for the fair.
Bought at five shillings, which she'll sell at twelve.
224 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Now in the heat of rivalry she stands,

Where bold competitors, with practised wile.
On every side allure the urchin's eye.
To disappointment not unseldom doomed,
She sees the valued currency that flows
On either side, but scarcely reaches her
Boding but ill unto the hoarded store
Devoted to her secret beverage.
Across the street there rolls a thundering drum,
And through the crowd that rush and struggle by
You have a glimpse of some gay figure near,
In cotton garment all with spangles decked
Flitting like figures in a fairy dream.
They with their feats of rare dexterity
Their balls, cups, cards, and strange ventriloquism.
Their matchless pony's knowing craftiness,
And Lady of the Troop, so gaudy dressed.
Who dances blindfold 'mid the rows of eggs.
And foots so featly that they cry, "O rare!"
—
Draw crowded houses thunders of applause.
Did Thespis lead a life like this of old 1
And thus began the comedy of Greece Ì
Strange what a difference a language makes,
Lagging behind, or moving with an age !

But hark a note of music touched mine ear

!

Come, we will trace it up this flight or steps.

Built to an outer wall with clumsy flags,
Whose rough ascent conducts us to the door
Now open wide, inviting customers.
Here is a loft, in winter stored with hay,
Orcorn, or fodder, for the cattle kept,
Now swept and fitted for the fiery dance
And from the gloaming, through some brisk dark hours
A steady thumping will be heard afar,
As rattles on the sharp and sounding string
—
The flying reel, the exciting curt strathsi)ey,
 A FAIR DAY. 225

When dainty Chloe Avill, or Phillis fair,

Who and who look so well,
set so neatly,
Move huge affection in stout Damon's heart,
Flinging so lustily with shouts before.
'Tis yet in prelude, this hot, hasty mirth
For still the hall is empty, save that end
Where, Avith the violin against his breast,
A rural amateur is showing off
With beating foot, —
bow by the middle held,
Contorted face, and wild and staring eye.
Some new-learned reel to his experienced ear.
Who sits and listens in sarcastic calm;
But when he stops, pays him high compliments.
And vows 'tis time for him to quit the stage,
Now that such fingers on the strings are laid.
The chief musician of the Fair is this.
Whose voice goes thrilling through the bungler's heart,
Who takes for gospel every word that's said.
And so the young man, moving to the door,
Nurses the praise within his flattered mind.
Till it uplifts his step upon his toes,
Like Shakespeare's Diomed, in scorn of earth.
Then touching the scraps of lively tunes.
The minstrel rolls his sightless eyes and waits
Until the hall begins to fill anon
And the exciting motion, once afoot.
Increases furiously until the dawn.

See from that tavern pour a jolly rout.

Not yet excited with the lively draught.
Friends treat their friends, and bargain-makers meet,
And o'er the liquor talk of times gone by,
Or mention matters that obtain to-day;
The Ancient, with blue bonnet laid aside.
Fills up the glass that circulates to all.
The comely belle takes but a modest sip;
152b ORIGINAL POEMS.

The older spinster, rising in her turn,

With glass in hand, says some appropriate words,
"To the good health of all," and does but taste.
Protesting faintly that her head is weak.
And that indeed she cannot, dare not more,
Yet yielding most reluctantly, 't would seem,
To the warm pressure of the welcome kind,
That pours so heartily from every side.
What can she do, but sacrifice herself 1
And suck in slowly every diamond drop,
Looking like Socrates, the poisoned sage,
In pensive resignation all the while,
A wringing pressure from the horny hand,
A warm good-wish to each and all around,
Then every man swigs at a gulp his share.
And forth they sally to the street again.
Meeting old faces with a tone of joy,
A quickened step, and eager offered hand,
A kind enquiry and a firm long shake,
As if the one had dropped from the moon,
The other from the planet Jupiter;
And if no further business intervene.
They will adjourn to have a dram betimes.

This jovial work makes heated heads at last.

And warms the blood that courses through their v
With no small ardour at the very best,
And fires the mind, and swells the excited soul,
Till whisky, talking, dancing, music's power,
Or favoured rival's envied privilege,
Or fancied insult in some careless tone.
Or pride of i)rowess and ambitious strength.
Or tipsy singer's loud and cheery note,
Who reels contentedly beside a friend.
With squabbles, and confused and grating noise
Close on the few late revellers the scene.
 LOCIIINDAAL. 227

LOCHIND A AL.*
O! Thou ship-sailing Lochindaal,
Blue thy bracing brine,
is

And beautiful thy verdant meads

To me thou art divine ;

Although perhaps to other eyes

Thou scarcely seemest.fine.

But I have trod thy pebbly shore

Have bathed in thy blue sea
I 've gazed on thee in all thy moods,
And lived for years by thee :

I must forget myself before

Thy beauties fade to me.

Those deep blue hills that rise afar,

Like giants straight and high,
Delightedly I 've looked on them
With childhood's dazzled eye
And now I look on thee again
What old, old things come by.
Oh many
! long past things that haunt
Thy banks, and fields, and ways
A thousand forms of tender things
My
heart-touched feelings raise
Around thee here, on which j'outh's sun,
With noontide lustre, plays.

Old friends who now are none for me

Still haunts thy changeless shore;
And friends, alas ! who now are gone,
Where we meet not as of yore;

* See note II.

228 ORIGINAL POEMS.

And friends, thank God, who still are frieiids

Just as they were before.

And men and —

matrons maids and youths.
Who are no friends at all
They too come flocking to my side,
With or without a call
The old, the young, the grave, the gay
The short ones and the tall.

They troop into the village streets

They stand as oft they stood,
Round the street-corners, talking long
Of bad things and of good
For the flippant and the wise were there
The civil and the rude.

Those and corners still are there,

streets
But the men are gone ;
all
I see the houses, hills and shores,
And ways they walked upon
—
But not the men the sense seems lost
That on their doings shone.

Yet all the lifeless things remain

There in its old grey calm ;

The church still stands, where first I heard,

After a nasal Psalm,
A sermon preached by an old man,
Who spoke of Abraham.
And there by its green hill I see
old and schoolboy spot,
The
And the scene where many a summer eve,
MyVirgil was forgot,
While lightning hours of joy I spent
With the wizard Walter Scott.
 LOCHINDAAL. 229

Over the fields I see the house,

Scarcely five minutes' walk
From where we lived, where oft we went
To have a pleasant talk,
With friends for whose kind sake we yet
Mark those old days with chalk.

Dear Loch how much I Ve seen by

! thee.
In fancy's hallowed light
On thy wan clouds the ancient chiefs,
With Ossian took their flight
And Douglas, Randolph, met me here.
And Bruce, and Wallace wight.

Old Homer murmured to thy surge

His music in mine ear.
And Burns has sung his cordial songs,
And Shakespeare met me here ;

And Thomson painted thy fair scenes.

And Horace became dear.
Isaiah here hath wrapt my soul.
And Job hath thrilled me through,
And David's hallowed strains I learnt
And all those glories threw
A charm about thy plains and hills.
That day-light never knew.

The dark-brown hills they gird thee yet.

The ships frequent thy bay
The cattle low along thy shore
At closing of the day ;

And people plough, and reap, and sow,

All in the ancient way.

And thou art stillthe same thyself

As thou wert years ago
230 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Thy flashing waters plunge and roll,

And murmuring ebb and flow
And clouds sail o'er thy lucid breast,
And bright suns on thee glow.
While I have changed, and nobler things
Than thou have changed with me,
Hearts that have life, and thought, and hope,
And yet must daily see
So much they care for join the past,
Like my young thoughts of thee.

Sweet Loch ! farewell ! I love to see

Yon sunshine gild thy breast,
For surely He who keeps thee so,
In fadeless glory drest.
Can treasure yet for me what's gone,
At its brio;htest and its best.

SIR LACHLAN MOR.^

A DISTINGUISHED chief of the MacLeans, who was known
as Sir Lachlan Mòr, on account of his great size and
prowess, was killed in a bloody battle between his own
clan and the MacDonalds, which took place in the year
1598, on the shore of Gruinart, Islay. The story says that
he was killed by a deformed and very diminutive man,
named Dubh Shee, who had oflered the chief his services
before the flght commenced, but met with rather a
contemptuous refusal. The man immediately went over
to the other side, whose leader, Sir James INIacDonald,

* See note III.

 SIR LACIILAX MOR. 231

received him gladly. Dubh Shee was unfit to mingle in

the strife of strong men. So it is said he took up his
position on a tree which overlooked the field of battle,
though I believe there are no trees growing there now.
He was a famous archer, and he watched his opportunity
till the chances of the fight brought Sir Lachlan Mòr

within his reach, when he shot him dead at the head of

his men. The MacLeans were completely defeated with
heavy loss. Aday or two after this, it is said that two
females, of whom diflerent accounts are given — some
calling them some clanswomen, some relatives
strangers,
of the dead — think that the body of so
grieving to
notable a chief as Sir Lachlan Mòr should lie unburied
and uncared for on the moorland, came from a distance
in search of it. —
They hired a rude vehicle the only one
to be had in the neighbourhood —
and having found the
corpse, proceeded to carry it to the nearest burying-ground,
about six miles distant. The way was rough, and the
driver looking behind him saw the head of the great
chief, which extended beyond the car, nodding to him at
every jolt, as if it had life, and were giving him directions.
Boor, or perhaps enemy, as the fellow was, he laughed
when he saw this. At the next heavy rut he looked
again to please his savage soul, with the same ferocious
enjoyment. Bat this time the elder female, who had
watched him, acted as described in the ballad. She
killed the brutal driver with the chieftain's dagger.
Then, along with her companion, she brought the mortal
remains of Sir Lachlan to the place where they still lie
buried. A spirited gentleman of the clan recently
endeavoured to raise a sum sufiicient to erect a monument
—
over the grave of this chief the most famous and the
ablest the MacLeans ever had but unfortunately he did
;

not succeed to his satisfaction,

Slowly, from the field of slaughter,

Do they bring Sir Lachlan Mor;
232 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Slowly, o'er the weary moorland,

From the dank and deadly shore.

Slowly, and in bitter sorrow,

Through a rough and rugged way,
With the yellow beams upon it
Of the sickly setting day.

Ah ! how lowly lies the leader;

See how pale his face
now;is
Never in the hall or highway
Never on the mountain brow

Shall his step be laid majestic;

Shall his stately form be seen;
Shall his voice inspire the council,
Or the fight his manly mien.

Never shall his clan behind him

Gather in the joy of fight;
Never draw their cold blue weapons
—
Hard and deadly glancing bright.

Poorlynow the chiefs attended,

Rudely now the hero's led;
Yet he w^akes not from the slumber
Of yon red and mossy bed.

For the sad stamp's onhis features

Which Dubh Shoe's hard arrow bore
On the moor Clan Gillian redden'd
With their brave and boiling gore.

Only two are with tiie driver

Of a rolling, rocking car,
Stretch'd whereon the dead man's carried
From the fiery field of war.
 SIR LACHLAN MOR. 233

Two that walk in silent sorrow

Ladies of his kindred are
Mourning, to the field of slaughter
Come to seek him from afar.

As they drive him slowly onward,

O'er the bad and broken way,
His head, witli all its matted tresses,
Nodded wdiere he lifeless lay.

Then the driver laugh'd who saw him,

Large and massy, lie along,
Senseless, soulless —him so lately
Foremost in the martial throng.

Laugh'd and quicker drove him onward.

!

Yet again to see the head

Nodding, without will or reason.
With its light of manhood fled.

Nodding at the boor who jeered him

With that mean, malicious scorn,
Nursed in secret by the envy
In the vulgar spirit born.

Then the ladies hastened forward

Not a word the younger said.
While her tears rained down in anguish
On the wan face of the dead.

But the elder damsel answered :

"Laugh'st thou at my fallen chief]

May thine own vile carcase, caitiff,
Fill thy mother's heart with grief " !
234 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Out she drew the chieftain's dagger,

As she hurled this angry cry
At the boor who gloomed before her,
With his dull and threatening eye.

And she struck him down, and left him

Stretched beneath the sunbeams there,
Like a wild fowl by the falcon
Swept from out the fields of air.

Then, alone, their dead they carried,

While one nursed the manly brow
Nursed, it on her bosom gently,
Like a holy, heavenly vow.

And one —tenderly she drove him

To the sad and solemn ground,
Where the hero's dust reposes,
With the mouldering ashes round.

Soft and slowly there we leave them

Chieftain may thine ashes rest,
!

Peaceful as the voice of prayer

From a calm, untroubled breast!

Long as sound the breezes o'er them,

Sound the voice of psalms beside
And spread Christ's peace- speaking Gospel
From thy green sod, far and wide

Sir Lachlan Mòr MacLean is bui'ied in the churchyard

of Kilchoman, Islay, near the south wall of the church.
This serves to explain the reference to psalms, (fcc, in the
concluding lines.
 THE PIOUS LABOURER. 235

THE PIOUS LABOURER.*

Where rolls and roars the green Atlantic wave,
That heaves and welters from the mingling sky,
Where the fresh seaweed scents the lively gale,
And rocks, and sands, and moors, and hills combine
To form, with ocean and cloud- varied skies,
A scene to love, although it be not gay.
Nor richly cultured, nor with woodland green.
There stands a heathy range, close to the shore,
Which long-tongued billows fill with hollow sound,
And frequent showers, as if they loved it, fall,
When oft the winds pass over it in haste ;

Yet there the sunbeams bask in summer tide,

And autumn, with sweet odour floats therein.
While winter braces but ne'er chills the blood
So much the sea air mellows his hard breath
Till spring, as beautiful as angel's smile,
Revives and visits its calm solitude.

Once in this place a labourer lived for long-

In a small cottage, thick with heather thatched,
From youth to age, a poor but honest man.
Few were the comforts by his home supplied
Its roof was low, was beaten clay,
its floor
Its window was rude
small, its furniture
A bed, a dresser and a few plain stools,
A chest, a table, and some bowls and pans
Things all for use and strict necessity
No ornament I trow, nor luxury had he.
These all the plenishing his house contained,
Here had he lived, and here he thought to die
Round it he toiled throughout the circling year,

* See note IV.

236 ORIGINAL POEMS.

From iiioni to evening since his earliest youth,

Facing the task allotted him by heaven.
How unpretending was his life and poor,
And yet 't was full of something noble too,
Though passed so humbly on that lonely moor,
And I'm persuaded Angels may have caught
Themes for their praises from this cottar's acts !

The man was honest from the very first.

Although in youth he gave but little heed
To truth's great sanction and its source divine.
Perhaps he thought himself too low and mean.
And far too ignorant to turn his thoughts
Unto the cure and governance of souls;
Though in him too the eternal image lay
In lustrous fragments, as in all mankind.
But these he may have thought false, foolish toys,
Misleading men from self's more useful ways
Thus spurning good with carnal sense away
Thus hugging foolishness and seeming wise.
Howe'er that be, his oaths were many then.
And wild his talk, and unrestrained his wit,
And very seldom to the church went he,
Till, how it came I know not, at the last
A little seed was wafted to his mind
A casual seed that filled his soul with fear;
Then woke he up as from a flatteiing dream,
And he looked onward, and around, and back
With eyes from which some misty scales had fallen,
—
And nothing saw but Power Almighty Power
Moved by a Spirit he partook not in.
Ah then he felt an awful shading gloom ;
!

For his past life rose like a wall of fire.

And hedged him close in his own feeble being,
With sin and terror for his visitors.
In that worst solitude man ever feels
The experienced need of sympathy divine.
 THE PIOUS LABOURER. 237

Before that Mercy hath unveiled her face,

And nought but sin seems living in the soul,
He saw the course of Providence roll on,
And knew that he had always wrought against it,

And so had always God's good gifts profaned,

And God's invincible decree opposed.
Ah then he learnt how man is God's own
! image
How even creative power is reflected
By that most subtle force which never resteth,
But still debases or exalts the life
Imagination, owned by all mankind,
Rai-e artist framing worlds within the world,
And much too often passing its own worlds
On every sort of man, for God's firm structure
Which foundations hath, far deeper than we know.
Imagination had deceived this cottar,
Working so humbly on the Highland moors :

He had created for himself a life,

And formed it falsely as in God's despite.
As this great truth flashed on the agony
In which he wrestled till the morning light.
There sunk a woe upon the poor man's mind.
And his heart withered like a rootless herb,
Till allhe saw was coloured with his dread,
And beauty covered up with melancholy.
Without a hope, without a star he lived.
Until the Sun of Righteousness arose.
And o'er the gloom shed saving, guiding light.
Then, full of gratitude within his heart,
The poor man kept the word that raised from sin,
"Fear not, O ye of little faith but love,"
!

And this he treasured till it halloAved him ;

For at its sound and through its glorious power
His life grew green as at the sound of rain
Then calm, and grave, and solemn, and serene,
And full of charity and gracious worth,
The brighter bloomed with each returning day.
238 ORIGINAL POEMS.

In gentle happiness this rustic lived,

Thankful his Master was so good to him.
Oh what tranquility and tender joy-
!

Now thrilled his spirits as he trod the fields,

Where every change, each evidence of power,
Gave him fresh proof of never failing love.
What high and deep, and sacred truth he knew,
This simple peasant in these lonely fields !

How would he turn the soil which God had given

To feed his creatures in such wondrous ways !

How would he watch the waving harvest fields

The yearly miracle on which we feed,
And touch with reverence, and hope, and love,
That offered staff of life held forth by God,
On which all creatures lean for their support
There was a true abiding dignity in this
A good thus lived for, and a good thus done
A noble sjDÌrit in a lowly sphere
Was his, who lived as seeing the unseen.
There is such grandeur in a good man's life,
How poor soe'er the form that covers it.
Let but the heart be humble and sincere,
How poor soe'er the garb that covers him,
Although in homely weed he tread the earth.
And till the ground, or tend the flocks and herds
Although he issue every morning forth
From a frail hut, and leave a humble couch
Although his occupation be not one
That lifts the fancy, or that sways the thought
Not one that calls for energy and power.
For knowledge, training, or for mighty care.
There is a grandeur in his life I ween
Ahigh nobility, a rank divine ;

Though on an earthen floor he kneels, in peace,

To say with reverent devotion's power,
"Our Father" to the God that made the heavens-
 CAPTAIX GORRIE's RIDE. 239

*'Our Father," to the God that rules the earth

"Thy Servant" say unto the Man Divine,
The holy, harmless, undefiled with sin
There is in verity a grandeur here.
He who perceives the mercy and the grace
That sought and suffered, and that died for men,
Stand like an angel ever at his side
To quell his waywardness, his wrath, his vice
To check the thought that might defile the heart
To stay the word that might inflict a pain,
And guide a cheerful and abiding hope.
Thus feeling well is taught to work with God,
And thus there's grandeur in a good man's life
The humblest livlihood debases not
No, nor our very sternest doom eflface
Earth cannot smother it, nor Death himself
—
That dread, dark shadow chain in its gloom I

CAPTAIN GORRIE'S RIDE.*

Still is the night —the mist is wild.
The hour is waxing late,
The road is grey, the moor is black
And dim and desolate.

The wind it moves, its touch is soft,

and low
Its breath is faint
Tha damp of the wide waste hath flagged
Its heavy wing and slow.
 ì
240 ORIGINAL POEMS.

The moon is near its setting wheeled.

And the southwest is bright
Where half obscured, its site is marked
By a dim blotch of light.

All else dark above, below,

is
And dead
silent as the
All, save the hoarse end swollen brook
That frets its moory bed.

Another sullen stifled sound.

Is the deep note and grand
That lulls in every hour of calm,
An ocean-girded land.

Ten miles the road doth stretch along

Before a house you reach ;

Three miles through moor and sandhills,

And seven along the beach.

Where, ever as you wander on,

The sea- waves rolling blue,
The yellow sand, the bent so brown,
And streamlets passing through.

Rocks, hills, and silent distant moors,

Are all that you may see
But in the night 'tis lonelier far,
And wild as well may be.

Why then so late and carelessly,

On trampling steed and strong,
Eides Captain Gorrie all alone,
This lonely road along]

What boon and joyous company.

What bien and bright fireside.
 CAPTAIX GOKRIE's RIDE. 241

Have sent him from their jovial cheer,

To take this cheerless ride ]

'Twere better sure for horse and man,

To hold till morrow morn,
The steaming jug, the merry talk.
The stable and the corn.

—
But the Captain it was harvest then
The Captain thought not so ;

And though the night was dim and dark,

The Captain he would go.

And ever as he onward rode.

He hummed a manly strain ;

In tent and field, he used to sing.

In Asia and in Spain.

The road is long, —the Captain stern

And sterner sings the while ;

song of Fionn Mac

'Tis a Cu'aill,
The hero of the Gael.

And ever as he sings, he hears

The massy tread below.
Of the steed that bore him safely
Up the promontory's Ijrow.

When the narrow rocky footway

To the old fort that fed,
Rung loud with sound unwonted
Beneath his iron tread.

And the captain he looks round and hums

More daringly and cl-ai%
242 ORIGINAL POEMS.

His ancient song whene'er bis steed

Starts at the touch of fear.

Thus far they tell the road is lost

In the loose shifted sand.
And nearer they approach and near
The loud and roaring strand.

What ails thy steed now, Captain, teF.

What ail thy steed ond thee
What makes him stai t and snort so loud
At scenting of the sea Ì

What feeling makes him toss so high

His head, and step so light,
And seem for nervous start prepared,
And haste and headlong flight Ì

A strong hand holds the bridle rein.

The horse turns to the left,
And all along the line of ^Yaves
Trips warily and deff.

His rider looks a moment round,

Where o'er the wide blue sea.
Before the moon that bursts its shroud
The misty shadows flee.

The gelding grey starts once again,

The Captain glances back
My God what stalw;irt horseman
! rides
Upon that giant black !

Dies in a cough the Captain's song,

He spurs the gallant grey,
 THE HAUNTED WATER OF DUBH-THALAMH. 243

By slow degrees he faster flees

Along the salt sea spray.

But ever as he glances round,

The jet black steed is by ;

Though ne'er a breath the Captain hears,

Nor horse-hoofs beating nigh.

The motion fires the Captain's soul,

He thinks of that awful place,
Where deep and rayless darkness hold
The fallen angel race.

He thinks of him all suddenly,

In his own pathway found,
So black and grim, who rides so trim,
Without a word or sound.

And the Captain feels his heart oppressed.

And a strange terror rise.
And with a battle shout away,
Winged like the wind he flies.

But still his wild companion comes,

So dark, so dismal dread.

And louder shouts the Captain,
And faster flies his steed.

Over the hills and rivulets,

Over the holts and ha^s,
O'er dyke, and rock, and beaten road,
His wild course never flags

Till at his stable door, in haste,

In heat, and disarray.
 244 ORIGINAL POEMS.

His servants find the Captain bold,

At breaking of the day.

The Captain he was weary,

But the Captain he was well,
The gallant grey was weary too,
For he stumbled and he fell.

And and lifeless lay

rolled away,
With a gasj) npon his side.
No more his master backs the grey.
In rough and rapid ride.

As the Captain looks in pity,

The salt tear fills his eye.
He thinks of that dread horseman.
Through all the night so nigh.

And swears to raise a monument.

And dig a noble grave,
For the horse that beat Beelzebub
Beside the salt sea wave.

THE HAUNTED WATER OF DUBH-THALAMH.*

In the Highlands, although the people are sufficiently
superstitious, and tell many tales, with witches, ghosts,
fairies, and water-kelpies, and many kinds of sui^ernatural
beings in them, they never introduce such creatures into
their poetry; and hardly even allude, through this
channel, to any of the wild and strange beliefs so

*See Note VI.

 THE H\UXTED WATER OF DUBH-TIIALAMH. 245

prevalent among them. I don't know whether this

proceeds from a fear of offending the supernatural beings
— with regard to whose existence there is indeed very
little scepticism —or whether it proceeds from a notion of
their unfitness for the purposes of poetry. But the fact
is as I have stated. The ballad which is now given, is
therefore, not to be regarded as, in its present form, a
popular Highland song. The story on which it is found-
ed is certainly popular enough in one district of the
Highlands at any rate but I am not aware that the
;

legend is known in other parts of the country. The

poem differs little from it in its incidents, though it aims
at giving something of a moral tone to the legend, by
i)ringing it as near as possible —
in the midst of solitude,
—
uncertainty, and danger to a remorseful reflection,
through means of a troubled dream, of a thoughtless and
perhaps evil life. The story
I have often heard. Once,
especially, I recollect hearingit, on a stormy spring day,

in a little barn, wdiere three men were working not far

from a roadside, and within three or four hundred yards
where the incident was said to have happened.
of the place
After a few remarks, in a rustic Highland fashion, on
the things of hea^'en and earth that are undreamed of by
philosophy, this tale, in corroboration of something or
other that occurred in the course of conversation, was
told in a grave and earnest manner by one of the
workers, and listened to most respectfully by the others.
The narrator used, in a fine Celtic dialect, almost the
equivalent of the following :

Heavy and slow came the waves of the night,

AVith a threat'ning lurch and a reel.
Ere they break with a shock on the spray- spatter'd rock,
Like blows on a warrior's steel.

And a dreary moan from the mountains comes down

When the roar of the surge is laid
246 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Then a rush whirls round, and a terrible sound

By the wind and the water is made.

And, hark ! how they breathe, like a thing that has life !

Oh, list what the wild waves say !

" Why alone, all alone, is this mariner thrown,

Like a waif, by the tempest away ?"

He sits in the stern of his boat, and he hears

The wan waves that beat, and the wild winds that fleet.
And the tempest that scatters the spray like tears,
Where it treads with its merciless feet.

He sits and he groans, as the keel grates the beach

With a harsh and a rasping sound
A.nd he tries to sleep till the morning steep
In its light the stranger ground.

He tries to sleep, but soon starts and awakes

For a sound is in the air.
That is not the sound of the wind or the wave.
And it raises his fell of hair.

It is not the tread of a man that he hears,

Nor the sound of a human tongue
He folds his arms on his breast, and peers
The dim-dark shore along.

Now on the and now on the right,

left,
And now comes beforeit ;

Sweet mercy there's some vague dark thing

!

Upon the stormy shore.

Oh, horror there's a dull, deep sound.

!

Like breath from a tighten'd throat

 THE HAUNTED WATER OF DUBH-THALAMH. 247

Now on the land, and now on the sea,

And now on the rocking boat.

And there's a form, a clouded form,

In a shroud of misty light,
That darker makes the tempest wild
Moi-e terrible that niglit.

It rests on the gunwale and looks in his face,

And glares so fierce and fell
it
\Yhile it breathes through its throat, with that dismal note,
'Twixt a groan and an angry yell

A note of pain and agony ;

A note to hear with dread

A wrathful note —
a struggling cry,
By fear and fierceness fed

Then at him
it eagerly reach'd at last.
And growl'd like a beast o'er it's prey
it
Till he started back with a shuddering haste,
And the vision pass'd away.

Tenfold more wild the night became

Tenfold more black the sky,
With fearful leap the billows sweep.
And the winds breathe a sorrowing sigh.

'Tis not the moaning element,

not the wild, wild w^ind,
'Tis
'Tis not the black, black trouble, pent
In the sky, which moves his mind.

'Tis the vision'd form that comes once more

To press, like a weight on his soul
248 ORIGINAL POEMS.

'Tis the darkening again on the lonely shore

Of yon dim and dismal dole.

'Tis the sense that he's not alone alone—

With the waste and the howling storm ;

'Tis the sense of the ill that rises still,

With its dark and vapoury form.

That's the wind that cries, that's the billow that roars :

But 'tis neither that groans so near ''/' '}

:

'Tis the shadowy form of the night and the storm

Come to torture his listening ear.

And downw^ard it glides, as black in the night

As the deep thunder cloud in the day
And it stands by his boat, with its gibbering note,
While he strives in his fear to pray.

Then he crouches down in the ebon gloom.

For his sins have choked his prayer
And above it hangs like a sorrowful doom,
Like a poisonous mist in the air.

Forward and downward, and forward it bends.

And it casts its embrace around,
And shuts him out from the tempest about.
Till its roar seems a distant sound

Away, away, his soul is drawn.

And the darkness is more dread.
Though the storm seems hush'd as tlie shelter'd lawn.
Where the hare and the fawn are fed.

Away, away, till he faints — he faints,

And breathes one stifled sigh,
As he calls on God to save his soul
In his parting agon}''
 THE HAUNTED AVATER OF DUBH-THALAMH. 249

Then high and fast away it pass'd,

And lurid light it grew ;

Oh deep was the glow on the wave

! that it cast,

And red was its fiery hue.

As it sunk with a roar far away from the shore,

With a roar and a wailing cry!
It sunk,and he saw it again no more
In the place where his comrades lie I

The scene of this ballad I remember distinctly, and

used to be quite familiar with as a boy. At
that time, it
seemed to me to possess a sort of peculiar awfulness,
especially in the dusk of evening, or in the vague gloam-
ing and deep stillness of a summer night. Then not a
sound disturbed the air ; not a motion was seen or felt
along the earth. A beautiful Highland loch slept on the
smooth stones of the sea-beach, like an enchanted princess
waiting for the salute that was to restore her to conscious-
ness and life; and, dim as the far ofFclouds, and silent as
their own shadows, the dark brown hills looked over
fields and crofts and gloomy moors, down to the little
pebbly hollow through which, almost without a murmur,
crept a tiny brooklet —the supposed hiding-place of the
malignant genius that took the form of an old woman.
There was a fascination about the place. I used to feel
a thrill run through me as I drew near it in the darkness
nor am I much surprised at the Highland peasant who
told me how he was disturbed and profoundly aflected
there one summer midnight, by what he supposed to be
the wild cries of mournful and despairing spirits. In
the impressive silence he had heard the soft wailings of
the sea-birds on the rocks close by him and, in the
;

excited state of his imagination at the moment, he had

made the very natural mistake, for him at least, which
he mentioned.
250 ORIGIXAL POEMS.

KNOWEST THOU THE LAND?

Kxow'sT thou the land where the herd, houseless, strayed,
When summer's night was but one gloaming shade —
Where still the billows roll in sunny gold,
And thousand moors their thousand waters hold
Know'st thou that land 1 The hardy Islesman's home.
Whence oft, alas an exile he must roam.
!

Know'st thou its scenes, where autumn's threat'ning

shower
Now stirs scant wish to snatch the mellow hour?
Since ruins mark where houses stood of yore.
And silence yawns around the good man's door
Know'st thou its scenes] What simple joys they've
seen,
Round them what worth, what innocence have been !

Know'st thou its hills, where wandering mists repose.

And bleach the rocks o'er which the heather grows ;

Whose warmest couoh the grouse and blackcock share

Those chartered denizens of earth and air
Kno^^''st thou its hills whence the eye glances free
Over the measureless and western sea?

Know'st thou its lochs on which, when sunset's o'er,

The boat glides softly to the fragrant shore
While cattle bellow and the house-dogs bay,
And hamlet noises pass with light away
Know'st thou its lochs? On them night's sky-born beam
Welcome in peace the poorest taper's gleam.
 THE islander's GUIDING STAR. 251

THE ISLANDER'S GUIDING STAR.

The [followingverses were suggested by reading the

beautifuland well-known lines, on the same subject,
composed in Gaelic by Dr. John Macleod of Morven :
—
—
Black was the night the waves were black,
And black the gloom of heaven
Loud blew the storm, and fast the rack
By the swift winds was driven.

'Twas then a veil canie o'er the Isle

Of green and level lea,
Which lies full many a heaving mile
Out in the western sea :

A veil that round itsevery bay

With deepening darkness sped
And spread where lone and far away,
One boat the tempest fled.

Her rowers' strength was well nigh spent.

Not yet their port they knew
For not a star its lustre lent
Unto the toiling crew.

And not a headland they descried,

Nor rock, nor guiding light
While round them sank the darkness wide
Of black and rayless night.

Out then, and spake a mariner

A hardy man was he,
252 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Who'd faced, full many a wintry year,

The storms ujDon the sea :

"My trust is yet in Him who sent

About my mates and me,
This strong and fearful element
This gloom in which we be."

"My trust is yet in Him," he said,

" Who knows to guide our way
We have not from His mercies strayed,
Though on these waters grey."

Just then from out the darkness broke

A fair and starlike gleam ;
The word of hope was scarcely spoke
Ere rose its brightening beam.

And straight the rowers' strength returned

The rowers' hearts were cheered
Strong with Hope's flame again they burned,
Whene'er yon star a])peared.

For well their pilot knew who raised

Its far-flung beacon light
He knew near whose warm home it blazed,
To cheer the howling night.

He knew whose care had placed it there,

Amid the tempest wild,
The whilst she breathed her simple prayer
His poor and lonely child.

Twas she who guarded well that flame

From the fierce wind and spray,
 DEAR I SLAY. 253

Alone, until her father came

And kissed her tears away.

Thus, on the waters wild, I ween,

On which life's hark is driven,
The Book of God has ever been
The beacon-lic^ht of heaven.

DEAR ISLAY!*
O Islay sweet Islay
! !

Thou green, grassy Islay !

Why, why art thou lying

So far o'er the sea 1

O Islay dear Islay

! !

Thy daylight is dying,

And here am I longing,
And longing for thee !

O Islay ! fair Islay !

Thou dear mother Islay

Where my spirit, awaking,
First look'd on the day.
O Islay dear Islay
!

That link of God's making

Must last, till I wing me
Away, and away !

* See Note VII.

254 ORIGINAL POEMS.

Dear Islay, good Is! ay !

Thou holy-soil'd Islay !

My fathers are sleeping

Beneath thy green sod.
O Islay kind Islay
! !

Well, well be thou keeping

That dear dust awaiting
The great day of God.

Old Islay God bless thee,

!

Thou good mother, Islay !

Bless thy wide ocean !

And bless thy sweet lea!

And Islay, dear Islay !

My heart's best emotion.

For ever and ever
Shall centre in thee !

The following extract, from Mr. Campbell's "West

Highland Tales," may be read with some interest in
connection with the above :
—
"No Highlander, if his
frienc^s can help it, is buried anywhere but at home.
Coffins may be seen on board the steamers, conveying to
the outer islands the bodies of those who have died on
the mainland. It is a poetic wish to be buried amongst
friends, and one that is in full force to this day. The
curse of Scotland may occasionally intrude even on such
solemn occasions but a funeral is almost always decor-
;

ously conducted. In some places, as I am told, a piper

may still be seen at the head of the funeral procession,
plaving a dirge. There :s no want of reverence but ;

death is treated as an ordinary event. I have seen a

man's tombstone, with a blank for the date, standing at
the end of his house while he was quite well. "-r—Vol. i
p. 2.35.
 HOLLOW FRIENDSHIP. 255

HOLLOW FRIENDSHIP.
The stream that's swollen by the ice,
And the loose and melted snow,
Doth, with a swift and sounding pace,
Down from the mountain go.

The cold of winter in its breast,

Fast sweeps its turbid flow,
O'er stone and rock with shout and shriek.
Like a hero through the foe.

I've seen that stream when summer's lip.

And parched and burning throat,
Sucked in its loud and liquid strength.
Soon lose that vaunting note,

And melt away and shrink before

The sultry, scorching air,
Tillnot one w^hispering h'ound was left
To cheer its channel bare.

And I have said, "Lo! there's the man

Who our spring-time meet
cloth
With words that are extremely good,
And very brave and sweet.

"Till the exhausting summer air

Creates some need of him
And then, alas ! his promise good
Grows very small and slim.

" Till, in the highest noon of need.

Its very ooze is gone
256 •
ORIGINAL POEMS.

All self -absorbed, and swallowed up,

With its loud roariufj done!

"Methinks, beside such empty bed,

Filled full in other days,
With many a kindly-sounding word,
And many a noble phrase.

"I see some much relying friend

Look down with pitying eyes,
Where manly friendship once bragged loud,
And gallant sympathies;

" But where there'snow revealed a heart,

Hard as a stone and dry.
With greedy sands that still refuse
A drop for passer-by.

"A scornful thought will be that friend's

A cutting word, I ween;
Yet, were I he, I would not change
What's now for what hath been."

LITTLE EMMELINE.

How playfully the torrent goes

How merrily it sings !

From out the distant hills it flows,

Afar the snow}' foam it flings
 LITTLE EMMELIXE, 257

Its eddies whirl, its wavelets sweep

Away unto the distant deep.
How like our little Emmeline,
Our dainty little Emmeline
Our charm in o- little girl

Amid the hills she too was born,

And merrily she sings !

She^ joyous as the flashing Sorn,

And like its chimes her laughter rings.
With many a whirl and many a leap,
She flutters round the moaning deep.
Our playful little Emmeline,
Our sweet, our dainty Emmeline
Our charming little girl.

The sun from out the storm looks forth,

The torrent foams away :

We've sought her east, we've sought her west-

We've sought her all the live-long day.
—
Within the wood along the shore
The trees they rock, the surges roar
—
But no no little Emmeline
Our dainty little Emmeline
We cannot And the child.

The eddies whirl, the wavelets sweep.

The torrent rushes wild ;

The wave is dark, the stream is deep ;

And where then is our child Ì

Oh God, her curls

! float o'er the pool.
Like flowers of Eden, beautiful
She's drowned our little Emmeline,
!

Our dainty little Emmeline,

Our heaven, taken child!
258 ORIGINAL POEMS.

OPPRESSORS AND THE OPPRESSED.

ECCLESIASTES, IT, 1—3.

And then I turned to the oppressed,

And lo ! the tears they shed
The silentand the bitter tears,
And the hard life they led.

Now they were scourged by bitter tongues,

Now scorned by haughty eyes,
And shut by cold and ruffian hearts
From fostering sympathies.

And as I looked I marvelled much

wondered much to see,
I
That men of grace, so needful all,
So graceless all should be.

I marvelled, when some shameless man.

Of low and selfish ways,
1 saw advanced to places high.
And overwhelmed with praise.
I marvelled at them all, to think
—
That these and such as these
Should have this great and glorious world
To do with as they please.

And then I said, "Between them both,

Hypocrisy and gold,
Sway this great world in every way
They sway the young and old.

"They sway the high, they sway the low

The learned and the lay
They sway the high imposingly.
The mean, in meaner way."
 OLD MEMORIES. 259

Yea, and I thought the dead were well,

Or they who ne'er were born ;
Since they had passed away, or ne'er
This fleshly robe had worn.

To see the meek man trodden down,

And the deserving lost
In the huge crowd of hypocrites,
Who the right pathway cross'd.

To seegood truths forgotten quite.

And errors multiform
In human hearts, in human words.
In human homage swarm.

To hear them in the pulpit speak,

To see them wield the pen.
And point the glance, and rule the tongue,
And darken light in men.
Making them dex'trous to o'erlook
The glorious mint of heaven,
And quick to join the loud applause
To counterfeits is given.

I marvelled if there ever will.

Or ever can arise,
Some simple, blissful truths to reign
Beneath our bent blue skies.

OLD MEMORIES.
How they o'erflow my memory.
The sweeping gusts, the waning light,
On a bare moorland by the sea,
Grey with the drift of the autumn night
260 ORIGINAL POEMS.

All lonely, but replete with thought,

And linked to things long passed away
By my rapt fancy thither brought
From storied page or rousing lay.
This, thisis that same solitude
Wherestooped the hern her solemn wing
To stand, like some old ghost, and brood,
By moory loch and oozy spring.
There wailed the plover's plaintive cry
There wild ducks bent the heather dun,
That fringed those lines of melody
Where secret streams still sing and run.

This, this is that same solitude

Through which the soft sea-breathings sighed.
Like a sad soul in search of good
From which, perforce, it wandered wide.
And still the billows' far heard moan
Hangs an asvful doom.
o'er it like
Spoke in some antique Titan tone,
Long sl^rouded in primeval gloom !

The hills there silent stand for aye

The clouds yet wander solemnly,
Through evening's weird and deep'ning grey,
Or dreamlike on its bosom lie.
Oh ! this is the old place T loved,
When haunted by the gloaming mild.
And by the spirit-wind that moved.
Almost to life, yon desert wild.

Then how I peopled the dim scene

With things in climes remote and near.
And other ages that have been
Things that yet float like shadows here !
 FAREWELL OF THE EMIGRANT. 2G1

For now the fancies and the place

Live both together in my mind
No spoils which time can e'er efface,
Because by love and thought combined.

FAREWELL OF THE EMIGRANT.

Farewell to the land where my childhood was pass'd,
And to the sweet scene these dim clouds o'ercast
Farewell to its hills, and its dark rocky cave.
Whose shelter is music when loud tempests rave.
Thou green valley, sad parting to thee,
fair
Oh ! loud ocean, with wailing for me
fill it,

And, svinds, the bare copses that moaningly greet.

Sad tone, ye wild singers, I ne'er shall forget.

For, fast sweeping breezes, and thou rushing stream.

At this moment of parting, like old friends ye seem,
As now for the last time the sound's in my ear
That mov'd my young soul to a rapture so dear.
—
Stoop down then, grey heaven stoop down in thy gloom;
—
And haste, coming tempest haste over the tomb,
Where slumber my fathers and kinsmen, and sigh
As if mourning with me o'er the place where they lie.
Oh land that my memory fills with delight.
!

On whose soil strode those fathers before me in might,

As I dream'd in my youth on thy green swelling breast
That wraps their cold dust in its mantle of rest.

Farewell now to all that embraces thy shore,

Dear land of my race that I ne'er shall see more;
Lands richer there may be before me than thine,
But no other country can ever be mine.
262 TRANSLATIONS.

HASTE FROM THE WINDOW.

The words of this song are intended by the singer to
convey a warning to her lover, one of the outlawed
MacGregors, to flee from his enemies.

Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love,

Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love.
Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love,
Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love.
The pilotless ship is unmoored by the tide,
The breakers triumphant career o'er her side;
Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love,
Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love.

Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love,

Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love,
Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love.
Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love.
Go quickly, but softly, for danger is near.
Oh woe, if a trace of thy footsteps appear;

Down, down by the grey copse, hide deep in its shade,

Lie hushed in the dell which the torrent has made.

Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love,

Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love,
Haste, haste from the window, oh stay not, my love.
Fly swift as the breeze and delay not, my love.
The mist of the mountain shall wrap thee around,
Thy tread shall be lost in the cataract's sound.
Around thy light vessel the vexed waves chafe.
One bound o'er the wave and my lover is safe.
 BI FALBH o'n UINNEIG. 263

BI FALBH O'N UINNEIG.

Bi falbli o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir ghaoil

'Sna tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh,
Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil
'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh,
Tha do long air an t-sàile 's i gun seoladair aice,
Tha do long air an t-sàile 's i gun seoladair aice,
Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil
'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh.

Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil

'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh f hir-ghràidh, f hir-ghràidh,
Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil
'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh,
Cuir umad do bhrògan tha'n toir a tigh'n cas ort
Cuir umad do bhrogan tha'n toir a tigh'n cas ort
Gur mise bhios bròiiach ma ni 'n toir so cuir as duit
Na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh.

Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil

'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh,
Bi falbh o'n uinneig, fhir-ghaoil, fhir-ghaoil
'S na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhir-ghràidh,
'Nuair a mi measg sloighe fear do bhoidhche cha'n
theid
mi
fhaic
Tha faltan donn dualach air mo luaidh do na gaisgich
Gur mise bhios brònach ma ni 'n toir so cuir as duit
Na tig an nochd tuilleadh fhir-ghràidh, fhirghràidh.
264 TRANSLATIONS.

THE PEMSE OF ISLAY.

Chorus : — Oh ! my Island, oh, my Isle !

Oh! my dear, my native soil,

Again the rising sun can smile
With golden beams on Landy.

I see afar yon hill, Ardmore,

The beating billows wash its shore,
But ah! its beauties bloom no more,
For me no more in Islay.
Oh my ! Island, &c.

But birchen branches there are gay,

And hawthorns wave their silvered spray;
And every bough the breezes sway
Awakens joy in Islay.
Oh! my Island, <kc.

There eagles rise on soaring wing.

And herons watch the gushing spring;
And heath-cocks with their whirring bring
Their own delight to Islay.
Oh! my Island, tl'c.

Its mavis sings on hazy bough,

Its linnet haunts the glen below,
And O, may long their wild notes flow
With melodies in Islay.
Oh! my Island, &c.

The black-cock too, so glossy brave

The ducks that cleave the moory wave
 MOLADH NA LANDAIDH. 265

MOLADH NA LANDAIDH.
Seisd : — Ho ro Eileinich ho gii,

Ho i ritliil ho i thii,

Ho ro Eileinich ho gù,
Gu bheil mo rim 's an Lanclaidh.

Chi mi thall ud an Aird-mhor,

Aite 'choilich dhuibh 's a'gheoidh;
Aite mo chridhe 's mo ghaoil,
Far 'n robh mi aotrom, ainmeil.
Ho ro, &c.

'S 'n Landaidh creagach, ciar,

ged tha
'S mocha dh' eireas oirre 'ghrian;
Innis nam ba laoigh 's nam fiadh,
'S gu 'm b'e mo mhiann bi thall ann.
HÒ ro, &c.

'N uair a dh' eirinn moch 's an àird

Bheirinn sgriob do cheann an t-sail'
Bhiodh na lachain air an t-snàmh,
'S cha b' fhad am bàs o m' laimh-sa.
Ho ro, tfec,

mi air a' bhruaich

'S trie a leag
Earba ghlas a' mhiiineil riiaidh
Bhiodh an liath-chearc leam a niias,
A's coileach ruadh an dranndainn.
Ho ro, &c,

'S trie a leag mi air a thaobh

An ròn bàllach anns a' Chaol,
266 TRANSLATIONS.

The line of grey geese, long and grave,

I've seen them all in Islay.
Oh! my Island, &c.

I've heard the calf thedun cow greet.

The sportive lambkin loudly bleat
The gentle doe trip fast and fleet
From shade to shade in Islay.
Oh my
! Island, &c.

Though Islay's shore is rocky, drear,

Early doth the sun appear
On leafy brake and fallow deer,
And flocks and herds in Islay.

Oh, myIsland! oh my Isle!

Oh, my my native soil
dear,
From thee no scene my heart can wile
That's wed with love to Islay.

i
 MOLADH NA LANDAIDII. 267

Eala bhàn a mhuineil chaoil,

A's coileach fraoich nam beanntan.
Ho ro, &c.

a shuidheamaid niu' n bhòrd

'S 'n uair
Cha 'm buideal beag ar leòir,
b' e
Ach tosgaid do 'n fhion dhearg ar coir
A' tighinn a stòr iia Frainge,
HÒ ro, itc,

O mo
! ghaol air He an fheòir,
Far an d' fhuair mi m' àracli og
Far am bheil na h-uaislean coir,
Bu toil leo ceòl a's dannsadh.

HÒ ro Eileinich ho gu,
Ho i rithil ho i thù,
Ho ro Eileinich ho gh^
Gu bheil mo run 's an Landaidh.

^,, A^
 NOTES ON THE POEMS
BY THE

REY. JOHN G. MACNEILL.

The subjoined hints may prove helpful to some readers in

explaining; a few of the local references interwoven with the
texture of the Original Poems.

—A
I. —
Fair Day. The Fair Day is Lammas Market
held annually in Bowmore. Thitherward wend their
way the rural belle, and the rustic beau. It was a
benign providence that this lovely town was not a place
of public resort for lads and lasses in the palmy days of
good Mr. Hugh MacKay of Laggan. For then where
stood the Ancient Pump, in his orthodox blue coat,
presiding over the copious libations of his freestone
trough, was a shaky piece of bogland covered with rank
flags. The loving arms of Laggan farm then embraced
the warm hearth-stones of the Bowmore cottages, which
were few and far between. Hugh's son, the gallant
Major Makay, Laggan, was the last representative of
Donald Balloch's lieutenant, Brian Yicar Mackay who
in 1408 received a Gaelic Charter to lands in Islay from
his Noble Chief. Bowmore was projected by the fifth
Daniel Campbell, of Islay, who died in 1777, and at
whose expense also the ring-like church at the head of the
Main Street was built. The Rev. John Murdoch was
appointed pastor of the combined parishes of Kilarrow
and Kilmeny in 1769. He was the first minister who
preached in this circular church. But for leaving
 NOTES ON THE POEMS. 269

Kilarrow, the old place of worship, and for beginning

religious services in thenew edifice, the good Cleric gave
such offence to a few unprogressive parishioners that he
had for some time to hide himself in the district of
BriUhach an Dhhhraich until this ebullition of wrath
had subsided. To continue the services in the new
church was much easier than to remove the Fair from
Bridgend to Bowmore, This latter struggle, which
extended over a period of some years, was almost as
famous as the siege of Troy. But what "Old Shawfield"
could not do by persuasion, Mr. Patrick Campbell of
Balinaby did by stratagem. He employed a number of
pipers, who, with banners flying and pibrochs sounding,
marched off at the head of the Rhinns and the Harris
men, and brought them to Bowmore where Balinaby had
a big banquet provided for this peaceful muster of the
Clans. This incident verifies the story of Orpheus the
musician of ancient Greece whose melody moved the very
rocks. Henceforth the Fair found a local habitation in
the beautifully situated town of Bowmore.
Carlyle the high-priest of literary portraiture finishes
his pictures of historical personages with inimitable skill
and power. Mr. Pattison's faithful sketch of The Fair
Day shows that he was an ardent admirer of our great
paragraphic biographist. The chief harper of the Fair,
cheerful James Wilson, an Dall Ruadh, '"the minstrel who
rolled his sightless eyes," is portrayed with no inconsider-
able skill. The blind fiddler's wife was Lizzie MacClyde,
a foundling picked up on the banks of the river Clyde.
Their tidy cottage at Cam Aithne, Beacon Light, with its
well-kept garden was a model of cleanliness and thrift.
Wilson was possessed of some wit and humour. A story
is told that at a party in Islay House, the sightless
violinist's playing so pleased every body that "Shawfield's"
generous guests pro})Osed to collect money for each of his
children. The minstrel was asked how many of a family
he had got. His answer was, seven sons, each of whom
270 NOTES ON THE POEMS.

has a sister. A handsome sum of money was gathered

for fourteen children, Wilson's seven sons and their only-
sister.

II.— —
LocHiNDAAL. At the entrance to this loch, there
stand about eight miles apart, like the Pillars of Hercules,
the Point of the Rhinns and the Mull of Oa. Lochindaal
stretches to a distance of twelve miles into the heart of
Islay, and forms a good roadstead for ships in stormy
weather. Mr. Pattison's home was situated in close
proximity to the "pebbly shore of ship sailing Lochindaal."
The reader is at once carried on the wings of bardic
imagination, and placed in the very centre of Bowmore.
The conical church stands, like a guardian angel,
surrounded by its tidily-kept God's Acre where repose
the mortal remains of our beloved forefathers. The
"Nasal Psalm" has been superseded by a more melodious
organ. But the "old man, who spoke of Abraham," is
now with the Father of the Faithful in the Home above.
This alludes to the Rev. James Macintosh, A.M., who
became minister of Kilarrow and Kilmeny in 1797.
III. Sir Lachlan Mor. —This brave knight of Duart
was one of the ablest and the greatest chiefs the plucky
and enterprising MacLeans ever had. One of his great
ancestors, "Lauchlayne Maklan of Dowart," is mentioned
as a witness in an "obligation of the Erie of Ross," that is
Alexander of Islay, Earl of Ross, and Lord of the Isles.
It is dated "at Inuernys the xxiiij day of the moneth of
Octobris the yere of oure lord a thousande four hundyr
thyrty and nyne yeris." This obligation refers to the
Marriage of Marion of Islay, the Earl's sister, to
Alexander Sutherland of Dunbeath. Marion was the
daughter of Donald Balloch of Islay, Earl of Ross, and
Lord of the Isles. Margaret, the daughter of this Marion
of Islay, was married to William Calder, seventh Thane
of Cawdor. This Marion of Islay was the great-grand-
mother of Lady Muriel Calder, the rich heiress of Cawdor,
 NOTES ON THE POEMS. 271

who, in 1510, was married to Sir John Campbell, second

son of Archibald, second Earl of Argyll. By this
opulent marriage Cawdor passed into the hands of the
Campbells. The names of the Knights of Duart and of
the Thanes of Cawdor often appear in old documents
passed under the seal of the MacDonalds of Islay, who
till the forfeiture of "Johannes de Yla comes Rossie et

dominus insularum," John of Islay, Earl of Ross and Lord

of the Isles in 1475, were the Overlords of the counties of
Nairn, Inverness, àc. The first Campbell of Islay was
Sir John Campbell, great-grandson of Lady Muriel and
of the first Sir John Campbell of Cawdor. The Sir James
MacDonald mentioned by Pattison in his note on Lachlan
Mor was the son of Angus MacDonald of Dim Naomhaig,
He was a celebi-ated and able chief whose printed letters
indicate thought and culture. He was long kept a prisoner
in Edinburgh Castle, in order that his enemies might have
time to destroy every vestige of his power in Islay and
in Kintyre. His aged father, Angus, was compelled by
the King and his Council, instigated by the Campbells,
to write a Renunciation of Islay at Edinburgh, January
1, 1612. These illegal proceedings were considered null
and void by his soldierly son Sir James. On May 24,
1615, Sir James MacDonald of Islay escaped from
Edinburgh Castle, and hastening to put himself at the
head of his clan, dashed through AthoU and Rannoch,
crossed to Islay, surprised the Castle of Dim Naomhadg
and subdued the island. He wrested Islay from the
grasp of the Knight of Cawdor, who, with the help of
Sir Oliver Lombard's cannon, coerced Islay to show signs
of obedience. The natives were delighted. They felt
proud of the military prowess of their beloved Chief.
He then sent out the Fiery Cross and arrayed under his
banner his brave followers in his hereditary territory of
Kintyre. But the King, the Council, Argyll and the
Campbells marshalled their forces and speedily crushed
the rising power of the lawful heir, Sir James MacDonald,
272 NOTES ON THE POEMS.

who fled to Ireland, and thence to Spain. His wife was

Margaret Campbell of Cawdor, Sir John's sister. After
Argyll's apostacy and disgrace he, too, had escaped to
Spain. But in the land of their exile, the Chief of the
Campbells and the Chief of the MacDonalds dwelt
together in unity! James MacDonald was restored
Sir
to Royal favour and died at London in 1626. To enter
upon a historical outline of the sanguinary battle of
Ceann Tràigh Glivuineard, fought in 1598, would occupy
too much space,

TV.— The Pious Labourer.— This aged pilgrim who

is now eighty-six years of age is still living in "green and
grassy Islay." For a long number of years he acted as
the honoured and trustworthy grieve of Captain Colin
MacLean, Laggan, Mr. Thomas Pattison's uncle. Like
Eliezer, the steward of Abraham's house, this faithful
man "ruled over that his master had."
all While the
MacLeans increased in material wealth, the Pious
Labourer, heir of a kingdom, although "silver and gold
has he none," daily grew richer in faith. He does not
know that he has been made the subject of one of Mr.
Pattison's Original Poems: An Islay minister, in a
letter addressed to me, dated March 26, 1890, says:
"I saw ten days ago, and I had a talk
,

with him about Mr. Thomas Pattison, as you requested.

says he knew Mr. Pattison well, and that
he had a very high opinion of him. He at the same
time said, that he was the first to teach Mr. Pattison to
read the Scriptures in Gaelic. He also stated that his
young friend frequently passed Bowmore, and went to
Skerrols on the Sabbath day."
]\Ir. Pattison's recollections of the words and works of

his saintly friend are suffused with the glow of genuine

friendship. Let me quote a few lines :

"There isa grandeur in his life I ween

A high nobihty, a rank divine;
 NOTES ON THE POEMS. 273

Though on an earthen floor he kneels in peace,

To say with reverent devotion's power,
"Our Father" to the God that made the heavens
"Our Father" to the God that rules the earth
"Thy Servant," say unto the Man Divine,
The holy, harmless, undefiled with sin
Thei'e is in verity a grandeur here."

I shall never forget one summer evening I heard a

sermon in the Pious Labourer's house beside Loch na
Crannaig. The preacher, on this memorable occasion,
was the venerable and eloquent Rev. Hugh Fraser, M. A.,
of the Free Church of Ardchattan. It was this accom-
plished country minister who wrote the interesting
and instructive accounts of Ardchattan and Muckairn
which appeared in the New Statistical Account of
Argyllshire, published in 1845. Mr. Alexander C
Fraser, D.C.L., LL.D., Professor of Logic and Psychology
in the University of Edinburgh, and the learned Editor
of the works of Berkeley, Bishop of Cloyne, the
expounder of Ideal Philosophy, is the son of the late
minister of Ardchattan. Among those who went with
Mr. Hugh Fraser to the Pious Labourer's humble home,
was Mr. Pattison. In the whole audience there was not a
more attentive hearer than the brown-haired, fair-visaged,
large-eyed, gentle student of the Gaelic Bards. The
sermon was on Blind Bartimeus. With melting tones
the fluent speaker, in well-chosen Gaelic words, drew a
soul-moving picture of the blind beggar rising, casting
away his long outer garment and running, to Jesus.
My occasional reading of Longfellow's touching verses on
Blind Bartimeus vividly recalls this «cene.

Y. Captain Gorrie's Eide. —Captain

Godfrey Mac
Neill, tenant of Kilcalumkil, afarm in the vicinity of
Port-Ellen, and laird of Ardnacross estate in Kintyre,
was the elder brother of Major Ban MacNeill of Balmony,
Bhinns of Islay. Captain Gorrie became proprietor of
Ardnacross through his mother's marriage with Mac
 2/4 NOTES ON THE POEMS.

Donald of Ardnacross, on whom, for his memorable

defence of the pass of Stirling Bridge at the period of the
Battle of Bannockburn, this estate Avas apparently
bestoAved by King Robert Bruce. The gallant Captain
was not only a brave and daring soldier, but was also
deeply imbued with the spirit of adventure and travel.
Leing of a restless disposition and moved by the
fascinating idea of foreign sight-seeing, he borrowed
money from a Colonel Campbell of Campbeltown, in
whose hands, till he should return, he left as security the
estate of Ardnacross. But when he came home from his
eventful tour, he had no money wherewith to repay the
Colonel. However, as soon as the Major Ban in distant
lands heard of his brother's pecuniary embarrassment, he
forthwith refunded Colonel Campbell every penny of the
loan he had given Captain Gorrie. The wily Colonel,
rather suspiciously, kept the repayment of the money a
profound secret until he had heard that the Major was
on his way home. This payment on the part of the
Major was equivalent to buying Ardnacross. It was
through him that it came into the hands of the Ellister
family. It is now owned by the eldest son of the late
Rev. Hector MacNeill, who was successively minister of
Portnahaven, his native parish, of Hope Street Church,
Glasgow, and thereafter of Lochend Free Church,
Campbeltown. Captain Gorrie had a son who was
familiarly known in Islay as Dhbmhnull Ruadh a' Chaiptein.
This son, like his father, was possessed with the military
spirit, entered the army and attained to the rank
of a Colonel. He was knighted by the Portuguese
,
Government. After his retirement from active service
Sir Donald MacNeill resided near Glasgow.
Captain Gorrie was a keen sportsman and a famous
athlete. He was a strongly built man, proud and passion-
ate in manner, martial in demeanour, true and warm-
hearted in friendship. The first time he took a fancy to
the white pony was one day he watched his men trying
 NOTES ON THE POEMS. 275

to catch him on the hill. After that he got him trained

for riding. Captain Gorrie in his day was considered
the best rider in Islay. In his saddle he sat as straight
as a wand, with his cocked hat sideways on his head,
and in his hand a light whip which he gracefully
flourished, but with which he seldom touched his high-
stepping, fleet-footedHighland steed. His rash exploits,
his races swift, I cannot now review. His rough and
rapid ride from Kilcalumkil, four miles above Port-Ellen,
to Carnbeg within a mile of Port-Askaig, a distance of
about twenty-eight miles in an hour, was a riding feat
worthy of "the horse that beat Beelzebub beside the salt
sea wave." ]jike Young Lochinvar "he stayed not for
brake, and he stoj^ped not for stone," but swiftly dashed
on "over bank, bush and scaur." Although "like an
arrow swift he flew, shot by an archer strong," Captain
Gorrie did manage his snorting steed to better purpose
than did luckless Captain John Gilpin the "nimble
steed," the Calender of \Yare, lent him for his holiday
ride on his twentieth wedding day. All this reminds me
of an exciting stoiy told me by good, honest John
MacEwan, Iain Mbr nam madadh, who in his young days
was a successful smuggler on the farm of his father, a
respectable tenant in the Oa district. John had some
whisky on hand, and observing the gaugers prowling
about in the gloaming, he saddled his good brown mare,
and mounting, hung, Gilpin like, a cask of pure Islay on
each side "to make his balance true," and bolted ofl"
towards the Big Strand, through Duich sand-knolls,
along the Iron Bridge, till after crossing Clachan-an-tàch-
air Bridge, he turned oflT the main-road and dashed up the
avenue that leads up to the Lonbàn farm, thereafter
occupied by hospitable Mr. Duncan Blaii^, the father of
my excellent and popular friend the Eev, Eobert Blair,
M. A., Cambuslang. When John thus eluded the vigilant
eyes of the excisemen, hotly pursuing him on horseback,
he feared that the "sparks of fire which the iron heels of
276 XOTES ON THR POEMS.

brown mare struck out of the hard and flinty-

his spirited
highway," might betray his whereabouts on the road.
Honest John's "racing and chasing" was along the same
route as Captain Gorrie's Hide so well poetized by-
Mr. Pattison.
After, at daAvn of day, the grim and dark shadows had
fled away, the Captain who on his fiery white charger
had tried racing conclusions with the "stalwart horseman
that rode upon the giant black," Marcaiche an etch dhuibh
(Gorrie's and his pony's shadow) arrived at his stable
door "in haste, in heat, and disarray," but flushed with
the honours of having beat Beelzebub.

"In the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells." Shakespeare.

As the rose groAvs on the thorn-bush and the sting guards

the honey, the sweetness of the gallant Caj^tain's victory
was mingled with the heart-pang of seeing that his pony
ban stumbled and fell :

"And there lay the steed M-ith his nostril all wide
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf." Byron.

The grieved Captain shrouded his faithful pony in his

martial cloak, and buried him with military honoui'S.
The servants comforted the master, by maintaining that
the dauntless Highland pony had two hearts. Like
Ossian, after the Feinne, Captain Godfrey MacNeill lost
his eyesight, and died at a good old age a man of honour
and renown. His valet in his latter days was Mr.
Alexander Kerr who read and wrote for him. Mr. Kerr
after that removed to Bowmore and doA'eloped into a
farmer, sheritf-oflicer, and auctioneer, and being an ardent
admirer of his soldierly master's kind deeds and brave
acts he used to rehearse them in eloquent words. A
forgotten Islay bard, Neil MacQuilkin, Balvicar, com-
 NOTES ON THE POEMS. 277

posed a vigorous Gaelic song in praise of Captain Gorrie.

I conclude these few remarks on my chivalrous and high-
minded namesake who was a contemporary of my great-
grand-father, and give expression to my impossible wish by
quoting, after changing two words in it, the last stanza of
Cowper's diverting history of John Gilpin:

"Now let us sing, long live the Queen,

And Gorrie, long live he
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see !"

—
VI The Haunted Water of Dubh-thalamh. This —
water is a small burn running into Lochindaal, between
Gartbreac and Ardlarach. This murmuring stream
repeats the story of Tennyson's Brook :

"I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I bubble on the pebbles.
E'or men may come and men may go.
But I go on for ever."

Dubh-thalamh^ Buaile na h-Eaglais, and Bnithach an

Diibhraich lie in the same locality, and in the immediate
vicinity of Fern Cottage once the Islay home of Peter
Thomas Pattison.

VII. —
Dear Islay. This is the best known and the
most popular of all Mr. Pattison's Original Poems. It
is one of the bright gems that sparkle in the royal crown

which her sons and daAighters place upon the head of

Dear Mother Islay, the queen of the Hebrides.

The Pattisons, men and women, were a talented family.

The late Miss Margaret C. Pattison, one of our author's
sisters, was a most accomplished lady, whose musical
278 NOTES ON THE POEMS.

gifts were of a very high order, She prepared 2 vols.,

of music, Gaelic and English Avords, arranged for the
pianoforte, and dedicated to J. F. Campbell, Esquire of
Islay. The work !was published by Messrs. Swan &
Company, 4 Great Marlborough Street, London, W.

Archibald Sinclair, Printer, 62 Aroylk Street, Glasgow.

Preparing for the Press ^ Demy 8vo., Price ys.6d.

ISL^Y MD ISL4YMBN,
Rev. dOHJM G. MACNEILL,
G A ^W DO R.

Such is the proposed title of a work on this Island

and its people, the materials for which are being collect-
ed and aiTanged.
The work will treat of Islay, its history (Secular and
Ecclesiastical), TopogTaphy, Antiquarian remains, Tra-
ditions, Folk-lore, Poetry; Social Statistics, Agriculture,
Industries, &c., &c. Sketches of Islaymen who acquired
destinction in Science, Literature, or Art, will also be
given, the whole forming an exhaustive treatise on one
of the most interesting of our Western Isles.

The work will be illustrated with Portraits, Sketches,

Maps, &c., and every effort will be made to make the
volume worthy of "green grassy Islay," the Queen of
the Hebrides.

Should a sufficient number of Suhscnhers he secured

the work will be published.

Subscribers' names will be received by

ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR,
PRINTER AND PUBLISHER,
62 Argyle Street, GLASGOV/.
 JUST PUBLISHED
AN T-ORANAICHE;
Dedicated to J. F. CAMPBELL, Esq., of Islay.

>««^

THE BEST COLLECTION OF

POPULAR GAELIC SONGS
EVER PUBLI S H E D,
MOST OF WHICH HAVE

NEVER BEFORE APPEARED IN PRINT.

The Collection contains nearly three hundred

of the most popular Gaelic Songs, forming a
handsome volume of 527 Pages, Demy 8vo.,
printed in bold clear type, on thick toned paper,
handsomely bound, full cloth, gilt. Price,
Ten Shillings and Sixpence. Postage and
Registration fee, One Shilling extra.

A limited number of copies, elegantly bound

Half-Morocco, Gilt Edges, (suitable for present-
ation). Price, —Fourteen Shillings and Six-
pence. Postage and Registration fee, One
Shillino' extra.

ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR, 62 Arg'yle St., Glasgow.

 AN T-ORANAICHE.

An t-Oranaiche, (The Gaelic Songster.) Such is the title of the carefully

compiled, and tastefully executed volume now before us. The work con-
tains about three hundred Gaelic songs, many of them now printed for the
first time. There is much genuine pleasure in scanning the beautifully
printed leaves of the Oranaiche, for there is not a page on which we do not
find some chaste ditty or charming love-song which we had thought lost
beyond recall. We find ourselves now lingering over Alairi Bhan Dhail-
an-eas, Duthaich nan craobh, or Gaol an t-seoladair, or pausing to sing a
verse or two of Tha mo run air a* ghille or Jlle dhuinn chaidh thu 'm
dhith. The songs have been most carefully selected and correctly printed,
and the collection is beyond doubt the largest and best ever. published.
The Oranaiche ought to be found in the library of all who love the lang-
uage, poetry, and music of the Highlands.— 06an Times.
The Oranaiche is a good book, and contains between 500 and 600 pages,
beautifully printed on toned paper. There is not, so far as we have seen,
one expression in the work that could give offence to the most delicate.
The value of such a book cannot be over-estimated. The cost is so small,
and the contents and appearance of the work so excellent, that no true-
hearted Gael should be without a co-py.— Highlander.
We have here before us a copy of the Oranaiche, and it gives us much
pleasure to commend it very cordially to the attention of our Gaelic readers.
That the power of song, so characteristic of the Scottish peasantry of the
south, is no less so of the sturdy sons of the north is amply exemplified in
the very tasteful and excellent work before us. The measure of the success
which has crowned ^Mr. Sinclair's labours thus far may be judged by a
simple look at the list of contents. Any work containing so many favourite
lyrics cannot, we think, fail of being very popular among our Celtic friends.
So far as outward ap]iearance goes, the work is neat, correct, and well
printed, thus reflecting most creditably upon Mr. Sinclair's taste and Gaelic
scholarship, and being also a lasting testimony of his patriotism, courage,
and enterprise. It is out of sight the best collection of miscellaneous songs
in existence, and not only so, but even in point of intrinsic excellence it is
worthy to take its place beside the best books of song in any language.
Let Highlanders everywhere possess themselves of the work, and we have
no fear that any of them will consider our praise in the slightest degree
exaggerated. The work consists of 527 pages, exclusive of preface, con-
tents, index, &c., and the price is so low that we are almost tempted to
put cheapness down as the only fault which we could suggest in connection
—
with the Oranaiche. Perthshire Advertiser.
The Oranaiche is one of the best printed Gaelic words we have ever seen,
and consists, with a few exceptions, of songs hitherto unpublished.—
Scotsman.
The book is simply and beyond question the best and most complete, as
it isthe largest, collection of Gaelic popular songs existing. It contains
allor nearly all the songs which have stood the test of popularity. Donald
M'Kinno7i, Edinburgh.
—
My Dear Sir, Allow me to congratulate you on having got the Oranaiche
80 handsomely off your hands. It is the completest and in every way the
best collection of Gaelic poetry that has yet appeared ; and the way in
which you liave managed the matter, in the face of so many difficulties,
does you infinite credit.—" Xether Lochaber."
JUST PUBLISHED— Crown 8vo., 270 p.p., Price 2s.6d.,
Postage to Colonies, 6d. extra.
(Facsimile of Title Page.

THE

CbLTIC G4SL4ND.
TRANSLATIONS
OF

GAELIC AND ENGLISH SONGS,

AND

GAELIC READINGS, &c., &c.

BY FIONN.

SECOND EDITION.

GLASGOW:
ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR, 62 ARGYLE STREET.

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