Chapter V: Introduction (4)

It would appear, from the analogies of the Gaelic language, to be the complete form of the word. “Fionn” means _fair_, being in reality an adjective noun; “Gal” is a common termination of Celtic proper names. Hence, “Fionn Ghal,” or “Fingal,” means the “fair-haired one.“ In like manner, we have “Dubh,“ _black_, “Ghal,” “Dubhghal,” or “Dugald;” “Donn,” brown, “Ghal,” “Donnghal,” _Dungal_, _Donald_, the brown-haired one. Hence, Fionn is a contraction of the name. It is remarkable as an instance of the changes which take place in the use of words, that in modern times “Fionnghal” is the name of a woman, and is usually translated “Flora.“

[42] In the original the word translated here, “household,“ is “tylych,“ or “teaghlach,“ a _family_. The literal translation would be, “the family of Art.” But this would not convey the idea in the original, the Celtic _family_ in such a case as this implying the military followers of the head or chief. It seems probable that these ancient Celtic chiefs, like chiefs in more recent times, had their armed followers in constant attendance on them.

[43] Art was King of Ireland, according to Irish authorities, in the beginning of the third century. Tradition says that he was the father of Grainne, the wife of Finn, whose defection and escape with Diarmad led to the event so famous in ancient Celtic poetry, the death of Diarmad. A poem relating the event will be found in this collection.

[44] “Mac an Loinn,” or “Luno’s son,“ was the famous sword of Fingal, manufactured by Loinn mac Liobhaidh, the celebrated smith, or “Vulcan,“ of the Celts. The sword was so effective that in no case was it ever required to give a second stroke. The Gaelic words are, “Cha d’ fhàg e fuigheall beuma,”--It left no remnant for its stroke. We have heard of a remarkable instance of the effective use of this phrase in the pulpit by a distinguished Highland minister, Mr. Lachlan M’Kenzie of Lochcarron. In illustrating the completeness of the one sacrifice of our Lord, he said, and to a Highland audience it was electrifying, “Chuala sibh mu ’n chlaidheamh bh’ aig Fionn, nach d’ fhàg riamh fuigheall beuma,”--_You have heard of Fingal’s sword, which never needed to give a second blow._ “Loinn mac Liobhaidh,” the “Vulcan” of the Celts, is in reality _Brightness, the son of polishing_, a fact which would go far to prove the mythical character of this famous artisan.

The author of this is Ossian:[45]

Long are the clouds this night above me;
The last was a long night to me.
This day, although I find it long,
Yesterday was longer still.
Each day that comes is long to me,
Such indeed was not my wont.
Now is no fight, or battle-field,
No learning noble feats of arms
Without maiden, song, or harp;
No crushing bones or warlike deeds,
No studious learning any more,
No hospitable heart or board,
No soft wooing, and no chase,
In both of which I took delight.
Without the battle-march or fight,
Alas! how sorrowful life’s close;
No hunting of the hind or stag,
How different from my heart’s desire!
No trappings for our hounds, no hounds.
Long are the clouds this night above me.
No rising up to noble feats,
No mirthful sport as we would wish,
No swimming heroes in our lakes.
Long are the clouds this night above me;
In this great world none is like me,
So sad, how sad my case!
A poor old man now dragging stones.
Long are the clouds this night above me,
The last man of the Feine am I,
The great Ossian, the son of Finn,
Listening to the sound of bells.[46]
Long are the clouds this night above me.

Find, O Patrick, from thy God
What our eternal state shall be.
Freed may we ever be from ill.
Long are the clouds this night above me.
Long are the clouds, etc.

[45] This piece is extracted and printed in the report on the Poems of Ossian, published by the Highland Society. Dr. Smith, however, who made the extract, appears not to have read it with much care or accuracy, and the concluding portion, from the twentieth line downwards, is suppressed altogether. This seems to have arisen from a desire to suppress all the references in those poems to St. Patrick, and thus to establish by all possible means their Scottish origin. If any of the Poems are the genuine compositions of Ossian, there is sufficient evidence that the references to the Saint are of more recent introduction, in the fact, that if Ossian saw Art, who lived in the opening of the third century, as he tells us in the preceding fragment, he could hardly hold a dialogue with St. Patrick, who flourished in the fifth. In the present publication the poems of every kind are given just as they stand, without any reference to the effect on existing systems and theories, Scotch or Irish.

[46] The bells used in Christian worship. “Patrick of the bells,” is a common appellation of St. Patrick in these compositions.

The Author of this is Ossian:

Once on a time when Finn my loved
Went to hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill,”[47]
With three thousand nobles of the Feine,
Their shields aloft o’er their heads.
Ossian! thy words are sweet to me,
My blessing on the soul of Finn.[48]
Tell us the number of the deer
That fell on the “Fair maids’ hill.”

[47] “Sliabh nam ban fionn,” or the “hill of the fair-haired women,” is said to be one of the mountains of Tipperary, in the neighbourhood of Clonmel. It is now called “Sliabh nam ban,” and has several traditions of the Feine associated with it. The writer is not aware of any mountain of the name in Scotland; besides, although the word “Sliabh” is well known and in common use among the Scottish Highlanders, it is seldom found in the topography of the country, in which the almost uniform term for a mountain is “Beinn,” the English “Ben.” This is one of the marked differences between Irish and Scottish topography. The term under consideration has sometimes been called in Scotland “Sliabh nam beann fionn,” “the hill of the fair hills,” a manifest mistake, which the meaningless tautology should be enough to prove. Topographical phrases in the Gaelic language are usually not only grammatically accurate, but of remarkable elegance in their structure. The interpretations often put upon them are a monstrous outrage upon this sound and invariable principle.

[48] It is obvious that parts of these compositions are dialogues, for the most part between Ossian and St. Patrick. The dialogue portion in these editions of Dean M’Gregor’s is generally either prefixed or added to the body of the poem. This is quite consistent with the genuineness of the work, and can be explained upon the supposition, that these portions were either prefixed or adjoined at an after period by some other hand to serve a purpose. This cannot be said of those poems which are in the form of dialogues throughout.

How vigorously we shook our spears,
For never hast thou sung the deer
Slain on the “Fair maids’ hill,”
By the hand of Finn of the feasts.
Tell them the tale in full,
My blessing on thy guileless lips.
Had you your dress and your armour
When you went forth to the chase?

We had our dress and our armour
When we went forth to the chase;
There was no Fian amongst us all
Without his fine soft flaxen shirt,
Without his under coat of substance soft,
Without a coat of mail of brightest steel,
The covering for his head adorned with gems,
And in his hand he bore two spears,
Besides a fierce and conquering shield,
And sword that never failed to cleave the skull.
Wert thou to search the universe
Thou would’st not find a braver man than Finn;
Of noblest race and fairest form,
No arm from him could carry victory.
As he went forth to try his snow-white hound
Who ’mongst us all was like to Finn?
Westward we went, an ordered band,
To hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill.”
O Patrick, pupil of the church’s head,
Bright was the sun above us,
As in the midst of us sat Finn.
Eastward and westward sweetly rung,
From hill to hill the voice of hounds,
Arousing boars and harts.
Then Finn and Bran[49] did sit alone
A little while upon the mountain side,
Each of them panting for the chase,
Their fierceness and their wrath aroused.
Then did we unloose three thousand hounds
Of matchless vigour and unequalled strength.
Each of the hounds brought down two deer,
Long ere ’twas time to bind them in their thongs.
That day there fell six thousand deer,
Down in the vale that lies beneath the hill;
There never fell so many deer and roe
In any hunt that e’er till this took place.
But sad was the chase down to the east,
Thou cleric of the church and bells,
Ten hundred of our hounds, with golden chains,
Fell wounded by ten hundred boars:
Then by our hands there fell the boars,
Which wrought the ill upon the plain.
And were it not for blades and vigorous arms,
That chase had been a slaughter.

[49] Bran was the famous hound of Finn. The word means “a raven,” but used as an adjective it signifies “black,” which is apparently the origin of the name. Another of his dogs was called “Luath,” or “Swift,” also an adjective. These are common names for staghounds in the Highlands at this day. Reference is made a few lines before this to a white dog, “achoin ghil,” translated “snow-white,” “geal,” implying the most intense whiteness.

O Patrick of the holy crosier,
Eastward or westward, hast thou ever seen,
Another chase, in all thy days,
Greater than that of Finn and of the Feine?
This then was the hunt of Finn,
Thou son of Alpin[50] of the holy relics,
More than thy howling in the church
Do I love to tell the day.
Once on a time, etc.

The author of this is Ossian:[51]

Once on a time as Patrick of the holy crook
Betook him to his cell,
He sought as his companion
Ossian of gentle mien.

Now let me hear, he said,
Ossian, whose courage has made foes retreat,
Who of all those whom thou ne’er sang’st,
Most vexed the Feine of Finn?

Priest of the spotted crook,[52]
Thy lifetime it would take
To tell in human speech
The glory of the Feine of Finn.

[50] The Irish call this word “Arpluinn,” in Latin, “Calphurnius.” In the Highlands the name is uniformly “Alpin,”--“Padruig mac Alpain.”

[51] This composition the Irish call the battle of “Ventry Harbour,” a place in the county of Kerry in Ireland. There are, however, Fintrays in Scotland, which are apparently the same name, and Mr. Skene has called the attention of the writer to the fact, that there is a Sgùir Dhaire dhuinn, “the hill of Daire donn,” in Duror in Argyleshire. Irish Antiquaries say the battle was fought in the third century between the Féine of Ireland and Daire donn, or Daire the brown, King of the world. It will be seen in this copy that Daire is introduced as King of Lochlin or Scandinavia, although afterwards called King of the world. It is very probable that both to the Scotch and Irish Celt Scandinavia was at this period synonymous with the world. This poem is here attributed to Ossian, although it is very doubtful whether it is so in the MS. The writing is so indistinct, that it is impossible to read the title correctly. It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that the poem is in the form of a dialogue between the bard, whoever he may be, and St. Patrick. The name of the saint seems to have been a favourite one with the bards, and was used no doubt to give consequence and currency to their compositions.

[52] The crozier of St. Patrick. Several ancient Celtic croziers are still in existence. Two are well known in Scotland. One of them is the Quigrich, or crozier of St. Fillan, now in possession of a family of the name of Dewar in Canada, to whose progenitor it was intrusted by Robert Bruce at the battle of Bannockburn. An interesting notice of this relic has recently been published by Dr. D. Wilson of Toronto. Another is the crozier of St. Munn, now in the Museum of the Society of Antiquaries in Scotland, and long in possession of a family called the Barons of Bachul (a _crozier_, from the Latin _Baculus_), in the island of Lismore. A notice of this relic will be found in the transactions of the Scottish Antiquaries, from the able pen of Mr. Cosmo Innes. The word “breac,” or _spotted_, applied to the crozier, must refer to its ornamentation. The term will be found elsewhere applied to spears or swords.

Since without guile thou art,
And now that they are dead, dost live,
Watch thou for ever on,
And tell the deeds done by the Feine.

Should I be spared for fifty years,
Hearing thy music in thy cell
Till my death’s day, I could not tell
The noble deeds of the Feine of Finn.
The kingdoms of the earth in all its breadth
Belonged to us on every side.
Tribute we raised from all of them for Finn,[53]
Else filled them with the shout of war.
In this wide earth there was not one
That dared refuse us,
Not ev’n in Alve[54] of the spotted spears,
With all its power and its untold renown.

[53] This is a curious piece of Bardic exaggeration. But there may be some history hidden within its folds. There is sufficient evidence to prove that the Féine, whoever they were, were not confined to Ireland. We have numerous ancient Celtic compositions in which reference is made to the Féine of Scotland, and the Féine of Britain, meaning either Wales, or England and Wales together. The truth with regard to Finn and his Féine seems even yet to be a long way off.

[54] This is said to be “Almhuin,” or Allen, the residence of Finn, according to Irish accounts, in the county of Kildare. The word has a strong resemblance to “Alba,” the Gaelic name for Scotland; and in reading ancient Gaelic MSS., care must be taken to distinguish the two. We give the name in the Dean’s orthography, whatever the place may be.

Would’st thou but tell them now,
Ossian, of the fierce assaults,
Which was the stoutest arm
Among the men that followed Finn.

Thou sett’st me to a painful task,
O Priest, thou pupil of the heavenly king,
I could not till the judgment day,
Tell of the Feine, the men and deeds.

Yet since it so fell out that thou outliv’st them
Ossian of sweet and pleasing songs,
Which would’st thou chuse of all the Feinn,
To stand in battle by thy shield?

Oscar and Caoilte and Gaul,
And Luthy’s son, of sharpest swords;
Round Cumhal’s son,[55] they well might stand,
No nobler band in battle fought;
Bloody Fargon, son to the king,
And Carroll with the murderous spear;
Dermin, brave and fair, who nothing feared,
And bore his pointed shield aloft,
Coll Caoilte’s son, so gentle at the feast;
Corc, a warrior of no tender blows;
Ryno, son to the king;--
A band than which no braver fought.
The fair-haired Fillan, who was son to Finn,
And Garry, than whom no bloodier foe;
The guileless Dyrin, Doveran’s son,
Hugh, son of Garry of the powerful arm,
I, myself, and Gaul the son of Smail,
And Daire of oaken frame, brave Ronan’s son;
The armourer’s three sons, men without guile,
Whose ruddy armour gleamed, adorned with gold.
Now that I tell my tale to thee,
Cleric that dwell’st at Port-na-minna,
No man of all the Feine was known to me
But one, to whom all other men must yield.
But, now, do thou be seated in thy chair,
Take up thy pen, we’ll number all the host,
The host of brave and noble men
Who came, well-ordered bands, unto the Feine.
Across the sea the King of Lochlin came,
The brown-haired[56] Daire of famous shield,
From Conn to wrest the tribute paid by Erin,
A mournful tale for us and all our host.
Our Feinn had friends who came to give them aid,
Men from the sides of every hill,
Led on by Cairbar of the sinewy arm.
Of these four bands came safe to land.
Of the Feinn themselves came seven bands,
Three from the east, the half of Erin called from Conn.[57]
The greater number in the battle fell,
But few escaped the bands of Daire donn.
Down with his fleet lay Daire donn
Himself and all his host.
Of these were thirty score[58]
Who ne’er again did see their native land.
There watched them near the shore
Conn Crithear of the well-aimed strokes.
He seized the men of India there,
And raised the king’s head on the mountain side.
This famous Conn, the son of Ulster’s king,
And Dollir, no less famed for warlike deeds,
We left upon the strand,
Drowned in mutual clasp beneath the waves.
Dathach’s three sons, no braver men,
Ascending from the place where lay the ships,
Feartan and Kerkal, he with the large round head,
We left their bodies naked on the strand.
Owar,[59] the armed daughter of the King of Greece,
And Forna of the heavy sturdy blows
We left, a vacant grin upon their faces.
We knew no sorrow as we left them there.
Four of the King of Lochlin’s sons we left,
Slain by our fierce, resistless arms.
The three Balas from Borrin in the east,
Hardly escaped our murderous blows.
Great as was the king of the world,
Daire donn, with shield of purest white,
We left his body, too, upon the strand,
Slain by the blows of the victorious Feine.
Of all the world’s hosts, brave though they were,
None did escape the slaughter
Except the King of France alone,
Who, like a swallow as it grasps the air,
Fled from fear of noble Oscar,
And even once his sole ne’er touched the earth
Until he got to Glenabaltan, as men relate;
Then and there only did he find him rest.
It was on Fintray’s strand, down at the sea,
Our people made this slaughter,
Of these, the kings of all the world,
And drank our full of vengeance.
Our fierce and conquering arms
Laid many a noble warrior low;
Many a sword and shield
Lay shattered on the strand,
The strand of Fintray of the port;
Many dead bodies lay upon the earth,
Many a hero with a vacant grin.
Much was the spoil we gathered in the fight.
Patrick, son of noble Alpin,
Even of the Feine themselves, none did escape
The fierce and murderous fight
Except two ordered bands,
Nor were their bodies whole.
The sons of Boisgne[60] made one band of those,
A race, with hands that knew no tender grasp,
Then came the sons of Morn,[61] who with the sons of Smail
Made up the second band.
By thy hand, O noble Priest
In that sore fight, there perished of our Feine
Five well-trained bands
Who left us for the strand.
Thirty luckless bands,
A thousand score in each,
We numbered of the men of Daire donn,
That never reached the waves.
Were I to answer thee, O Priest,
As thou desir’st to hear my every tale,
Down to the time we[62] Gawra’s battle fought,
We never lost our power.
Then did we seize the ships;
We took the heavy silver of the king,
The gold, the garments, and the other spoil;
Each half of Erin had its share.
Holy Patrick of the relics,
Shall I meet death within thy house of prayer?
Cover thou my form with earth,
Since thou knowest well my tale.

Ossian, since thou art wearied now,
Make thy peace, that thou may’st die,
Take up thy prayer and ask for mercy,
Early each day call on thy God,
And when, on the judgment day, thou reachest Sion,
Where all men shall be gathered,
May Michael, Mary, and the Son of God
Take thee kindly by the hand.

May the Twelve Apostles, with their song of praise,
Each holy cleric, and each prophet,
Me save from hell,
For I’ve been very sinful in my day.
Once on a time.[63]

[55] Finn was Cumhal’s son. The word is pronounced “Finn mac Cúil,”--very much as M’Dougal is pronounced in the speaking of Gaelic. The writer has been led to think that traces of “Cual” (Cumhal) might be found in the King Coil of Ayrshire. The whole region about the scene of Coil’s territory and sepulchre has been purely Celtic, and the grave itself bears marks of being constructed in the early Celtic method.

[56] As already observed, Daire donn, or “Daire the brown,” is called here the King of Lochlin.

[57] Ireland was divided into two great sections: the northern, called Leth Chuinn, or Conn’s half, from Conn of the hundred battles, King of Ulster; the southern, called Leth Mhogha, or Mogh’s half, called from Mogha Nuadhat, King of Munster, both in the second century.

[58] The Celts always count by twenties up to 400. When a Highlander speaks of 340 or 360 of anything, he uniformly says seventeen score or eighteen score. The numbers given here are an instance of the poetic license.

[59] This daughter of the King of Greece is well known in Celtic tradition. In Mr. J. F. Campbell’s _Tales of the West Highlands_, vol. ii. p. 470, it will be seen that traces of her existence are found still in the island of Barra. Greece was not unknown to the ancients. Cæsar tells us that the Gauls, although not committing their religious mysteries to paper, in common writing which was familiar to them, used the Greek letters. This is a remarkable statement, and one of which too little use has been made in discussing the social condition of the early Gael. At the same time, we learn from the history of the Gallic war that the literature of Gaul was drawn from Britain, at least her priests studied there, which can have no other meaning.

[60] The race of the Féine to which Finn belonged. The Irish say they occupied Leinster and the eastern part of Ulster.

[61] The race to which the famous Gaul belonged. They are said to have occupied Connaught and the west of Ireland. These are the Irish accounts, and must be taken as contributions to a correct elucidation of the history of these events, if they have a real history.

[62] A poem on this famous battle will be found in a subsequent part of this collection.

[63] It will be seen in this and the previous pieces, that the first few lines are repeated at the close of every poem. This practice is uniformly followed in all ancient Celtic Poetry, and is a sure indication that we have reached the end of the piece.

The author of this is Ossian:

Feeble this night is the power of my arm,
My strength is no more as it was;
No wonder though I should mourn,
Poor old relic that I am;
Sad that such should be my lot,
Beyond all men who tread the earth,
Wearily dragging stones along
To the church on the hill of the priest.
I have a tale which I would tell
Regarding our people, O Patrick:
Listen to Finn’s prediction.
Shortly ere thou cam’st, O Priest,
The hero was to build a fort,
On Cuailgne’s[64] bare and rounded hill.
He laid it on the Feine of Fail[65]
Materials for the work to get.
Two-thirds of all his famous fort
He laid upon the sons of Morn;
The other third he laid on me,
And on the other sons of Boisgne.
I answered, but not aright,
The son of Cumhal, son of Trenmor.
I said I would cast off his rule,
And would submit to him no more.
Then for long Finn held his peace,
The hero hard to vanquish,
He who knew no guile nor fear,
When my answer he had heard,
His words to me were these,
The words of Finn, prince of the Feine:

[64] A hill said to be in the county of Armagh, celebrated in the ancient poem of “Tain bo Chuailgne,” or “The cattle spoil of Cuilinn.” It is said to have been here that Cuchullin resided, whence probably his name, Cu Chuailgne, or Cuchullin, the Hound of Cuillinn. In Irish History Cuchullin is said to have lived a couple of centuries previous to the era of Fingal.

The reader may be reminded that there is a mountain in Skye called Cuilinn, one of the grandest of the Scottish mountains. The person from whom both this and the Irish hills of the name were called, is said to have been Cuilionn, a Druidical priest of great fame. The word means also the Holly tree, from whence the derivation is sufficiently probable.

[65] “Fail” is an ancient name for Ireland. The word signifies _fate_; hence “Innisfail,” or the “Island of fate,” or, more probably, “the sacred island.”

Thou shalt be dragging stones awhile
Ere to thy mournful home thou goest.
Then did I rise up in wrath,
From Cumhal’s son of bloody sword.
There followed me of all the Feine,
The fourth battalion, hardy and brave.
Then was I long with the Feine,
On all things I my judgment gave.
Many were there with me then,
But now, alas, I’m feeble, feeble;
I was counsellor to the Feine,
In all emergencies, how feeble.
How many men that do not know
That on this earth I’m feeble, feeble.
This night my body’s frame is feeble,
Patrick, I believe thy words.
My hands, my feet, and head,
All of them are feeble, feeble.
Feeble, etc.

The author of this is Ossian:

Here have I seen the Feine,
I have seen Conan and Gaul,
Finn, and Oscar my son,
Ryno, Art, and brown-haired Diarmad,[66]
Brave M’Luy,[67] he of noble mien,
The red-haired Garry,[68] also Hugh the less,
Hugh Garry’s son, who never quailed,
The three Finns, and with them Fead,
Glass and Gow and Garry,
The long-haired Galve, and the impetuous Conan;[69]
Gaul and Crooin, Gaul’s son,
Socach, the son of Finn, and Bran;[70]
Caoilte, the son of warlike Ronan,[71]
Who swiftest ran, and leaped o’er valleys,
The readiest to scatter gold,
One of them of sweetest voice;
Bayne, son of Brassil of the swords,
The son of Cromchin, son of Smail,
And Oscar, son of powerful Garry,[72]
The three Balas, and the three Skails,
Three battalions from Glenstroil,
Three bands from Monaree;
Caoilte’s seven sons best trained to fight;
The three named Glass from Glassrananseir;
The three Beths from Cnokandurd,
Three of unfailing excellence;
Deach Fichid’s son from Borruinn mor,
Of them who always conquered.
Here have I seen the Feine
Whose liberal hand did music buy,[73]
Ranged around Ossian and Finn,
Traversing valleys to dispense their gold.
Fearton and brave Carroll were there,
Who never fought but where they won.
I sing them, and generous Felan,
All of whom here have I seen.
Here have I seen.

[66] Diarmad was the Adonis of the Feine. He is celebrated for his beauty, which led finally to his death, as will be seen in a future poem. He is said to have been the Ancestor of the clan Campbell, who are hence called “Clann Diarmaid,” or the “children of Diarmad.” The M’Diarmads, as well as some other subordinate clans, are also said to be of the same stock.

[67] A grandson of Finn by his son Daire dearg. His mother’s name was Luigheach, whence he was called the son of Luigheach, pronounced Luy. He was a famous man among the Feine, according to Irish authorities.

[68] There were several among the Feine of this name. The name is widely known in the topography of Scotland. There are two Rivers Garry, two lochs, and two large rivers. These are found in Inverness-shire and Perthshire.

[69] Conan is usually called “Conan maol,” or “Conan the bald,” and was known among the Feine for his thoughtless impetuosity. He was, in consequence of this peculiar temperament, ever getting into difficulties, and exposing himself to the ridicule and reprehension of his companions. There are both a river and valley in Scotland called after him, the River Conan and Strathconan in Rosshire.

[70] “Bran,” the name of Finn’s celebrated hound, is here obviously the name of a man. There is a “strath” or valley in Rosshire which still retains his name, Strathbran. The extent to which Fenian names are found in Scottish topography, goes far to show the close connexion of the Feine themselves with that country.

[71] Caoilte was one of the most famous of the Feine. He was distinguished for his swiftness, and not without reason, as is shown in his chase of Loinn mac Liobhaidh, the Fenian blacksmith, whom he overtook, although he could cross a valley at a stride.

[72] This Oscar must be distinguished from the famous Oscar, the Poet’s son. Of the latter he never speaks without applying to him some term of endearment, as “my son,” “my own son,” etc.

[73] This line refers to the liberal rewards which the Bards usually received among the Celts. A eulogy was sometimes rewarded by the Chief with a silver cup. Even poetry had need to be purchased; and probably were it not for the hope of reward of some kind, many of the noblest Poems which have adorned human history would never have seen the light. At a meeting of Skye gentlemen on some public occasion some years ago, the question was put, “Where are the bards?” One of the company replied, “They are gone.” “No,” said Nicolson of Scorrybreck, “they are still with us; but the men who fostered them are gone.”

The author of this is Ossian, the son of Finn.[74]

[74] This piece is what is usually called “Urnuidh Oisiain,” or “Ossian’s prayer.” There are many such colloquies in the Gaelic, many of them bearing no marks of great antiquity. It will be found that in the Gaelic the poem is divided. This arose from a misplacing of different parts of it in the MS., which was not observed till the first part was printed off. In the English the whole is given consecutively.

Tell us, O Patrick, what honour is ours,
Do the Feine of Ireland in heaven now dwell?

In truth I can tell thee, thou Ossian of fame,
That no heaven has thy father, Oscar, or Gaul.

Sad is the tale thou tellest me, Priest,
I worshipping God while the Feine have no heaven.

Shalt thou not fare well thyself in that city,
Though ne’er should thy father, Caoilte, and Oscar be there?

Little joy would it bring to me to sit in that city,
Without Caoilte, and Oscar, as well as my father.

Better see the face of heaven’s son each day,
Than all the gold on earth, were it thine to possess.

Tell us, thou Priest of the Holy city, the tale;
In return I’ll recount thee the battle of Gaura.

If the tale of that city thou desir’st, old man,
No thirst, no hunger, want, reproach are there.

Who are heaven’s sons? more noble are the Feinn:
Are they hard of heart? have thou mercy, Cleric;

Unlike them are the Feine, unlike them altogether,
Never on the green plain did they seek the chase.

For thy love’s sake, Patrick, forsake not the heroes,
Unknown to heaven’s King, bring thou in the Feinn.

Though little room you’d take, not one of your race,
Unknown to heaven’s King, shall get beneath his roof.

How different Mac Cumhail, the Feinn’s noble king,
All men, uninvited, might enter his great house.

Sad is that, old man, and thy life’s close so near,
That thou should’st so unjustly judge of my great king.

Better the fierce conflict of Finn and his Feinn,
Than thy holy master, and thyself together.

Mournful, poor old man, that thou should’st folly speak,
Better God for a day than all of Erin’s Feinn.

Though few be my days, and my life’s close near,
Patrick defame not the nobles of clan Boisgne.

Thou can’st never tell, Ossian, son to the Queen,
How different your nobles from those of my Lord.

Were even Conan living, the least of the Feinn,
He would not suffer thy insolence, Cleric.

Speak not thus, Ossian, savage are thy words,
Take thee now thy rest, and guide thee by my rule.

Did’st thou see the fight, and the noble banners,
Never would’st thou think but of the glory of the Feinn.

Ossian, Prince’s son, ’twill be thy soul’s great loss
That thou now think’st only of the battles of the Feinn.

Did’st thou hear the hounds, and the sounds of the hunt,
Thou would’st rather be there than in the holy city.

That is sad, old man, if the glory of the chase
Be greater than all which Heaven above can yield.

Say not so, Patrick, empty are thy words,
Indeed and in truth, better Finn and the Feinn.

By thy hand, Boisgne’s son, not empty are my words,
Better is one angel than Finn and the Feinn.

Were I only now as I was at Gaura’s fight,
I would punish thy reproach of Erin’s noble Feinn.

Thy pride is all gone, for all thy future days,
None are now left of thy band but thyself.

Were my men in life I’d not hear thy howling,
And I’d make thee to suffer in return for thy talk.

Though all of these yet lived, and were now joined together,
I’d still not speak only of the Feinn’s seven bands.

Seven times the number that thou hast of priests,
Fell all in battle by Oscar alone.

Thou’rt now in thy last days, old and senseless man,
Cease now thy speaking, and come away with me;
Did’st thou see the men of cowls, Finn’s son, in Alve,
Thou would’st not as thou dost reproach the men of heaven.

No less was our great band, when we were met in Taura,
Reproachful are the words thou speak’st of the great king,
I will forgive thee, Cleric, although thou dost not tell.
Tell.

The author of this is Ossian.[75]

I know a little tale of Finn,
A tale that we should not despise,
Of Cumhal’s son, the valorous,
Which our memory still preserves.
Once we were a little band,
At Essaroy,[76] of gentle streams,
Near the coast was under sail,
A currach, in which sat a maid;
Fifty men stood by the King,
Brave in any fight or field,
Sad for them who faced their right arm,
For we ruled in every land.
All of us rose up in haste,
Save Finn of the Feine and Gaul,
To welcome the boat as it sped,
Cleaving the waves in its course.
It never ceased its onward way
Until it reached the wonted port.
Then when it had touched the land,
The maid did from her seat arise,
Fairer than a sunbeam’s sheen,
Of finest mould and gentlest mien.
Then before this stranger maid,
We stood and showed courtesy;
“Come to the tent of Finn with us.”
With grace she all of us salutes;
’Twas Cumhal’s son himself replied,
And salutes her in return.
Then did the King of noblest mien
Ask of the maid of fairest face,
“Whence is it thou hast come, fair maid?
Give us now in brief thy tale.”
“The King of the land beneath the waves,[77]
My father is, such is my fate,
Through all lands where the sun revolves,
Thee and thy men I long have sought.”
“Princess, who hast searched each land,
Youthful maid of beauteous form,
The reason why thou cam’st so far,
Tell us now, and tell us all.”
“If thou be Finn, I ask defence,”[78]
So now did speak the youthful maid,
“Thou of soft speech, and purest race,
Grant me protection, grant it now.”
Then spoke the wise and knowing King,
“Tell us now from whom thou flee’st;
Protection I thee grant, fair maid,
’Gainst every man that dares thee hurt.”
“There comes in wrath across the sea,
Swift in pursuit, a warrior brave,
The well-armed son of Sorcha’s King,
He whose name is Daire the fierce.[79]
I laid me under heavy bonds[80]
That Finn should from the sea me have,
But that his wife I ne’er should be,
Though famed his beauty and his deeds.”
Then Oscar spoke, of hasty speech,
The warlike conqueror of Kings,
“Though Finn should not thy pledge sustain,
Never shalt thou with him wed.”
Then do we see borne by his steed[81]
A hero of unequalled size,
Travelling with speed across the sea,
Following the maiden in her course;
His helmet close about the head
Of this brave and dauntless man;
His right arm bore a round black shield,
The surface of its back engraved;
A heavy, large, broad-bladed sword,
Tightly bound, hung by his side;
He comes in attitudes of fence,
As where we stood he swift approached;
Two javelins, with victory rich,
Rest on the shoulder of his shield;
For strength, for skill, for bravery,
Nowhere could his match be found.
A hero’s look,--the eye of a king
Shone in that head of noblest mould,
Ruddy his face, his teeth pearl-white,
No stream ran swifter than his steed.
Then did his steed bound on the shore,
And he in whom we saw no fear.
Of us did fifty warriors then
Approach him as he came to us;
Fear of the hero as he neared us
Filled the bravest of them all.
Now as he landed from the waves,
Our famous King the question put,
“Can’st thou tell me now, fair maid,
Is that the man of whom thou spak’st?”
“I know him well, Finn Cumhal’s son,
Nor does his coming bode you good;
Me he will rudely strive to seize,
Despite thy strength, O noble Finn.”
Then Oscar and Gaul arose,
The fiercest of all in the fight,
Near to the men they firmly stood,
Between the giant and our chief.
The well-formed warrior then approached,
In rage sustained by his great strength,
The maid he rudely bears away,
Though by Finn’s shoulder she had stood.
The Son of Morne then hurled his spear,
With wonted force, as he bore off;
No gentle cast was that, in truth,
The hero’s shield was split in twain.
The wrathful Oscar then did shake
The red-dyed belt from his left arm,[82]
And killed the hero’s prancing steed,
A deed most worthy of great fame.
Then, when the steed fell on the plain,
He on us turned in fiercest wrath,
And battle does, the onset mad,
With all our fifty warriors brave.
On the same side with me and Finn,
The fifty stood in front of him:
Yet though they oft stood firm in fight,
His arm did now them force to yield.
Two blows, and only two he gave,
With vigour to each sep’rate man,
When we were stretched upon the earth,
Each man of us with whom he fought.
Three vanquished nines he tightly bound,
Ere from the furious fight he ceased.
Firmly the three smalls’[83] usual tie
On each of these he firmly placed.
Then did the manly Gaul advance,
The conquering hero to assail.
Whoe’er he was could see them then,
The struggle and the fight were fierce.
Then did Mac Morne slay with his arm
The King of Sorcha’s son, most strange!
Sad was the coming of the maid,
Now that the brave in fight had fallen.
And now that he had fallen thus,
Beside the sea, a sad event,
She of the land beneath the waves,
With Finn and his Feine remained a year.
Flann, son of Morne, in battle brave,
Was killed, it is a piteous tale;
None of all our men escaped,
Whose body was not full of wounds,
Except my noble Father, Finn,
The generous friend of all distressed.
And now at last the deed is done.
Of Finn this little tale I know.
I know a little tale of Finn.

As our fifty warriors brave[84]
Were now subject to his arms,
Helpless were we in his hands,
Our precious rights were all now lost.
His sword without a single check,
Did hack our bodies and our shields.
Any fighting like to his,
In my day never have I seen.
We buried then close to the fall
This noble, brave, and powerful man.
And on each finger’s ruddy point
A ring was placed in honour of the King.
For ten long years his conquering arms,
To the victor did the King forbid;
For all that time the son of Morne
Was healing with Finn of the Feine.

[75] This composition is known usually by the name of “Fainesoluis,” or the sunbeam, derived manifestly from the comparison of the sunbeam in the twenty-first line. In Ireland it is called “Laoidh an Mhoighre Bhoirb,” or “The song of Mayre Borb.” The “Mayre” of Ireland will be found to be “Daire” in Scotland.

[76] The topography of these poems is a subject of very deep interest to the student of our national antiquities. In the valley of the Roy in Lochaber, so famous for its parallel roads, is a waterfall called “Eas ruaidh,” or “Essaroy,” the “fall of Roy.” Was this the scene of the story of Fainesoluis? It may be objected that from there the sea lies at a distance of fifteen miles. On the Earn, near Ballyshannon, in the county of Donegal, is “Assaroe,” or “Eas Aoidh Ruaidh,” “The waterfall of Hugh the red,” who was drowned there. This is nearer the sea; but at the period ascribed to Ossian, the name could not have been given to the spot, as the death of Aedh ruadh mac Badhairn, from whom the cascade was named, occurred, according to the Four Masters, in A.M. 4518.

[77] Kings among the Celts were, at an early period, persons of much less consequence than the name would now seem to imply. In Ireland, there were four provincial sovereignties besides the national one. But even this does not give an accurate representation of the Celtic polity. The fact is, every ruler of a district and leader of an army was called a King. Of this we have ample evidence in Cæsar’s account of the state of Britain at the period of the Roman invasion. In Scotland, tradition points to several kingdoms. In the Western Highlands the Island of Mull is said to have formed a kingdom by itself, called “Rioghachd na Drealluin,” “the Kingdom of Drealinn,” from “dreall,” a “bar” or “sneck,” applied to the Sound of Mull, which shuts out all strangers from the Island. Islay was called “Rioghachd Modheadh,” or the “Southwest Kingdom,” from its position. Morvern was called “Iorruaidh,” to which frequent reference is made both in Scottish and Irish Celtic tradition. Ardnamurchan was called “Sorcha,” the kingdom of Daire Borb’s father, from its mountainous character, “Sorcha” meaning “high,” whence “sorchan,” “a tripod.” “Tir bàr fo thuinn,” or the land beneath the waves, was Tyree, from the lowness of the land appearing from a distance as if its surface were on a level with the sea. If there be any historical accuracy in these traditions, which have been gathered up from an intelligent old Highlander, skilled in the lore of his country, this story of Fainesoluis is one in which a daughter of the ruler of the Island of Tyree is pursued by a son of the ruler of Ardnamurchan. Poetry gives a consequence and magnitude to the event, which in all probability the naked reality did not possess.

[78] “Mo chomraich ort,” “my protection be on thee,” was an appeal which the Celtic warrior could never reject when made by the weak and helpless. In Christian times, the word “Comraich” came to be applied to the “girths” or “sanctuaries” around places of worship and other sacred spots, where accused persons might flee for security. Hence the Gaelic name of the parish of Applecross in Rosshire, “A Chomraich,” or “the Sanctuary,” formed round the church dedicated to St. Malrube, an early Christian missionary.

[79] As already observed, this name is in Irish editions of the poem “Mayre.” See Miss Brooks’ “_Reliques of Irish Poetry_.”

[80] “Geasan,” “bonds.” The word here appears to mean a simple pledge, although in most cases it implies the exercise of some magical power. In those cases of metamorphosis so common in Celtic tales, the persons who have been made to undergo the change are said to be “fo gheasaibh,” “under spells.” The mythology of the Celts has much in common with that of Eastern nations.

[81] The magical steed of Daire borb was capable of carrying its master over sea and land. In many ancient Celtic Tales we read of ships which could also traverse sea and land.

[82] The word in the original here is “criss zerk,” the “red belt.” This is, however, in all probability, a mistake of the Dean’s for “craoiseach,” a “javelin.” It is not easy to see what could be meant by the “red belt” on Oscar’s left arm. It could hardly signify the straps of the shield. If it be “craoiseach,” the bard would seem to indicate that Oscar was left-handed, like the sons of Benjamin.

[83] “Na tri caoil,” or the “three smalls,” were the neck, the ankles, and the wrists. Prisoners of war had this triple binding applied to them.

[84] These supplementary lines would appear to be either additional lines or various readings. There are two given in the Gaelic, which are not translated, as being of little consequence, and which seem intended to come in between the ninety-eighth and ninety-ninth lines. The first eight lines of this additional fragment are probably intended to fall in between the hundred and twenty-eighth and the hundred and twenty-ninth lines, the last eight to close the poem. Dr. Smith, in the Report on Ossian’s Poems given in to the Highland Society, states, that the Edition given in this supplement is inconsistent with that in the body of the Poem, and must be held to contain various readings.

The author of this is Ossian, the son of Finn.[85]

’Twas yesterday week
I last saw Finn;
Ne’er did I see
A braver man;
Teige’s[86] daughter’s son,
A powerful king;
My fortune, my light,
My mind’s whole might,
Both poet and chief.
Braver than kings,
Firm chief of the Feinn.
Lord of all lands,
Leviathan at sea,
As great on land,
Hawk of the air,
Foremost always.
Generous, just,
Despised a lie.
Of vigorous deeds,
First in song.
A righteous judge,
Firm his rule.
Polished his mien,
Who knew but victory.
Who is like him
In fight or song?
Resists the foe,
In house or field.
Marble his skin,
The rose his cheek,
Blue was his eye,
His hair like gold.
All men’s trust,
Of noble mind.
Of ready deeds,
To women mild,
A giant he,
The field’s delight.
Best polished spears,
No wood like their shafts.
Rich was the King.
His great green bottle,
Full of sharp wine,
Of substance rich.
Excellent he.[87]
Of noble form,
His people’s head,
His step so firm,
Who often warred.
In beauteous Banva,
Three hundred battles
He bravely fought.
With miser’s mind
From none withheld.
Anything false
His lips ne’er spoke.
He never grudged,
No, never Finn;
The sun ne’er saw King
Who him excelled.
The monsters in lakes,
The serpent by land,
In Erin of saints,[88]
The hero slew.
Ne’er could I tell,
Though always I lived,
Ne’er could I tell
The third of his praise.
But sad am I now,
After Finn of the Feinn!
Away with the chief,
My joy is all fled.
No friends ’mong the great,
No courtesy.
No gold, no queen,
No princes and chiefs.
Sad am I now,
Our head ta’en away!
I’m a shaking tree,
My leaves all gone.
An empty nut,
A reinless horse,
Sad, sad am I,
A feeble kern.
Ossian I, the son of Finn,
Strengthless in deed.
When Finn did live
All things were mine.
Seven sides had the house
Of Cumhal’s son.
Seven score shields
On every side.
Fifty robes of wool
Around the King.
Fifty warriors
Filled the robes.
Ten bright cups
For drink in his hall.
Ten blue flagons,
Ten horns of gold.
A noble house
Was that of Finn.
No grudge nor lust,
Babbling nor sham;
No man despised
Among the Feinn.
The first himself,
All else like him.
Finn was our chief,
Easy his praise,
Noblest of Kings.
Finn ne’er refused
To any man,
Howe’er unknown;
Ne’er from his house
Sent those who came.[89]
Good man was Finn,
Good man was he.
No gifts e’er given
Like his so free.
’Twas yesterday week.

[85] The following seems to have been Ossian’s eulogy on his father Finn. The editor has not met with any similar composition either among Scottish or Irish collections, except a few lines extracted by Miss Brooks from a composition which she calls “Buille Oisein,” and it is therefore rescued from oblivion by having been seized by the Dean while floating on the stream of oral tradition, and treasured in his miscellany. In the original, the poetry is worthy of the name of Ossian, more so, indeed, than any of the pieces in this collection. It is quite impossible to produce in English the effect of the rhythm and alliteration of the Gaelic; but the editor has endeavoured, while giving an exact rendering, to retain, in as far as possible, the peculiar measure of the original. The piece is a fine tribute of filial love and admiration, nor is there much room to doubt its genuineness.

[86] Muirne Finn’s mother is said to have been a daughter of Teige, a famous Druid, or, as others say, of a princely family of Bregia, in Meath.

[87] Some of the lines in this part of the original MS. are very much defaced from age and bad usage. The editor has been obliged in consequence to guess one line and a few additional words. The line is the forty-fifth, where he has introduced a phrase sufficiently general to prevent the charge of in any measure tampering with his author. The other words will be seen by referring to the Gaelic.

[88] The word “naoimh,” here translated “saints,” is not necessarily associated with Christianity. The word “naomh,” _holy_, is one belonging originally to the Gaelic language, and not introduced, like many ecclesiastical terms, from the Latin and Greek. The phrase may be rendered “sacred Erin,” a character belonging to the island, in popular belief, even previous to the Christian period. It is a curious fact, that the feat of destroying all the vermin in Ireland was, in a later age, attributed to St. Patrick. It would appear that this was but a transference of a portion of the glory of Finn to the Christian Saint,--a remarkable instance among many of early Christianity borrowing, not very wisely, the laurels of heathenism.

[89] Hospitality was one of the highest qualifications of a Celtic chief. Ossian never fails to sing the generous, open-handed hospitality of his father Finn. Till a late period the same feature of character distinguished the Scottish Highlander, although modern civilisation is fast uprooting it, and overlaying the character of the simple Highlander with the selfishness peculiar to itself. Even now, in most part of the Highlands, the door of a hut is never closed by day,--a practice said to originate in the universal sense of the ready reception due to the wayfarer and the stranger. Is the _seven_ sides of Fingal’s house an orientalism?

The author of this is Allan M’Rorie.[90]