Chapter VI: Introduction (5)

Glenshee,[91] the vale that close beside me lies,
Where sweetest sounds are heard of deer and elk,
And where the Feinn did oft pursue the chase,
Following their hounds along the lengthening vale.
Below the great Ben Gulbin’s[92] grassy height
Of fairest knolls that lie beneath the sun,
The valley winds. Its streams did oft run red,
After a hunt by Finn and by the Feinn.
Listen now while I detail the loss
Of one, a hero in this gentle band:
’Tis of Ben Gulbin, and of generous Finn,
And Mac O’Duine,[93] in truth a piteous tale.
A mournful hunt indeed it was for Finn,
When Mac O’Duine, he of the ruddiest hue,
Up to Ben Gulbin went, resolved to hunt
The boar,[94] whom arms had never yet subdued.
Though Mac O’Duine, of brightest burnished arms,
Did bravely slay the fierce and furious boar,
Yet Finn’s deceit did him induce to yield;
And this it was that did his grievous hurt.
Who among men was so beloved as he?
Brave Mac O’Duine, beloved of the schools;[95]
Women all mourn this sad and piteous tale
Of him who firmly grasped the murderous spear.
Then bravely did the hero of the Feinn
Rouse from his cover in the mountain side,
The great old Boar, him so well known in Shee,
The greatest in the wild boar’s haunt e’er seen.
Glad now was Finn, the man of ruddiest hue,
Beneath Ben Gulbin’s soft and grassy side;
For swift the boar now coursed along the heath;
Great was the ill came of that dreadful hunt.
’Twas when he heard the Feinn’s loud ringing shout,
And saw approach the glittering of their arms,
The monster waken’d from his heavy sleep,
And stately moved before them down the vale.
First, to distance them he makes attempt,
The great old boar, his bristles stiff on end,
These bristles sharper than a pointed spear,
Their point more piercing than the quiver’s shaft.
Then Mac O’Duine with arms well pointed too,
Answers the horrid beast with ready hand:
Away from his side there rushed the heavy spear,
Hard following on the course the boar pursued.
The javelin’s shaft fell shivered into three,
The shaft recoiling from the boar’s tough hide.
The spear hurled by his warm red-fingered hand
Ne’er penetrated the body of the boar.
Then from its sheath he drew his thin-leaved[96] sword,
Of all the arms most crown’d with victory;
Mac O’Duine did there the monster kill,
While he himself escaped without a wound.
Then on Finn of the Feinn did sadness fall,
And on the mountain side he sat him down;
It grieved his soul that generous Mac O’Duine
Should have escaped unwounded by the boar.
For long he sat, and never spake a word,
Then thus he spake, although ’t be sad to tell,
“Measure, Diarmad, the boar down from the snout,
And tell how many feet ’s the brute in length.”
What Finn did ask he never yet refused;
Alas! that he should never see his home.
Along the back he measures now the boar,
Light-footed Mac O’Duine of active step.
“Measure it the other way against the hair,
And measure, Diarmad, carefully the boar.”
It was indeed for thee a mournful deed,
Youth of the sharply-pointed piercing arms.
He went, the errand grievous was and sad,
And measured for them once again the boar.
Th’ envenomed pointed bristle sharply pierced
The sole of him,[97] the bravest in the field.
Then fell and lay upon the grassy plain
The noble Mac O’Duine, whose look spoke truth;
He fell and lay along beside the boar,
And there you have my mournful, saddening tale.
There does he lie now wounded to the death,
Brave Mac O’Duine, so skilful in the fight;
The most enduring ev’n among the Feinn,
He lies upon the knoll I see on high,
The blue-eyed hawk that dwelt at Essaroy,[98]
The conqueror in every sore-fought field,
Slain by the poisoned bristle of the boar.
Now does he lie full stretched upon the hill,
Brave, noble Diarmad Mac O’Duine!
Slain, it is shame! victim of jealousy.[99]
Whiter his body than the sun’s bright light,
Redder his lips than blossoms tinged with red;
Long yellow locks did rest upon his head,
His eye was clear beneath the covering brow,
Its colour mingled was of blue and grey;
Waving and graceful were his locks behind,[100]
His speech was elegant and sweetly soft;
His hands the whitest, fingers tipped with red;
Elegance and power were in his form,
His fair soft skin covering a faultless shape,
No woman saw him but he won her love.
Mac O’Duine crowned with his countless victories,
Ne’er shall he raise his eye in courtship more,
Or warriors’ wrath give colour to his cheek;
The following of the chase, the prancing steed,
Will never move him, nor the search for spoil.
He who could bear him well in every fight,
Has now us sadly left in that wild vale.
Glenshee.

[90] This Poet is obviously a Scotchman; but judging from another of his compositions in this volume, he was, like the Scottish bards of his time, well acquainted with the bardic literature of Ireland. This arose from the frequent intercourse between the two countries during their early history, and the number of Scotchmen educated both in the Medical and Bardic Schools of Ireland. This is one of the circumstances which renders it so difficult now, in the absence of authentic historical documents, to extricate much of the social history of the two countries. Hence the rival Scottish and Irish claims to many of our Celtic literary remains. There is no doubt that the poets of both countries interwove with their compositions the traditions of the race, without much regard to whether these were Scotch or Irish. The Irish trace this common literature to the fact of the Irish colonization of Scotland, which they maintain was the origin of the Celtic population of the latter country; but it is by no means necessary to go so far back in order to find sufficient cause for the fact. Christianity seems to have formed the first solid basis of union between the two countries, and a common Christianity was without doubt the means of long maintaining it. This composition is usually called “Bàs Dhiarmaid,” _The death of Diarmad_.

[91] A valley in the eastern part of Perthshire, where the grave of Diarmad is pointed out to this day. M’Rorie appears to have been an inhabitant of the neighbourhood, for he speaks of Glenshee as being close beside him. The name of Glenshee is derived from the word “Gleann,” _a valley_, and “sìth,” _a hill_ of a peculiar form. This word is found in the names of several Scottish hills, as “Sìth challain,” _Schihallion_; “Beinn shìth,” _Ben Hi_; “An t-Sìth mhòr,” _the great pointed hill_. “Sìthan,” a hillock. The word has been often mistaken for “Sìth,” _peace_, whence the name “Sitheach, sithichean,” _a fairy, fairies_, has been absurdly rendered _the peace folk_, instead of _the folk of the hills_, referring to their reputed residence in earthen mounds.

[92] “Ben Gulbin,” _the mountain of the beak_, lies at the head of Glenshee. There is a hill with a similar name in Ireland, whence Conall Gulbain, one of the kings of Ulster, took his designation. There is a “water of Gulbin,” and a “Torgulbin,” in the braes of Lochaber; but the reference to Glenshee fixes the scene of the death of Diarmad in Perthshire. There is, as is common in Highland topography, a stream called Gulbin, whence a valley of the same name, and then a mountain. The names in similar cases seem to have been primarily attached to the streams, whence they ascended through the valleys to the hills. We have an instance of this in the River Nevis, Glen Nevis, Ben Nevis, the “neamhais,” referring to its impetuosity, having been in all likelihood originally applied to the stream.

[93] Mac O’Duine is the patronymic of Diarmad. Hence the Campbell clan, besides being called “Clann Diarmaid,” _The race of Diarmad_, are called also “Clann O’Dùine,” or _The children of O’Duine_.

[94] The chase of the boar was a favourite employment among the ancient Celts. It is celebrated in many of their tales. Besides this, the sow enters largely into their ancient mythology. Even in this case the boar was possessed of magical properties, as will be seen in the subsequent portion of this poem. It is not unlikely that at an early period the Celts worshipped the sow like the Egyptians, whose worship of it might have been one reason why it was pronounced unclean. Whether the Celts worshipped it or not, it is manifest that it was held in high esteem, for its figure is engraved on most of the ancient sculptured stones of Scotland. Among the Welsh it is a national emblem, and hence one argument for the ancient Picts being British, as these stones are found confined to the ancient Pictish territory. The word “muc,” _a sow_, enters largely into Scottish topography. We have “Eilean nam muc,” the _Isle of muck_, or _Sow island_. The ancient name of St. Andrews was “Muc ros,” _the Sow’s headland_, and we know that the sow is associated with the memory of St. Regulus. There is a “Bridge of Turk,” or _the Boar’s bridge_, near the Trosachs. There is a “Slochd muice,” or the _Sow’s hollow_, near Inverness, on the Highland road, a name derived from a hillock shaped like a sow’s back, in the bottom of the chasm a little to the west of where the coach road crosses; and there is “Sròn muice,” _The Sow’s snout_, on the north side of Loch Ness, derived from the resemblance of a hill-face to that part of the animal. These two latter names are manifestly derived from natural resemblances, and have nothing to do with mythology.

[95] The “schools,” referred to frequently in Ossianic tales, were probably military, although there can be no doubt that there was a learned class among the ancient Celts. Cæsar tells us, as already observed, that the Gauls used the Greek letters, and that their priests were educated in Britain. The “oghum” character, whose antiquity is pretty thoroughly established, is another evidence of ancient literary cultivation.

[96] The Gaelic is “tan-lann,” the _thin sword_. Was this steel or merely bronze? The thinness would seem to indicate steel.

[97] It is hardly necessary to point out the resemblance here between the sole of Diarmad and the heel of Achilles. Achilles could only be wounded in the heel, Diarmad only in the sole of the foot. The Adonis of the ancient Greeks was slain by a boar. There are remarkable analogies between classical and Celtic tradition.

[98] Essaroy, _vide supra_, p. 18, n. This is manifestly the Essaroy of Scotland, which is in the heart of one of the finest hunting regions in the world. Nor is it at any great distance from either of the Gulbins.

[99] Grainne, the wife of Finn, had formed an unlawful attachment to Diarmad. The latter had what is called a “Ball seirce,” or _beauty spot_, which no woman could resist. Hence Finn’s jealousy and desire to destroy Diarmad. The word rendered here “naire,” _shame_, is in the MS. “noor,” _gold_. If this be the accurate reading, Grainne’s dowery must have formed an element in the conflict.

[100] Yellow was the favourite colour of the ancient Celt. “Falt buidh,” _yellow hair_, is an object of the highest admiration, and the longer and more waving the locks, the greater the admiration. The account the Celt gives of himself is somewhat different from that given by his neighbours, who would paint him a wiry, thin, black-haired, black-eyed man. Tacitus gave a different description; and any man who travels the Highlands of Perthshire, where, perhaps, we have the purest Celtic blood in Scotland, will have ample evidence of the accuracy of the Roman historian. With reference to the admiration of the yellow colour among the Celts, it is interesting to trace how it intermingles itself with the vocabulary of the language; thus, a _fine_ day is a _yellow_ day. The name given to Beltin day, the opening of summer, is, “la buidhe Beallteine,” _yellow Beltin day_; and anything propitious is called _yellow_, as, “is buidhe dhuit e,” _it is yellow or propitious for you_; and a man satisfied after a meal is called “buidheach,” _yellow or satisfied_.

The author of this is Allan M’Rory.[101]

To-night my mourning is great,
Thou tonsured priest whom I love,
While I reflect on the fight,
With red-tree[102] Cairbar we fought,
Son to great Cormaig O’Cuinn,
Woe to the Feinn whom he seized;
A king who ne’er shunned the fight,
And feared not the face of man.
The Feinn to a man did serve,
Finn and the good race of Conn,
Till the day of Cairbar Roy;
Nor evil nor weakness fear’d.
Brave Cairbar his people addressed,
Deceitful indeed was the speech.
In battle would he choose to fall,
The Feinn and he together,
Ere even as a King he’d live
With Erin beneath the Feinn.
Barrin then spoke boldly out,

Remember Muckrey[103] and Art;
How your great ancestors fell,
Resisting the Feinn’s deceit;
Remember their cruel bonds,
Remember their pride and guile;
And that we ne’er knew of war,
But such as was stirr’d by Mac Cùil.

Then did the race of Conn resolve,
In counsel with Cairbar Roy,
That they’d at once assail us,
And the whole of us destroy.
They’d have days of joy and feasting,
Great Alvin cleared of the Feinn.
Then would all grief be dead,
Nor could they a tax demand.
Fiercely and bravely we fought,
That fight the fight of Gaura;
There did fall our noble Feinn,
Sole to sole with Ireland’s kings.
From India far in the east,
To Fodla[104] here in the west,
The kings did all own our sway,
Till the battle of Gaura was fought.
But since that horrid slaughter,
No tribute nor tax we’ve raised.
Nor to us was tribute due,
Save by part of Erin’s soil.
Many were there on the earth
Of the folk who felt no grief.
To both sides how great the loss,
When we each other did destroy,
Should strangers fierce come over,
And seize on beauteous Erin.

Ossian, what would Finn have done
Were burdens laid on Erin?

By thy hand, most holy Priest,
There were none in all fair Banva,[105]
Save a few aged heroes,
And some younger untried men;
What king might there plant his foot,
Could Fodla have for taking.
No fight, no conflict he’d need,
No stratagem nor struggle.

Eastward we sent ambassadors,
To Fatha of Con’s great son;
That he might lead us on,
To seize on Erin’s kingdom.

Great grief had now come on you,
From Tara’s loud-spoken King:
New reason had ye given
Why all of you should perish.

Ossian, tell us now the tale,
When ye fought that sturdy fight.
Did thy son in battle die,
Or had he speech when you him found?

I bent me over valiant Oscar,
Soon as was the slaughter o’er;
Caoilte too did bend him o’er
His seven valiant sons;
Each living man among the Feinn
Bent him o’er his own dear friends.
Some of them had still their speech,
From others life had parted.
Priest of the crosier white,
Whoever saw that slaughter,
’Tis an everlasting grief,
Erin’s nobles thus to die.
Many were the hard round shields,
Many precious coats of mail,
And lifeless warriors on the field.
Nor would our people grieve for this
Were they not a vanquished race.
Little from that field was left us,
Save a king’s or chieftain’s spoil.
There found I my own dear son
Laid, on his left arm resting,
His shattered shield beside him,
While his hand still grasped his sword;
His precious blood on every side,
Flowed swiftly through his harness.
My spear I rested on the earth,
And o’er him stood as he lay;
Then thought I, O tonsured Priest,
What, now lonely, I could do.
Oscar towards me now turns,
’Twas for me a grievous scene;
Forth to me he stretched his hand,
Wishing I should him approach.
Then my dear son’s hand I seized,
And cried out with a bitter cry.
Forward from that time till now,
In this world I’ve useless been.
Thus to me my own son said,
As life was fast departing,

Thanks to the powers above,
That thou’st escaped, dear father.

Nothing do I tell but truth,
A word I could not answer.
Then approached the noble Caoilte,
Who to visit Oscar came.
Gently did Mac Ronain[106] say,

How find’st thou thyself, dear friend?

Just as thou would’st have me be,
Going to a better world.

Cairbar Roy’s spear had pierced,
’Neath the navel, red-armed Oscar;
The arm of Caoilte up to its bend,
Followed in its course the spear.
Caoilte did deeply search the wound,
And well saw how all stood there.
The wound was through to the back,
Torn by the murderous spear.
Mac Ronain gave a loud shriek,
And, fainting, fell to the earth.
Then spake Caoilte, the warrior brave,
Recovering from his faint,

Dear Oscar, no more art thou ours;
Thou and the Feinn must part,
So part must the Feinn with war,
Conn’s race the tribute shall raise.

We had been thus a brief space,
Thou priest, the son of Alpin,
When leaving the slaughter we saw,
All of Fail’s Feinn now living,
There were but two thousand men,
The old and the young together,
And none unwounded returned,
Even of these hundred score.
Nine wounds them grievously pierced,
There were few of them with less.
Then raised we the noble Oscar,
Aloft on the shafts of our spears;
To a fair green knoll we bore him,
That we his dress might remove.
Of his body one hand’s breadth
Was not whole, down from his hair,
Till you reached the sole of his foot,
Save his face, and that alone.
The entrails, the liver, the spleen,
Each draining the body till day.
The sons of the Feinn did then
To a fair knoll them betake;
His own son did no man mourn,
Nor did he mourn his brother:
As they saw how lay my son,
All, all did mourn for Oscar.
Thus was it with us a while,
Watching the fair-skinned hero,
When we saw approach at noon
Finn Mac Cumhail, mac Treinvor.
From the fierce slaughter escaped,
A third of the Feinn still lived,
When they laid the sons of Boisgne
Upon their biers, the fight being o’er.
With gashed limbs the men were halt,
The chiefs a dreadful sight.
We saw the standard of Finn
Raised on the shaft of a spear,
Which from the slaughter they bore;
Gladly to meet it we went.
All of us saluted Finn,
But no salute was returned,
As he climbed the warrior’s hill,
Where deadly-armed Oscar lay.
When by Oscar Finn was seen,
As o’er him sadly he bent,
He turned to him his face,
His grandfather saluting.
Then did my Oscar thus speak
To him who was first of us all:

In death I have my desire,
Noble Finn of pointed arms.

Sad it is, my brave Oscar,
Thou good son of my own son;
After thee I’m but feeble,
And after Erin’s brave Feinn.
The heavy curse of Art aenir
Is on us to our great grief,
From the east it me pursued,
Following me along the field.
Farewell to battle and fame,
Farewell to the victor’s spoils,
Farewell to the many joys,
Which in this body I’ve had.

When Oscar had heard Finn’s wail,
Convulsive pangs did him seize.
Both of his hands he stretched forth,
And his soft fair eyelid fell.
From us then Finn turned away,
And shed many bitter tears.
But for Oscar and for Bran,
Never did he shed a tear.
There was none but Finn and I,
Greater than him of the Feinn.
Then did the men give three shrieks,
Which rung through fair Erin all.
Five score hundred, ten hundred and ten,
There were who belonged to us,
Of the Feinn dead on the field,
The number was nothing less.
No lie it is that double,
With Erin’s king, great tale,
Perished on the other side,
Of Erin’s well-armed men.
Finn cheerful or peaceful never
Was from that down to his death;
Since that fight it touched him sore
That our kings should want their land.
Ever since Gaura’s battle
My speech has lost all its power.
No night or day has e’er passed
Without a sigh for each hour.[107]
To-night.

[101] This is the second composition of M’Rory’s given in the Dean’s MS. The present is as purely Irish in its incidents as the former was Scotch, the author having been in all likelihood, as already shown, a Scotchman, but perfectly familiar with the events of Irish history, and equally so with what is called the Irish dialect, although in the day of the Dean it was common to the literature of both countries, with a few variations. It will be seen, for instance, that in several of these pieces the Irish negative _ni_ and the Scottish _cha_, are used indifferently. This composition has been published at much greater length than here, under the name of Ossian, but from MSS. apparently of no antiquity. This poem is usually called “Cath Ghabhra,” “the battle of Gaura,” or “Bàs Osgair,” “the death of Oscar.”

[102] The “red-tree” knights were the knights of Emania, or Ulster. Cæsar mentions the order of _equites_, or knights, as one of the three great leading classes into which the Gauls were divided; so that the existence of such an order in Ireland, at an early period, is in no way inconsistent with what history relates of ancient Celtic policy. Cairbar was the son of Cormac, son of Art, son of Conn of the hundred battles, Irish kings of the Emanian race. Finn, according to O’ Flaherty, was married to a daughter of Cormac, so that this battle with Cairbar was in reality with his brother-in-law. It seems to have originated in the Feinn, who are said to have been a species of militia, or rather a standing army in Ireland, becoming disposed to stretch their prerogative farther than was agreeable to the monarch, and that the object of Cairbar in this battle was to put them down. It is said that the Feinn were supported by the provincial king of Munster. This is Irish history, and it is remarkable to find these events sung by a Scottish Poet.

[103] Muckrey, or “The island of Swine,” is an ancient name for Ireland, derived obviously, not as it might be in modern times, from the abundance of the animal in the country, where it is the sum total of the family possessions in many instances, but from the place which the sow held, as referred to already, in the national mythology. It is obvious from the reference in this line to a difference with the Feinn, that that was no new event in the history of the Irish monarchs.

[104] Another name for Ireland. O’Flaherty says there were five names for the island, and quotes a scholiast of the name of Fiach, who lived a thousand years before. The names are Ere, Fodla, Banba, Fail, and Elga. Might we not add to these the much-disputed name of Scotia, which our Irish neighbours claim, yet don’t possess. Surely it is time now to perceive that the only true and satisfactory solution of the question regarding it, is that the name was applied to both countries, latterly under the distinctive appellation of Scotia Major and Scotia Minor, as the countries of the Scots. Surely Scotland was as much a Scotia as Ireland, and Ireland as much as Scotland, in so far as they were both occupied by Scottish inhabitants. This identity of race, language, and at an early period religion, is not sufficiently allowed for in discussing questions involving the several claims of Scotland and Ireland to much of what was common to both. Scotland has suffered more than Ireland from the destruction of her early archives; but is not the life of Columba, so recently given to the world under the able editorship of Dr. Reeves, in reality a Scottish work?

[105] “Banva” is another name for Ireland. This is the Gaelic name for a _sucking-pig_, so that it also is probably mythological. It is in all likelihood the same name with our Scottish Banff.

[106] Another name for Caoilte.

[107] It may be interesting to many readers to have here a specimen of this poem, as taken down from the oral recitation of a Christina Sutherland, an old woman in the county of Caithness, in the year 1856. It commences thus:

Is trom an nochd mo chumha fein,
Guilgeantach mo rian,
Smuaineachadh a chath chruaidh,
Chuir mise ’us Cairbar claon ruadh,
Am macsa Chormaic O Chuinn,
Is mairg sinn a thàradh fo ’laimh;
Laoch gun ghràin cha do chuir,
Annsa dh’ a laimh iuthaidh, etc.

Translation:--

My mourning is grievous this night,
Weeping is my condition,
As I think of the fierce fight,
Fought with red, squint-eyed Cairbre,
That son of Cormac O Chuinn;
Woe to them fell into his hands,
Hero who knew no coward fear,
Whose hand took delight in the arrow, etc.

The composition is very much the same with that of the Dean, but in many portions contains lines which the latter wants, and in others is comparatively defective. Although frequently superior in force, it is not, upon the whole, so smooth and regular as the Dean’s edition. It will be given at greater length in the Appendix to this volume.

The author of this here is Fergus the Bard.[108]

High-minded Gaul,[109]
Who combats Finn,
A hero brave,
Bold in assault,
His bounty free,
Fierce to destroy.
Beloved of all,
Gaul, gentle, brave,
Son of great Morn;
Hardy in war,
His praise of old,
A comely man,
King, soldierly, free,
Of no soft speech,
No lack of sense,
Cheerful as great:
In battle’s day
He moved a prince;
Though soft his skin,
Not soft his deed,
Of portly mould,
A fruitful branch,
His heart so pure,
He trains the young.
’Bove mountains high
Rises in victory,
We ever fear
When he assails.
I tell you Finn,
Avoid the man,
Terror of Gaul
Should make you quail;
Soothe him rather,
Better than fight.
Skilful and just,
He rules his men,
His bounty wide,
A bloody man,
First in the schools,
Of gentle blood,
And noble race,
Liberal, kind,
Untired in fight,
No prince so wise,
Brown are his locks,
Marble his skin,
Perfect his form,
All full of grace,
Fierce to exact,
When aught is due,
In vigour great,
Of fairest face,
No king like Gaul.
I tell thee Finn,
His strength as waves
In battle’s crash,
Princely his gait,
Comely his form,
Gaul’s skill’d fence
No play when roused.
Ready to give,
Dreadful his strength,
Manly his mould,
Soldierly, great,
Ne’er could I tell
His grace and power;
A fearful foe,
Ready his hands,
Conceal’d his wrath,
A cheerful face.
Like murmuring seas,
Rushed to the fight,
A lion bold,
As great in deed,
Powerful his arm,
Choice amidst kings.
Joyful his way,
His teeth so white.
’Tis he that wounds,
The greatest foe.
His purpose firm,
A victor sure,
Desires the fight,
In history learn’d,
Warrior bold,
Sharp is his sword,
Contemptuous Gaul,
Plunders at will.
A fearless man,
Wrathful he is,
Dreadful in look,
Leopard in fight,
Fierce as a hound,
Of women loved.
A circle true
E’er by him stood.
He hurls his dart,
No gentle cast.
Soft are his cheeks,
In blossom rich,
Of beauteous form,
Unchanged success;
No stream so swift
As his assault,
Mac Morn more brave,
Than any told,
Of powerful speech,
It far resounds,
He’s truly great,
Liberal, just,
Does not despise,
Yet firm resolves,
Gentle, yet brisk,
Forsakes no friend,
In fight of kings,
No powerless arm.
There, fierce his mien,
And strong his blow.
When roused his wrath,
He’s third of the chase.
Noble Mac Cumhail,
Soothe and promise,
Give peace to Gaul,
Check wrath and guile.

During my day,
Whate’er it be,
I’d give without guile,
A third of the chase.[110]

Let’s hear no more,
Soft dost thou speak,
Finn’s love to Gaul,
And third of the hounds.

Gaul, leave thy wrath,
With us have peace,
Now without grudge,
Thou’st of Finn’s forest third.

That will I take,
Fergus, dear friend,
My wrath is gone,
No more I ask.

Friend without guile,
Lips thin and red,
Bounty and strength,
Shall win thee praise.
High-minded Gaul.

[108] Fergus the Bard was one of the sons of Finn, and consequently brother to Ossian. He was, from all we can learn, the chief Poet of the Feinn. Ossian was both warrior and poet; Fergus was chiefly poet. Fergus was probably somewhat like a modern Gaelic Bard, John Macdonell, commonly called Ian Lom, who, on being urged to fight at the battle between Montrose and Argyle at Inverlochy, replied with well-assumed indignation, “Cha-n e sin mo ghnothuch, cathaichibh sibhse ’us innsidh mise,” _that is not my business,--fight you and I’ll relate_. In one of the odes preserved in the Dean’s MS., Fergus is called “Filidh Feinn Eirinn,” _Bard of the Feinn of Erin_.

[109] This composition is usually called, “Rosg Ghuill,” or the _Ode to Gaul_. Gaul was chief of one branch of the Feinn, the branch denominated “Clann Moirn,” or _the children of Morn_, as Finn was chief of the other branch, called “Clann Baoisgne,” or _the children of Boisgne_. The word “Gall” means _a foreigner_; “muirn” means _a body of men_, or _beauty_, _elegance_, in either sense giving a marked significance to the name. This poem represents a difference between Gaul and Finn, the cause of which will appear as the poem proceeds. Fergus, as was customary with the Bards, interposes as peacemaker, and represents to his father, whom he manifestly holds to be in the wrong, the danger of a difference with Gaul. The ode is a very remarkable one, having a striking resemblance to Ossian’s eulogy on Finn, as given already in this volume. Both bear decided marks of genuineness and antiquity. The language is peculiar, many of the words being obsolete. Indeed, the phonetic orthography of the Dean, the peculiar handwriting, and the discoloration and bad condition of the MS., with the obsoleteness of many of the words, made it a matter of no little labour to decipher the composition at all. There is an edition of it in Miss Brooks’ “Reliques of Irish Poetry,” from which, however, the present differs considerably in many of the lines, besides having several additional lines, and several deficient in some parts. The peculiar rhythm of the original, with the alliterations and vocalic concords, give it remarkable smoothness and force. The rhythm has, as far as possible, been retained in the translation. But besides the language, the sentiment of the piece is strong evidence of its antiquity. Those features of character are commended which have always been in favour in a rude age. Bodily strength, courage, manliness, and size, are dwelt on with all the warmth of an ardent admiration; while as much of literary cultivation is pointed out and commended, as would show the acquaintance of the hero with the traditions of his race. Gaul is said to have been “eagnaidh a stair,” _learned in history_. This and the ode to Finn have internal evidence of being compositions belonging to a very remote age.

[110] It would appear from this latter part of the poem, that the difference between Finn and Gaul concerned the right to hunt. It would appear that such a cause of controversy is no modern affair, but that game and game-laws had their place among human interests and human contentions from the earliest period of our country’s history. Finn seems to have claimed the right of chase over the whole territory of the Feinn. Gaul resisted and claimed a share for the race of Morn. Hence the contest giving Gaul the appellation of “Fear cogaidh Fhinn,” or _resister of Finn_. Fergus’s intervention resulted in Gaul’s obtaining from Finn, with good will, one-third of the territory called here “fiodh,” or _wooded territory_, and one-third of the hounds. There is a curious reference to these hunting rights in one of the poems in praise of the M’Gregors, given in an after-part of this volume, in which it is said that Finn himself dare not hunt without leave.

The author of this is Fergus the Bard.[111]

Tell us now, Fergus,
Bard of Erin’s Feinn,
How did fare the day
In Gawra’s furious fight.

Not good, son of Cumhail,
The tidings from Gawra’s fight.
Dear Oscar lives no more,
He who bravely fought;
Caoilte’s seven sons are gone,
With the commons of Alvin’s Feinn.
The youth of the Feinn have fallen,
All in their warlike robes.
Mac Luy too is dead,
With six of thy father’s sons.
Fallen are the youth of Alvin,
Dead are the Feinn of Britain.[112]
Lochlin’s king’s son is dead,
Who came to give us aid,
He of the manly heart,
And arm at all times strong.
Tell them now, O Bard,
My son’s son, my delight,
How it was that Oscar
Hewed the helmets through.
It would be hard to tell,
’Twould be a heavy task,
To number all that fell,
Slain by the arms of Oscar.
No swifter is a cataract,
Or hawk in sweeping stoop,
Or rapids rushing fast,
Than in that fight was Oscar.
You saw him, last of all,
Like leaves in windy weather,
Or like a noble aspen,
When hewers strike its stem.
When Erin’s King he saw,
Still living ’midst the fight,
Oscar swift approached him,
As waves break on the strand.
When Cairbar this observed,
He shook his hungry spear,
And through him drove its point.
Chiefest of all our griefs!
Yet Oscar did not quail,
But made for Erin’s King;
With force he aimed a blow,
And smote him with his sword.
Then Art mac Cairbar fell,
Struck with the second blow.
So ’twas that Oscar perished,
With glory, as a King.
Fergus the bard am I,
I’ve travelled every land,
I grieve after the Feinn,
To have my tale to tell.
Tell.

[111] This is another of the compositions of Fergus, the son of Finn, and brother of Ossian. It will be found to be an account of the death of Oscar at the battle of Gaura. One composition on this subject by Allan M’Rory has been given already. M’Rory’s appears to be the more modern of the two, besides being inferior in many respects to this. The account of Oscar’s death given here, is in the way of reply to an inquiry of Finn.

[112] Here we have in this very ancient composition reference to the Feinn of Britain, Britain including then as now England, Scotland, and Wales. If the Feinn belonged to Britain as well as Ireland, they could not have been a mere Irish militia.

This tale is by Gilliecallum M’ an Olave.[113]

I have heard a tale of old,
A tale that should make us weep;
’Tis time to relate it sadly,
Although it should fill us with grief.
Rury’s[114] race of no soft grasp,
Children of Connor and Connal;
Bravely their youth did take the field,
In Ulster’s noble province.
None with joy returned home
Of Banva’s proudest heroes.
For as they once more tried the fight,
Rury’s race did win the day.
There came to us, fierce his mien,
The dauntless warrior, Conlach,
To learn of our beauteous land,
From Dunscaich[115] to Erin.
Connor spoke thus to his men,
“Who’s prepared to meet the youth,
And of him to take account;
Who will take no refusal?”
Then the strong-armed Connal went,
Of the youth to take account;
The end of their fight was this,
Conlach had bound Connal.
Yet the hero did not halt,
Conlach, brave and vigorous,
He bound a hundred of our men,
It is a strange and mournful tale.
To the hounds’ great chief[116] a message
Was sent by Ulster’s wise king,
To sunny, fair Dundalgin,[117]
The old, wise fort of the Gael,
That stronghold of which we read,
And the prudent daughter of Forgan.[118]
From thence came he of great deeds
To see our generous king;
To know of Ulster’s great race,
There came to us the red branch[119] Cu,
His teeth like pearl, cheeks like berries.
“Long,” said Connor to the Cu,
“Has been thine aid in coming,
While Connal, who loves bold steeds,
Is bound and a hundred more.”
“Sad for me to be thus bound,
Friend, who could’st soon unloose me.”
“I couldn’t encounter his sword,
And that he has bound brave Connal.”
“Refuse not to attack him,
Prince of the sharp, blue sword,
Whose arm ne’er quailed in conflict,
Think of thy patron now in bonds.”
When Cuchullin of the thin-leaved sword
Heard the lament of Connal,
He moved in his arm’s great might
To take of the youth account.
“Tell us now that I have come,
Youth who fearest not the fight,
Tell us now, and tell at once,
Thy name, and where’s thy country?”
“Ere I left home I had to pledge
That I should never that relate;
Were I to tell to living man,
For thy love’s sake I’d tell it thee.”
“Then must thou with me battle do,
Or tell thy tale as a friend.
Choose for thyself, dear youth,
But mind, to fight me is a risk.
Let us not fight, I pray thee,
Brave leopard, pride of Erin,
Boldest in the battle field,
My name I would tell unbought.”
Then did they commence the fight,
Nor was it the fight of women.
The youth received a deadly wound,
He of the vigorous arm.
Yet did Cuchullin of battles,
The victory on that day lose.
His only son had fallen, slain,
That fair, soft branch, so gentle, brave.
“Tell us now,” said skilful Cu,
“Since thou art at our mercy,
Thy name and race, tell us in full,
Think not to refuse thy tale.”
“Conlach I, Cuchullin’s son,
Lawful heir of great Dundalgin,
It was I thou left’st unborn,
When in Skiath[120] thou wast learning.
Seven years in the east I spent,
Gaining knowledge from my mother;
The pass by which I have been slain
Was all I needed still to learn.”
Then does the great Cuchullin see[121]
His dear son’s colour change;
As of his generous heart he thinks,
His memory and mind forsake him;
His body’s excellency departs,
His grief it was destroyed it;
Seeing as he lay on the earth
The rightful heir of Dundalgin;
Where shall we find his like,
Or how detail our grief?
I have.

[113] This is the composition of a Poet of whom we know nothing save what we find in this volume. From a poem of his in praise of the M’Gregors, he would appear to have been a Scotchman. The name signifies Malcom, the son of the chief bard or the physician. It is found still in the form of M’Inally. This poem is the Celtic edition of the Persian tale of Zohrab and Rustum. The incidents are so similar, that the two tales must have had a common origin. Whether the Persians received the tale from the Celts, or the Celts from the Persians, or both from some other and older source, it is hard to say. The composition is in Gaelic, usually called, “Bàs Chonlaoich,” or _The death of Conlach_.

[114] Clann Rughraidh, a powerful race, who occupied the province of Ulster at an early period, after having expelled the Clann Deaghaidh, or the Dalcassians, afterwards of Munster.

[115] Dunscaich, a stronghold in the Isle of Skye, on the coast of Sleat, of which the ruins still exist.

[116] Cuchullin, or the hound of Cullin, was a famous Celtic warrior, whose fame is celebrated both in Scotland and Ireland. The name is a curious one, and is thought by some critics to indicate the existence of Anubis worship, or the worship of the dog, among the ancient Celts. There is a Cullin in Skye, and another in Ireland. From which of these the name was taken it is difficult to say. Certainly the Skye mountain is by far the more magnificent natural object, and Dunscaich is unquestionably in Skye.

[117] Dundalgin is said to be the modern Dundalk.

[118] Cuchullin’s wife is said to have been unwilling that he should engage Conlach.

[119] Cù is a dog or hound. The “red branch” heroes were the knights of Ulster, the most famous of the Irish military orders. Cuchullin is often called “Cù nan con,” or _The hound of hounds_.

[120] The Isle of Skye.

[121] The touching incident in this story is the death of the son by the hand of his own father. It is said that Conlach’s mother, in revenge for Cuchullin’s forsaking her, had laid her plans for securing this object, and had sent her son into Ireland under vow never to disclose his name until overcome in battle.

The author of this is the Blind O’Cloan.[122]

’Tis the sigh of a friend from Fraoch’s green mound,
’Tis the warrior’s sigh from his lonely bier,[123]
’Tis a sigh might grieve the manly heart,
And might make a maid to weep.
Here to the east the cairn, where lies
Fraoch Fitheach’s son of softest locks,
Who nobly strove to favour Mai,
And from whom Cairn[124] Fraoch is named.
In Cruachan east a woman weeps,
A mournful tale ’tis she laments;
Heavy, heavy sighs she gives
For Fraoch mac Fithich of ancient fame.
She ’tis, in truth, who sorely weeps,
As Fraoch’s green mound she visits oft;
Maid of the locks that wave so fair,
Mai’s daughter so beloved of men.
This night Orla’s soft-haired daughter,
Lies side by side with Fraoch mac Fithich.
Many were the men who loved her,
She, of them all, loved Fraoch alone.
Mai is filled with bitter hate,
As the love of Fraoch she learns.
His body got its grievous wounds,
Because with her he’d do no wrong;
She doomed him to a bitter death:
Judge not of women by her deed,
Grief ’twas that he should fall by Mai,
Yet I’ll relate it without guile. A sigh.[125]

A rowan tree stood in Loch Mai,
We see its shore there to the south;
Every quarter every month,
It bore its fair, well-ripened fruit;
There stood the tree alone, erect,
Its fruit than honey sweeter far;
That precious fruit so richly red,
Did suffice for a man’s nine meals;
A year it added to man’s life,--
The tale I tell is very truth.
Health to the wounded it could bring,
Such virtue had its red-skinned fruit.
One thing alone was to be feared
By him who sought men’s ills to soothe:
A monster[126] fierce lay at its root,
Which they who sought its fruit must fight.
A heavy, heavy sickness fell
On Athach’s daughter, of liberal horn;
Her messenger she sent for Fraoch,
Who asked her what ’twas ailed her now.
Mai said her health would ne’er return,
Unless her fair soft palm was filled
With berries from the deep cold lake,
Gleaned by the hand of none but Fraoch.
“Ne’er have I yet request refused,”
Said Fithich’s son of ruddy hue;
“Whate’er the lot of Fraoch may be,
The berries I will pull for Mai.”
The fair-formed Fraoch then moved away
Down to the lake, prepared to swim.
He found the monster in deep sleep,
With head up-pointed to the tree. A sigh.

Fraoch Fithich’s son of pointed arms,
Unheard by the monster, then approached.
He plucked a bunch of red-skinned fruit,
And brought it to where Mai did lie.
“Though what thou did’st thou hast done well,”
Said Mai, she of form so fair,
“My purpose nought, brave man, wilt serve,
But that from the root thou’dst tear the tree.”
No bolder heart there was than Fraoch’s,
Again the slimy lake he swam;
Yet great as was his strength, he couldn’t
Escape the death for him ordained.
Firm by its top he seized the tree,
And from the root did tear it up:
With speed again he makes for land,
But not before the beast awakes.
Fast he pursues, and, as he swam,
Seized in his horrid maw his arm.
Fraoch by the jaw then grasped the brute,
’Twas sad for him to want his knife:
The maid of softest waving hair,
In haste brought him a knife of gold.
The monster tore his soft white skin,
And hacked most grievously his arm.
Then fell they, sole to sole opposed,
Down on the southern stony strand,
Fraoch mac Fithich, he and the beast,
’Twere well that they had never fought.[127]
Fierce was the conflict, yet ’twas long,--
The monster’s head at length he took.
When the maid what happened saw,
Upon the strand she fainting fell.
Then from her trance when she awoke,
In her soft hand she seized his hand:
“Although for wild birds thou art food,
Thy last exploit was nobly done.”
’Tis from that death which he met then,
The name is given to Loch Mai;
That name it will for ever bear,
Men have called it so till now. A sigh.

They bear along to Fraoch’s green mound
The hero’s body to its grave.
By his name they call the glen,
Sad for those he left behind.
Cairn Laive is the hill beside me,
Close by it many a happy day
The hero lived, of matchless strength,
The bravest heart in battle’s day.
Lovely those lips with welcomes rich,
Which woman liked so well to kiss;
Lovely the chief whom men obeyed,
Lovely those cheeks like roses red,
Than raven’s hue more dark his hair,
Redder than hero’s blood his cheeks;
Softer than froth of streams his skin,
Whiter it was than whitest snow;
His hair in curling locks fell down,
His eye more blue than bluest ice;
Than rowans red more red his lips,
Whiter than blossoms were his teeth;
Tall was his spear like any mast,
Sweeter his voice than sounding chord;
None could better swim than Fraoch,
Who ever breasted running stream.
Broader than any gate his shield,
Joyous he swung it o’er his back;
His arm and sword of equal length,
In size he like a ship did look.
Would it had been in warrior’s fight
That Fraoch, who spared not gold, had died;
’Twas sad to perish by a Beast,
’Tis just as sad he lives not now.
’Tis the sigh.

[122] The author of this composition is altogether unknown, nor is it easy to decipher even the name accurately. In the original it is distinctly “in keich o cloan.” According to the Dean’s usual orthography, this should be “An caoch O’Cluain,” which means the _blind O’ Cloan_, or the _blind man from the green mound_. Some of the readers of the MS. have made it out to be the name of a woman. We have given the form of the name most likely to be accurate. The composition itself is usually called “Bàs Fhraoich,” or _the death of Fraoch_.

[123] “Caiseal chrò,” usually translated _bier_, is a curious term. “Caiseal” means a _castle_ or _stronghold_, “crò,” a _fold_ or _pen_; so that the word really means the _stone pen_, or _fortified pen_. Is not this in all likelihood the stone coffin, with which we are so familiar in ancient Celtic sepulture?

[124] It is not easy identifying the topography of this poem. It is generally believed in Perthshire that the scene of Fraoch’s death was in Glen Cuaich, a valley lying between those of the Tay and the Almond. We have a Loch Fraoch there, but I have not been able to identify Carn Fraoich, or Carn Laimh. Cruachan is spoken of as lying to the east, which goes rather in favour of the opinion, that the scene of the poem was in Argyleshire, Ben Cruachan being to the east of the locality so designated in that part of the country. I cannot find any lake in Scotland now called Loch Mai, although Loch Fraoch may have been so called.

[125] The introduction of the “sigh,” would seem to indicate that a sigh was expected at certain parts of the poem from the reciter.

[126] It is needless to point out the analogy between this tale and that of Hercules and the garden of the Hesperides. It will strike any one acquainted with the classical story.

[127] The story is simple and intelligible. Mai loved Fraoch, and became jealous of her own daughter, usually called Gealcheann, or Fairhead. She accordingly planned and accomplished Fraoch’s destruction as related.

The author of this is Connal Cearnach M’Edirskeol.[128]

These heads, O Connal, are worthless;
Though thou must have blooded thine arms.
These heads thou bear’st upon that withe,
Can’st tell their owners, now thy spoil?

Daughter of Orgill of the steeds,
Youthful Evir, so sweet of speech,
’Twas to avenge Cuchullin’s death,
That I took these numerous heads.

Whose is that hairy, black, great head,
With cheeks than any rose more red,
That which hangs nighest thy left arm,
The head whose colour has not changed?

That head the king of swift steeds own’d,
Said Cairbar’s son of vigorous lance;
In vengeance for my foster son,
I took that head and bore it far.

What head is that I see beyond,
Covered with smooth, soft, flowing hair,
His eye like grass, his teeth like bloom,
His beauty such as none is like?

Manadh, the man that own’d the steeds,
Aoife’s son, who plunder’d every sea;
I left his trunk ’reft of its head,
I slew his people, every man.

What head is that I see thee grasp,
Great Connal of the gentle streams;
Since that Cuchullin[129] now is dead,
Whom to avenge him did’st thou take?

’Tis the head of Mac Fergus of steeds,
He in extremity so bold,
My sister’s son from the tall tower,
His head I from his body wrenched.

What fair-haired head is that to the east,
Whose hand might well have seized the heads;
Well did I know his voice of old,
For he and I were friends awhile?

Down there it was the Cu did fall,
His body cast in fairest mould;
Cu, son of Con, of poets’ king,
Among the last I took his head.

What two heads are those farthest out,
Great Connal of the sweetest voice;
Of thy great love hide not from me
The names of them so dark in arms?

’Tis Laoghar’s head and that of Cuilt,
The two who fell pierced by my arms;
One of them had Cuchullin struck,
Hence his red blood my weapons dyes.

What two heads are those to the east,
Great Connal of the famous deeds;
Alike the colour of their hair,
Than hero’s blood more red their cheeks?

Cullin the handsome, and Cunlad brave,
Two who e’er triumphed in their wrath;
Evir, their heads are to the east,
I left their bodies streaming red.

What are those six hideous heads
I see in front facing the north;
Blue in the face, their hair so black,
From which thou turn’st thy look, brave Connal?

These are six of Cuchullin’s foes,
Calliden’s sons, who triumphed oft;
These are now the senseless six
Who all, full armed, fell by my hand.

Great Connal, father to a king,
What is that head, noblest of all;
How bushy the golden yellow locks,
Covering it with so much grace?

The head of M’Finn, M’Ross the red,
The son of Cruith, slain by my stroke;
Evir, he was king, chief of them all,
In Leinster of the spotted swords.

Great Connal, now please change thy tale,
Tell us the number slain by thine arm,
Of all the noble famous men,
In vengeance for the head of Con?

Ten and seven score hundred men,
I tell the truth, the number is,
That fell by me, all back o’er back,
Fruit of my bravery and power.

Connal, tell how the women feel
In Innisfail, the Cu being dead;
Do they sadly, sorely mourn,
Now that like me themselves have grief?

O Evir, what am I to do,
Now that my Cu is ta’en away;
My foster-son of fairest form,
Now that he’s left me desolate?

O Connal, lay me in my grave,
And raise my stone o’er that of Cu;
In grief I’ll soon from this depart,
Let my lips touch Cu’s lips in death.

Evir am I, of fairest form,
No vengeance can me satisfy;
In tears no pleasure I can find,
’Tis sad that I am left behind.[130]
Connal.

[128] This is the most ancient of all the Ossianic Poets. He was contemporary of Cuchullin, who flourished, according to Irish historians, in the first century. Cuchullin was his foster-son, and upon his being slain, Conall took vengeance upon his enemies by putting them all to death. In this poem he tells Evir, who was either the wife or the betrothed of Cuchullin, the names of those thus put to death, and whose heads he carried on a withe. The name M’Edarscoil is represented now by that of O’Driscol; “Cearnach” means _victorious_, so that the poet’s name is really, The Victorious Conall O’Driscoll.

[129] Cuchullin, or _The Hound of Cullin_, is often spoken of simply as “An Cu,” or _The Hound_. In the Gaelic this is either “Cu” or “Con,” according as the word is in the nominative or genitive case. In the English version it is uniformly translated Cu, as it would be impossible to follow intelligibly the variations of the Gaelic grammar in the cases of a proper noun.