Chapter VII: Introduction (6)

[130] This poem is usually called “Laoidh nan ceann,” or _The Lay of the Heads_. It bears many marks of genuineness and antiquity. It is well known in the Highlands, but the Editor has never seen or heard any reference to its authorship, except in the MS. of the Dean.

The author of this is Caoilte Mac Ronan.[131]

I set me off to rescue Finn,
To Taura of the joyful streams;
With arms sure of victory,
To Cormac, son of Art Aonir.[132]
I will not put forth my strength,
Though bloody and light of foot,
Until that with the Feinn of Fail,
We have reached the shore of Loch Foyle.
Then did we slay the mighty hero,
When we had slain Cuireach.[133]
We killed a mighty warrior
When we had killed their leader.
We bore his head up to the hill,
Which lies above Buadhamair.[134]
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
For the hero’s sake I slew
A man in every town[135] in Erin.
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
For the hero’s sake I brought
Grief into every house in Erin.
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
The calves I slew with the cows,
Whom I found in all fair Erin.
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
The doors on which the red wind[136] blew,
I threw them each one widely open.
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
The fields all ripe throughout the land,
I set them then a blazing brightly.
Then indeed I had my triumph,
For I made a total havoc.
In my day there won’t be seen
Either mill or kiln in Erin.
Then it was they loosed against me
The horse of Albin and of Erin.
My fleetness gave me victory,
Until I reached Ros illirglass.
Then I westward took my way
To Taura, although great the distance;
Not one horse of all the troop
Had Taura reached so soon as I did.
In Taura then I gave that day
The wife of him who cared not for her.
I gave the wife of him who cared not,
To him who cared for his as little;
In noble Taura then I gave
The wife of Cairbar to Cormac.
The wife of Cormac also gave,
Just as I had done, to Cairbar.
The king’s sword then I firmly seized,
A sword of matchless power and virtue;
My own sword, fit for little now,
I left it in the sheath of Cormac.
Then I passed me quickly over,
And from the door-keeper got his garment.
From whence it happened, it is true,
I became candlestick to Cormac.
Then did I many strange things do,
In presence of the King of Erin.
“Though ye may wonder at my speech,
Caoilte’s two eyes are in my candlestick.”
“Say thou not so,” said noble Finn,
The fair-haired prince of all the Feinn;
“Though I may now thy prisoner be,
Cast not reproach upon my people,
Such is not Caoilte’s noble nature,
Nought he does but what is generous.
He would not hold a servile candle
For any gold that earth may yield.”
Then did I draw forth his drink
For the excellent, manly king.
Four steps, one after the other,
I went along with him to serve him.
Then I betook myself to his right,
’Twas one source of my sharp sorrow;
I gave him of my own free will
A dirge so grating, loud, and mournful.
“Strange that he should give me this,”
Said the clever, well-formed king.
“The music smells of Caoilte’s own skin,
This mournful, unharmonious dirge.”
“Do not thou say so, O King,”
Said I, in his servant’s garb;
“These are boastful words thou speak’st.
’Tis worthy of one loving music.”
“By my hand, most noble Caoilte,
As Finn has been the Feinn’s great chief,
Though, as I am, no pledge I’ll give
To the men of Alb’ or Erin.”
As I plainly saw he knew me,
I now did boldly ask of Cormac,
“Thou wilt tell me how I may
Freedom purchase for my patron.”
“Thou shalt not have Finn made free,
I say, on any one condition,
Save this condition, noble Caoilte,
One thou never can’st fulfil;
That thou should’st obtain for me
Of all wild animals a pair,
Then to thee I’d give thy patron,
So soon as thou such pledge redeem’st.”
I seized upon the pleasing words
Of Cormac Mac Airt Inir,
That he would freedom give the king
So soon as I fulfilled such promise.
When I had thus by promise bound
Erin’s noble fair-haired king,
Though I had a trying task,
I set off to keep th’ agreement.
From Taura I a journey took,
A journey over all the land.
I gathered in the flocks of birds,
Though they were so very scattered.
Two fierce _geilts_ I brought along,
And two fine tall and long-clawed ospreys,
And ravens from Fee ya von;
Two wild ducks from Loch a Sellin,
Two crows down from Slieve Cullin,
Two wild oxen brought from Borrin,
Two swans I brought from Dobhran gorm,
Two owls from the wood of Faradrum,
Two polecats from Coiltie creive,
On the side of Druma Dabhran.
Two otters also I took with them,
From the rock of Donavan doivin,
Two gulls from the strand of Loch Lee,
Two _rualls_ from Port Lairge,
Four woodpeckers from Brosna ban,
Two plovers from Carrig dunan,
Two _eachts_ from Eachta ard,
Two thrushes from Letter Lomard,
Two wrens from Dun Aoife,
Two _geingeachs_ from Corrie dhu,
Two herons from Corrin Cleith,
Two gledes from Magh a Foyle,
Two eagles from Carrig nan clach,
Two hawks from Ceindeach forest,
Two sows from Loch Meilghe,
Two water-hens from Loch Earn,
Two moor-fowls from Monadh maith,
Two sparrow-hawks from Dulocha,
Two stone-chats from Magh Cullin,
Two tomtits from Magh Fualainn,
Two _caschans_ from Glen Gaibhle,
Two swallows from the Old Abhla,
Two cormorants from Dublin,
Two wolves from Crotta cliath,
Two blackbirds from Traigh dha bhan,
Two roe from Luachair Ir,
Two pigeons from Ceis Charran,
Two nightingales from Letter Fin chul,
Two plovers from Letter roy,
Two starlings from Taura the green,
Two rabbits from Sith dubh donn,
Two wild boars from Cluaidh chur,
Two cuckoos from Drum a daive,
Two grey birds from Laigheande,
Two lapwings from Lanan Furrich,
Two woodcocks from Craobh maidh,
Two hawks besides from Sliabh glé,
Two grey mice from Limerick,
Two otters from the Boyne,
Two larks from Monadh mòr,
Two bats from the cave of Cno,
Two badgers from the lands of Ullanach,
Two cornrails from Shannon valley,
Two water-wagtails from Bruach Bire,
Two curlews from the sea of Galway,
Two hares from Muirtheimhne,
Two eagles from the wood of Luaraidh,
Two hinds from Sith Buy,
Two _geiseadachs_ (peacocks) from Magh Mall,
Two _cith cenceachs_ from Cnamh choille,
Two yellow-hammers from Bruach Bru,
Two eels from the Black Water,
Two goldfinches from Sliabh da eun,
Two _cathails_ from Bray an Turla,
Two birds of prey from Magh builg,
Two coloured swallows from Granard,
Two fierce ospreys from Gruing,
Two redbreasts from the Great wood,
Two _bliorachs_ from Dun nam barc,
Two rock cod from Cala cairge,
Two whales from the great sea,
Two eels from Loch M’Lennan,
Two _gearrgarts_ from Magh nan Eilean,
Two little birds (wrens) from Mias a chuil,
Two fish (salmon) from Eas M’Moirn,
Two fine roe from Glen Smoil,
Two cows from Achadh Maigh Moir,
Two swift otters from Loch Con,
Two wild cats from the cave of Cruachain,
Two sheep from Sith Doolan gil,
Two sows of the sows of Mac Lir;
A ram and a red nimble sheep
I brought with me from Ennis.
I brought with me a horse and mare
Of the fine stud of Mananan;
A bull and cow in calf from Drumcan,
These I had from Muirn Munchain.
Ten hounds of the hounds of the Feinn
Did Cormaig insolently require.
Whatever thing he asked of me,
I brought it with me as I came.
When I had them all collected,
And brought them to one plain,
And sought to have them in control,
They all of them did scatter widely.
The raven flew away to the south,
A cause to me of much vexation;
I caught it in Glen da bhan,
By the side of deep Loch Lurgan.
The duck did also me forsake,
Nor was it easier to take it;
Over swift and swollen streams,
I chased it to Achin dughlas.
Then I seized it by the neck,
Although it was not very willing.
I took this duck along with me
That I might liberate Finn from Cormaig.
Of all the ills that I have met,
During all my life on earth,
Never shall my heart forget
This, till my body is in the grave:
With small birds, and with other birds,
How I strove along to drive them,
Travelling over hills and ditches,
That with them I soon might reach him;
While he still held Finn in bonds,
And thought that I could never find them;
And if I could but find him these,
Then was he bound to give him freedom.
This race that I had swiftly run,
Was such as no man ran before me.
Then I brought them all to Taura,
To the chief who ruled the palace;
Then had I further much to suffer,
That night was to me very grievous.
Within the town there was a stronghold,
To which by nine doors there was entrance.
Cormaig ’twas gave me the house,
As I now was very wearied.
Where I saw that they were placed
In the narrow, horrid dungeon;
Then came a loud and vigorous scream
From the throats of all the gathering.
There was a little ray of light
Reached them in through fifty openings.
Every door was closely shut,
Nor was the case an easy one;
They mournfully shut closely up,
While I as sadly was excluded.
My heart did now pour out its grief,
Watching by the doors till morning.
Though great the evil I had suffered,
As before they flew so swiftly,
Not one I suffered to escape
Till the day rose in the morning.
The name men gave to this great rabble
Was “Caoilte’s rabble,” and no wonder.
To see them standing side by side,
Was all the profit got by Cormag.
For when Finn did get his freedom,
All of them did scatter widely;
No two nor three of all did go
From Taura in the same direction.
My own swiftness and Finn’s escape
Was a miracle from heaven;
The three great things to me which happened
Were these and gathering that host.
It is security for my fame,
I believe in Christ, and in this,
Though great my gathering for Finn,
I have nought of which to boast.
Though long my leap to the east,
In Taura of the Fenian heroes,
Long was my leap to the west,
In Taura, twenty hundred feet,
Agile then was my leap,
Which amongst strangers I did take,
While the point of my foot alone yielded,
Slow is now any expedition I make.
I set me off.

[131] This is a remarkable composition, descriptive of an attempt of Caoilt to deliver his friend and patron Finn from the hands of Cormac M’Art, King of Ireland, against whom the Feinn had been stirring up rebellion. Caoilt, after various strange doings, is told that he can only have Finn’s liberty on condition of bringing to Tara a pair of all the wild animals in Ireland. A portion of the poem has been translated in Ireland, and published in the _Dublin University Magazine_ for March 1854, in connexion with an interesting paper upon the food of the ancient Irish, and the early zoology of their country, by Dr. Wilde. The translation is by that eminent Irish scholar, Mr. E. O’Curry. In that paper the poem is said to be at least a composition of the ninth century. It must be of extreme antiquity, as a reference to the language of it presents an amount of difficulty owing to obsolete words and phrases rarely met with. The Editor had the advantage of submitting his work to the review of Mr. O’Curry. For the topography of the poem, which is altogether Irish, the Editor has to refer the reader to the notes to the paper in the number of the _Dublin University Magazine_, referred to above, which are very full and very instructive.

[132] Art, King of Ireland, was called “Aonfhir,” or _The Solitary_, from his love of solitude.

[133] Cuireach was a famous Leinster prince.

[134] Buadhamair, the ancient name of Cahir, in Tipperary.

[135] In Gaelic, a farm is called “baile,” _a town_.

[136] The red wind, a magical wind said to blow in Ireland, and to be very destructive.

No author’s name given.[137]

There lies beneath that mound to the north
Mac Cumhal’s son, in battle firm.
Of Dearg’s daughter the white-tooth’d son,
In wrath who never harshly spoke.
There lies beneath that mound to the south
Mac Conn’s son, his skin like bloom,
The man who never met his match,
Whose arm in fight dealt no soft blows.
There lies beneath that mound to the east
Oscar, so brave, famous in deeds.
Though the Clan Morn were famous men,
He counted them of little weight.
There lies beneath that mound to the west
The man by women thought so fair,
M’Ronan for his beauty famed,
Beneath the mound to the west he lies.
Beneath the mound that is below me
Lies he so famed for ugly pate;
Conan, in every virtue rich,
Beneath the mound below me lies.
There lies.

* * * * *

Gorry, let us go to Finn,
A service which we do not like,
To ask of him the head of Gaul,
That we may lay it down to rest.
I am unwilling to go,
Since I hear not aught of the head,
And that we cannot have revenge,
For the head of the great Mac Morn.
Whether thou willest or not, I will,
Said the great but foolish Conan;
I will slay all the men I can
In vengeance for the yellow-haired Gaul.
Let us kill the three princes of the Feinn,
As we can’t slay Finn himself.
Speak, Gorry, speak quickly out,
Let us be found at once on their hands.
Thou shalt kill great Ossian M’Finn,
I will kill the valorous Oscar,
Dyre shall kill the dauntless Caoilte,
Let them have us all assault.
I shall show no foolish softness,
Gentleness doesn’t suit with Finn;
Though in our arms we all should fall,
We will have no help from Gaul;
If Finn is there his strength will be there,
Let us send Finn down to his grave.
True and guileless are the words
Which to thee I speak, Gorry.
Gorry.

[137] The Fenian poetry to which the Dean has attached the names of the authors, is now all given. We proceed with those whose authors’ names are not attached to them. Many of these are manifestly of the same period with the others, and they may with equal accuracy be attributed to Ossian or others of the Fenian bards.

The author of this is----.[138]

’Twas on a day Finn went to drink
In Alve, with his people few;
Six women and six men were there,
The women fair, with whitest skin.
Finn was there and guileless Diarmad,
Caoilte and Ossian too, and Oscar,
Conan the bald, slow in the field,
With the wives of these six men;
Maighinis the wife of dauntless Finn,
The fair-bosomed maid, my own dear wife,
Fair skin Gormlay, of blackest eye,
Naoif, and the daughter of Angus.
When drunkenness had the women seized,
They had a talk among themselves:
They said that throughout all the earth
No six women were so chaste.
Then said the maiden without guile,
“The world is a many-sided heap;
Though pure are ye, they are not few
Women quite as chaste as you.”
They had been a short time thus,
When they saw a maid approach,
Her covering a single seamless robe,
Of spotless white from end to end;
The maiden of the pure white robe
Drew near to where M’Cumhal sat.
She blessed the king of guileless heart,
And close beside him there sat down.
Finn asks her to give them her tale,
The handsome maid of whitest hand:
“Maid of the seamless robe, I ask,
What virtue’s in thy spotless veil?”
“My seamless robe has this strange power
That women, such as are not chaste,
Can in its folds no shelter find,--
None but the spotless wife it shields.”
“Give my wife the robe at once,”
Said the bulky, senseless Conan,
“That we may learn what is the truth
Of what the women just have said.”
Then Conan’s wife does take the robe,
And in vexation pulls it on;
’Twas truly pity it was done,
Her fair-skinned breast was all exposed.
Then when the bald-pate Conan saw
How that the robe shrunk into folds,
He seized in passion his sharp spear,
And with it did the woman slay.
Then the loved Diarmad’s wife
The robe from Conan’s wife did take;
No better did she fare than she,
About her locks it clung in folds.
Then Oscar’s wife seized on the robe,
Which looked so long and softly smooth;
But wide and large as were its wings,
The robe her middle did not reach.
Then fair Maighinis took the robe,
And put it also o’er her head;
The robe there creased and folded up,
And gathered fast about her ears.
“Give my wife the robe,” said Mac Rea,
“For the result I have no fear,
That we may see, without deceit,
Of her merit further proof.”
“I would pass my word for it,
Though I claim not to be learned,
That never have I once transgressed,
I’ve been faithful aye to thee.”
Mac Rea’s wife now showed her side,
The robe was then put o’er her head;
Her body was covered, feet and hands,
None of it all was left exposed.
Her bosom then one kiss received
From Mac O’Duine, from Diarmad;
The robe from her he then unfolds,
From her who thus did stand alone.
“Women, give me now my robe,
I am the daughter of Deirg the fierce,
I have done nought to cause me shame,
I only erred with sharp-armed Finn.”
“Bear thou my curse, and quick away,”
These were then the words of Mac Cumhail.
On women he denounced a curse,
Because of her who came that day.
’Twas on a day.

* * * * *

The expedition of eight I remember,
Which oft returns to my mind;
Some of their exploits I’ll relate,
Though now my strength is all gone.
Oscar and manly Caoilte were there,
And Mac Luy of ceaseless praise;
Finn and white-toothed Diarmad,
Of the eight heroes these were five.
There were myself and Ryno and Caroll,
A gentle, matchless band;
Bred were we all in Banva’s soil,
These were the names of the eight.
When we set forth, true the tale,
’Twas with a proud and manly step.
From Mac Cumhal’s fort we set out,
The expedition of eight I remember.
First of all we made for Albain,
’Twas with a struggle we reached it,
There a king fell by Mac Cumhal,
The expedition of eight I remember.
We then strove to get to Sasunn,[139]
Exploits and slayings were there;
Every stronghold was seized by Finn,
The expedition of eight I remember.
To Italy we then carried the battle,
And fiercely fought in its harbours;
Triumphs and treaties we had then,
The expedition of eight I remember.
In France did we then make war,
Where we had many great hardships;
Submission and treaties were made,
The expedition of eight I remember.
After that we fought in Spain,
There we had prey and great spoil;
I have traversed the earth in my day,
The expedition of eight I remember.
We next carried war to Britain,
’Twas fearful and full of danger;
Yet did we earn a triumph,
The expedition of eight I remember.
We bore along “Crom nan carn,”[140]
O’er the fierce, stormy sea;
Every land made to us submission,
The expedition of eight I remember.
After it we led the chiefs,
Most gentle and holy Patrick,
Who made their submission to Finn,
The expedition of eight I remember.
Sanctify, O Patrick, my soul,
Thou blessed and privileged man,
For I have sinned in thy sight,
The expedition of eight I remember.
The expedition.

* * * * *

Nine[141] of us once did bind ourselves
To find material for a pup’s head,
To find material for a dog-pup’s head;
Though no attempt was more laborious.
We searched the plain of Leny Leirg,
And Glen Frenich of bloody swords;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
Then did we search a dark, black glen,
A glen of deep corries, full of stones;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
We searched the Sian of Drum Cliff,
Fair after it seemed the plain of Liff;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
We searched in Thurles of liberal hosts,
In Bregian Tara and Dun Dobhran;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
We searched, too, through Glen a Cuaich,
Looking out for something noble;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
We searched Moylena of slopes,
Through Bregian Tara and Kinsale;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
We searched the whole of Eire,
Men and dogs ranging together;
True, we found not there one hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
Shortly were we thus engaged,
Ourselves, our followers, and friends,
When three battalions were seen,
Sons to the King of Rualay.[142]
Cat-headed one battalion was,
Dog-headed was the one beside it;
The other behind them was white-backed,
Brown the rest, though white the back.
Aloft the mighty javelin shone
Of Finn, hero of bloody strength;
Above his noble, murderous shield,
He bore that spear of hundred fights.
Bright was the glitter of the spear
In the white hand of Finn himself.
Beneath the shield of cheerful Caoilte
Was the javelin, bloody in fight;
The javelin glittering below,
Held by Caoilte of joyful heart.
Beneath his round and handsome shield
Cruinchan’s son his javelin bore.
Caoilte gave a loud, far-sounding shout,
In distant Alvin it was heard,
And in Magh Lena of sharp spears,
In Tavar and in Dun Reillin.
’Twas answered loud by Gaul Mac Morn,
The noble chief of Cronwoyn,
Where Faolan, son of Finn, is found,
The Balwas, too, from Borrin.
’Twas answered by Manwoe Breck’s two sons,
And by Mac Elle from Uabreck,
Fair Sciath, the son of Daithein Dian,
And Ceall the brave, of sharp-edged arms.
Keangach the bold gave answer too,
And Iolunn of the bloody edge,
And Ceall the brave, of handsome form,
Who ne’er to scandal’s tale gave ear.
Pleasing the sound of clashing spears,
Pleasing, too, the hum of warriors,
Of waving banners sweet the sound,
As in morn’s frosty wind they rose.
The “Image of the Sun”[143] we raised,
The banner of great Fenian Finn,
Studded all around with gold,
Great was its price as red it gleamed.
We raised “Fulang Duari”[144] aloft,
The banner of great Gaul Mac Morn.
Oft when the javelins were in motion,
’Twas both the first and last to move.
Aloft we raised the “Mincheann Oir,”
Banner of Ryno and his men;
Under its folds were bones and heads
Cloven, and ankles steeped in blood.
The “Cineal chath” we also raised,
The banner of the oaken Faolan;
Finn’s son, chief of the Feinn,
Who cast with powerful arm his spear.
Then we raised aloft “Dun nimh,”
The banner of Ossian of the brave;
The banner of Mac Ronan, “the Red-hand,”[145]
Whose other side was all adorned.
“Sguab Ghabhaidh,” too, we raised aloft,
Banner of the well-armed Oscar,
When the stormy conflict raged,
Oft was “Sguab Ghabhaidh” waving seen.
The “Lia Luinneach” aloft we raised,
The banner of nimble, powerful Diarmaid;
Oft when the men began their march,
’Twas seen to flutter vigorously.
Then was the “Bearn Reubainn” raised,
Banner of Oscar, no saintly sign;
The echo of the glens replied
To its fierce sounds, waving on high.
The “Bloody hand” aloft we raised,
Banner of Mac Luy, and his men;
When the Feinn went forth to fight,
Its place was always in the van.
Then did we fight a bloody fight,
As round the noble Finn we stood,
Round the steel of manly Finn,
First of all the valorous Feinn.
The whole of the Catheads were killed,
The Dogheads we seized to a man;
The whole of the Whitebacks fell
Round dauntless Finn of Alvin.
We found a little hill to the south,
On which was built a double fort;
There indeed we found a hound
From which we could obtain a pup.
The whole of Eire we had searched,
All of us, both men and dogs.
In all its length we could not find
A hundred who could match our nine.
Nine.

* * * * *

Sweet is man’s voice in the land of gold,
Sweet the sounds the birds produce,
Sweet is the murmur of the crane,
Sweet sound the waves at Bun Datreor,
Sweet the soft murmuring of the wind,
Sweet sounds the cuckoo at Cas a choin.
How soft and pleasing shines the sun,
Sweet the blackbird sings his song;
Sweet the eagle’s voice of Easaroy,
Above the sea of great Mac Morn;
Sweet the cuckoo ’mongst the branches,
Sweet the silence of the crane.
Finn Mac Cumhail is my father,
Who nobly leads the Feinn’s seven bands;
When he his hounds lets loose to hunt,
To follow him is truly sweet.
Sweet.

* * * * *

A noble tale of sweetest music,
To Carn Vallar now I’ll bring;
That whether others hear or not,
It may be heard by Mac Cumhail.
Mac Cumhail once had a feast
On Almhuin’s slope, of finest gold;
O’er the music he presided,
Finn who ever graced the feast.
Brave Oscar and Diarmad were there,
And good Mac Luy, warriors bold;
With other two who ne’er shunned fight,
Conan himself, and with him Oscar.
“Tell me now, my warriors brave,
As at the feast of Finn ye sit,
Which do ye count the sweetest music?”
“The clang of gaming,” Conan said,
“The sweetest sounds I ever heard.”
Vigorous his arm before the foe,
Yet ne’er a man who more lacked sense.
“The sound of swords drawing on the foe,”
Said he who never spared in fight,
“Cleaving of men’s heads and legs,”
The sweetest music Oscar heard.
“The sounds which ever pleased me most,”
Said Diarmad of slow rolling eye,
“That I loved most all my life,
Was woman’s voice, as soft she talked.”
“My music, thou son of Morn,”
Said Mac Luy of the glittering arms,
“Is leaping ’midst the tumult of my dogs,
As swift upon the deer they gain.”
“’Tis this that music is for me,”
Said Finn, the chief of all the host,
“To have my banner in the wind,
Heroes ranged by its golden side.”
“When of the bards I had no fear,
Ossian,” he said, as still he spoke;
“And when my Feinn were still around me,
Sweet its music in my ears.”

* * * * *

A great feast was made by Finn,[146]
I tell thee now, O tonsured Priest,
Many were the men were there,
Of the Feine of Alba and Erin.
The great Mac Morn did ask
Of the queen of whitest hand,
“Did’st thou see so rich a feast
Since thou cam’st ’mongst the Feine of Erin?”
Finn of the Feine himself replied,
Chiefest of all both east and west;
He said she saw a richer feast
Than any Fenian feast in Erin.
We then saw coming from the waves
A warrior tall, manly, fair-haired,
No man was with him but himself,
And a noble man he was.
When he had come near the Feine,
Thus did he mildly, wisely say,
“Come, Finn, come along with me,
And take with thee a hundred men;
Thirty sons of the great Morn,
Let them be the first around thee;
One man and eight of thy own sons,
Take them and Oscar of the Feine’s Fians;
Let ten of the sons of Smoil be there,
And twenty of the sons of Ronan;
Let some of Muin’s sons be there,
Other ten, not counting Diarmad;
Take with thee Diarmad O’Duine,
He who could either court or hunt,
Both him and Caroll in thy ship;
Let there be ten of men and crew,
Of thy men take with thee nine,
Of those whom thou’dst most like to have;
Besides them all thyself, O Finn,
Thou dauntless and well-armed man.
Take o’er the waves a hundred men
Of those that follow Finn Mac Cumhail,
A hundred shields with golden studs,
For Finn Mac Cumhail, Mac Tranevor.
Take now with thee also, Finn,
The two best hounds that are in Erin;
Bran and Scoilean[147] take them with thee,
The swiftest-footed of the pack.
Have no fear about thee, Finn,”
The tall and cheerful warrior said;
“Let them all be brought in peace,
And trouble not our men or ships.”
“Foolish the speech thou now hast made,
Thou man who cam’st amongst us;
Wert thou to approach nearer Finn,
Thy body soon would want its head.”
“Little care I for what thou say’st,
Bald-headed Conan of the gibes;
Pity for thy friends that thou art there,
Ugly and feeble as thou art.”
“Rise ye up, ye sons of Boisgne,”
Then spoke Conan, so well known;
Each man did seize a hero’s arms,
From every side the Fians came fast.
Then fell there slain a son of Finn,
One of the stalwart, white-hand Fians,
A man of Mac Morn’s followers too,
A vigorous hand ’midst battle’s blows.
“Fergus, now go rouse thee up,
And mingle boldly in the fight;
Ask whether Gaul has aught to give
To Conan, whom he knows so well.”
“Let Finn himself then be the judge,”
Said the great Gaul of mighty blows;
“Conan or I shall take his head,
Or else his brains we will dash out.”
Fergus, Caol, and thirty are in the glen,
Who never more shall see this earth,
Unknown to all the Feine of Finn.
Sad is my tale, O tonsured Priest.
Much do I weary, valiant Priest,
For now I never see the Feine,
Hunting, as wont, from glen to glen,
With herds of deer on every side.
Much loved I Ossian, son of Finn,
He only never yet forsook me;
But above all the men I saw,
Finn of the feasts I loved most.
A great feast.

* * * * *

’Tis sad that the hill of the Feine,
Should now by the clerics be held,
And that the songs of men of books
Should fill the halls of clan Baoisgne.
I myself was once in Rath Cruachan,[148]
Happily beneath thy banks,
I little thought I e’er should find
A priest upon thy summit dwelling.
There would be found my shield and spear,
My dogs and hounds along thy ridge,
Although to-night the Fenian hill
Is under clerics and their crosiers.
Were the sons of Morn alive,
The priestly order soon must quit;
You would find yourselves cut up,
Ye men of the spotted crooks.
Were Mac Luy alive,
With his six heroes bold,
Ere you had quitted the hill
You’d find your garments curtailed.
Were the sons of Ceard alive,
Who never hypocrisy knew,
Neither your bells nor crooks
Would in place of their banners be found.
Were the sons of Muin alive,
Who knew no weakness in fight,
Men would not see thy people
So powerful amidst our hills.
Were the sons of black Garry alive,
Or Caoilte, who was ever so brave,
Neither the sounds of bells or priests
Would now be heard in Rath Cruachan.
Were red-haired Ryno alive,
And brave Caol, son of Revan,
Thy books would not be so whole,
Oh man, who readest the Bible.
And for all thy hooked crosiers,
Which have travelled over the earth,
Thy staves would be in splinters,
Were only brave Oscar alive.
Thou of the yellow[149] garment,
Who sittest so much at thine ease,
’Tis well for thee that Conan is dead,
Else thou’dst feel the weight of his fist.
Were the blue-eyed hero alive,
Bald Conan, the son of the Feine,
Cleric, though thy office be sacred,
With his fist he’d strike thee down.
Were the son of O’Duine alive,
Thou man of the crooked staff,
Thy staff should be all in shivers,
Smashed at the pillar of stone.
Thou man of the bell, I do think,
If Daoruinn were now in life,
Thy bell would be now in pieces,
Scattered before the pillar.
Were the red point seen, old man,
Of the swift-flying spear of Mac Ronan,
Thy bell would not be faintly sounding,
Thou who sing’st the howling song.
I cannot be joyful now,
I see not Mac Cumhail in life,
I see not Diarmad O’Duine,
I see not Caoilte Mac Ronan.
No wonder though I should be sad,
As I sit on this mound, Patrick.
I see not the son of Luy,
I see not the hero so loved,
I see not Fearluth by my side,
I see not the Fenian Oscar;
I see not warlike exercises,
I see not the noble hounds;
I see not the sons of Smoil,
I see not Gaul of great feats,
I see not the generous Faolan,
I see not with him the Feine.
I see not Fergus, my brother,
So gentle and worthy of praise;
I see not Daire of the songs,
Whose music we always enjoyed.
I see not Fatha[150] Canan,
Whose presence filled us with joy;
I see not one of our band,
Whose noise was like thunder in war.
I see neither music nor joy,
I hear not if music there be,
Ere I was laid in my cave
Freely I scattered my gold.
Patrick, I tell thee it now,
If I chose my knowledge to give,
That ’tis not in my power to relate
How much of their joy I have seen.
I and the mass-book clerics,
Are two that can never agree.
Though this night so mournful I am,
I’m sad for the hill of Feine.
’Tis sad.

* * * * *

I now will tell thee, O Grainne,[151]
What I have seen with Mac Cumhail.
The misery I suffer now
I cannot much longer endure.
I have seen sport and rejoicing
’Mongst those who now are despised.
I have seen maidens and men,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
Courtesy and cheerfulness too,
I’ve seen with feasts, steeds, and shouting.
I’ve seen the violin played,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
Great Caoilte and Mac Luy,
A couple who can’t be despised,
We oft gained nought by their wrath.
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
Gaul and Oscar and Ossian,
A brood who did nought by halves;
These all loved us well,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
Finn himself of fearless heart,
Whose welcome was always sure,
We’ve seen him cheerful too,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
I have in nine battles been,
To me no joy is now left.
Looking on nought but their graves,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
In wrath we crossed over hills,
And over Banva’s fierce tops;
Then in singing their praise,
Employment was found for my lips.
We feared for nought in the valleys,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
I was both long time and short
Traversing Erin the fair;
We were famous and powerful then,
I now will tell thee, O Grainne.
I now will tell.

* * * * *

Once on a day there was in Dundalgin,[152]
Cuchullin of the handsome form;
Joy and merriment were his,
All his people were with him.
When from the drinking hall we rose,
We saw the whole of the Feine.
We strove from their hiding-place to raise
The flocks of birds in the two hills.
The most loved thing of all we had
Was the women of Clan Rury province.
The valley we were in was rough,
We drove the birds to its mouth,
In hopes that we might find a hero.
The father of Conlach chased
The birds with handsome Daoruing,
The sweet-spoken noble of Coll in Galway.
The well-formed sling was then used
With skill by great Cuchullin,
He with the arm of well-known strength;
The birds with speed he kills.
The game was then divided,
None was forgotten but Evir.[153]
Evir took wrath for her share,
’Tis true that prudence was lacking.
’Twas promised her in reparation
That she should have the first birds slain,
Killed on the mountain side,
With the skill of the shot for her fired.
As they travelled they came to a place
Where poets were wont to resort;
Each of them wore round his neck
A chain of the purest gold.
The wife of Cuchullin fell in love
With one of our Ulster Fians,
With the willing and handsome friend
Who came from the Ulster bounds.
Evir of the weighty locks asks
Her agreement with Cuchullin,
That she should now have her birds,
Without excuse about them.
Twice or thrice did he shoot at
The wild birds, but missed his aim;
’Twas a victor’s leap as he shot
Three shots amongst the birds.
The last blow he had struck ere then
Had pierced his own dear son.
Without joy, or women at feasts,
Had he been, as he sadly mourned.
For a whole year he did nought
But grieve for the hero now dead.
’Twas not tales of the Feine he sought,
But to have that tale rehearsed.
If the story men tell be true,
The Cu never ceased to grieve;
The blossomed branch whom women loved,
Sad and grievous was his state.
It happened at length of a time,
A few of the Feine met together.
Finn himself had joined the hunt,
And sent us in pairs to search.
I myself sat with Garry,
Side by side with the King.
Finn put the question to Garry,
As by the King’s side he sat:
“Since that thou wert there,
How was’t ye slew Cumhal?”
“I will now pass my word,[154]
Since to me the question thou putt’st,
That mine was the powerful arm
Which gave the first wound to Cumhal.”
“That is a cold welcome for me,
Ye sons of Morn, as a follower;
’Tis hard indeed for me to bear,
To know that ye slew my father.”
“If that be a cold welcome for you,
Finn, son of Cumhal from Alvin,
Put aside pretended love,
And show your usual hatred.”
“Should I now raise my arm,
Ye hated children of Morn,
I could do all I chose alone,
Without the help of any man.”
“Ere ever thou had’st so moved,
Walking in the steps of thy father,
Lightly could we leap o’er streams,
Were it not for the wiles of Cumhal.
’Twas Cumhal got influence o’er us,
’Twas Cumhal oppressed us sore,
’Twas Cumhal that banished us far,
To the land of the stranger away.
Some he sent to Albin fair,
And some to Lochlin the dark,
The third band to Greece the white,
We all from each other were torn.
Sixteen years were we all
Severed from Erin; ’tis truth,
No small calamity was this,
Never each other to see.
The first day we set foot on shore
In Erin’s isle, so much loved,
We slew, and it is no lie,
At least sixteen hundred men.
These all were slain by Clan Morn,
Their heroes and their chiefs;
There was not a man of them all
But such as their women would mourn.
With that their castles we seized,
We, the noble Clan of Morn,
Our race did bravely then
Before the men of Erin.
By thy hand, hero of the Feine,
There ne’er was seen, east or west,
One thing to cloud my eye,
But seeing the slaughter there;
My heart became tender and soft
As I saw the terrible scene.
We all surrounded one house,
In Munster of the red towers;
But such was the strength of the man,
’Twas easier to find than to kill.
They slew on the opposite hill
All that lived of Cumhal’s race.
We made a joint and rapid rush
To the house where Cumhal still was;
Each man of us gave a wound
With his spear to the body of Cumhal.
Though it was my lot to be there
At the time that Cumhal was slain,
For the deed which then was done,
Take vengeance now if you will.”
Once on a day.

[138] This is a curious episode in Fenian history. Maighineas was the wife of Finn according to Irish writers on Fenian history. The daughter of Deirg was the mother of Ossian, and consequently another of Finn’s wives.

[139] Sasunn, “England,” after the Saxon invasion.

[140] It is difficult to say what this is. “Crom” was a Celtic deity. Here the word seems to indicate a banner. The word “Crom nan cairge” will be found in the second volume of the publications of the Ossianic Society of Ireland, pp. 53, 58.

[141] This is a curious piece. The dog without doubt entered largely into the mythology of the ancient Celts. Some have supposed that it was an object of worship with them. Mr. O’Curry informs the editor that the “Concheannaich or Dogheads were an ancient race who inhabited Magh O’Coin-chinn, now Moygonihy, in Kerry. They were said to be great enemies of Finn. This poem may really describe an attack upon them.” One of the Irish kings was called “Cairbar Cinn Chait,” or _Cairbar of the Cat’s-head_. The latter portion of the poem, referring to the banners of the Feine, has been preserved in tradition, although the editions of it are various.

[142] This seems to have been an imaginary monarch, like many of those in the “Ursgeuls,” or prose tales of the Highlands. At least the Editor has not met with the name elsewhere.

[143] Finn’s banner had inscribed upon it, according to this bard, “Dealbh Ghréine,” or _The image of the Sun_. This word has been corrupted by tradition to “Deo ghréine,” said to be _the sunbeam_, though upon no authority, “deo” in no case signifying “_a beam_.”

[144] The Editor has not attempted to translate these and several others of the emblems of the Fenian leaders. He has given the words as he found them, except when the meaning was obvious and unquestionable.

[145] This heraldic emblem of Caoilte M’Ronan has descended through a long course of ancestors to the modern M’Donalds. It is probably the oldest of the kind in the kingdom.

[146] Hospitality was the most esteemed feature in the character of the Celtic chief. That of Finn is sung with untiring admiration by the poets. This virtue, with bravery, generosity, and liberal giving, no doubt to the poets themselves especially, seemed to make up what they looked upon as a perfect character for their leader. These feasts were apparently affairs of great moment, as the like are in our own day.

[147] Scoilean was the second favourite hound of Finn.

[148] Rath Cruachan, as Irish tradition says, was the chief seat of the Feinn of Connaught, usually called the Sons of Morn. The word “Rath” means a _Fort_, and Cruachan an elevation more than usually steep. It sometimes stands upon another hill, as in Argyleshire, where we have “Cruachan Beinne,” _The hillock upon the mountain_, usually called Ben Cruachan. The word “Rath” enters largely into Scottish topography, and assumes different forms in English, as _Rath_, _Roth_, _Rothie_, _Rait_, _Raits_, etc.

[149] “Yellow” was the favourite colour of the Celts. It seems that St. Patrick adopted it as the clerical colour, very probably as a means of commending himself and his cause to the good-will of the people.

[150] Fatha Canan appears in several of these pieces. He appears as Fatha son of Mac Con, and Faycanan. He was son of Lughaidh Mac Con, a King of Ireland, of the race of Ith, who flourished in the middle of the third century. Hence his name Fatha Mac Mhic Con, _Fatha son of Mac Con’s son_. The Irish say he settled in Scotland, and was progenitor of the Campbells.

[151] Grainne was the wife of Finn, and the poet, whether it be Ossian or some other of the Fenian bards, addresses this description of the glory of Finn and his followers to her.

[152] The following piece seems to be made up of fragments. Mr. O’Curry, who has obligingly taken the trouble to examine it, suggests that it contains fragments of four different pieces: The Irish bardic account of the name of “Srubh Brain,” or the “Raven’s snout,” at Loch Swilly; the legend of “Cuchullin’s sick-bed;” the death of Conlaoch; and a short but imperfect account of the battle of Cnucha, in which Cumhal was killed. The piece is given as in the MS., and if thus made up, is just as it was written in the beginning of the sixteenth century. The Editor has to state, however, that the leaves which contain it are so discoloured, and the writing so defaced, that he has had the greatest difficulty in deciphering it at all, and for many of the words he cannot be answerable except as guesses. Mr. M’Lachlan of Aberdeen, who transcribed the greater portion of the MS., did not transcribe this piece; and it is given now merely from the desire to withhold nothing in it that may be of value or interest.

[153] Evir was the wife of Cuchullin.

[154] It is here that Garry’s account of the battle of Cnucha commences. The account, as Mr. O’Curry says, may be imperfect; but the gathering together of such fragments, and comparing them with one another, cannot but be interesting to the student of early Celtic history. There is interest in the variety, irrespective of the question of comparative merit as between the different compositions. This may be a Scotch version of an Irish story.

The author of this is Duncan Mor from Lennox.[155]

Pity the man who lost his voice,
When he is called on to recite,
Who cannot speak so fast as needs be,
And yet’s unwilling to give up.
Who cannot sing an air or tune,
And cannot well recite a lay.
Who cannot put aside his harp,
Yet cannot sing as he would wish.
Pity him ever with his “dring, drang,”
Trying his verses to recite,
When men can neither hear his harp,
Nor understand the songs he sings.
Pity the man neglects his health,
And strives not his vigour to retain.
Pity the man who ever strives
To have the fruit he cannot reach.
Were I to wish to have such fruit,
Fruit which I could not reach on high,
I’d cut the tree down at the root,
Let men be angry if they will.
Pity.

[155] The fragments of Ossianic or Fenian poetry in the miscellany of Dean Macgregor are now exhausted. They afford some idea of the amount of such poetry in the Highlands at the time he lived. We now proceed with those pieces which profess to be of a more recent date. These will be found to consist chiefly of compositions of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The first short composition here given is one by a poet hitherto unknown to modern fame. Duncan the big, from Lennox or Dumbartonshire, might be a man of some note in his day, but time has obliterated all knowledge of him. His composition is of a class well known in his day, and highly popular, being aphoristic. Several compositions, consisting of a series of aphorisms, will be found in the sequel.

The author of this is Gilchrist Taylor.[156]

Bless, O Trinity, thy household,
King of heaven, place of jewels;
Black thy family was not formed,
All by thyself in wisdom made.
By thee ’twas Adam’s race was shaped
The cheek like berries richly red;
Thou who blessest place and people
Curse them that ’gainst thee fierce contend.
There is a pack of cruel hounds,
Who the king’s children sorely grieve;
I hear the baying of these dogs,
Every glen is full of it.
Such as war on Adam’s race,
Since that they cannot silence keep,
Joined together in their evil,
Powers of the king of light them smite;
Such as war on Adam’s race,
Of crafty Lucifer the slaves,
Give them no rest, to them give none,
King of lights do thou them burn.
Mounted on two ugly steeds,
When vicious packs abound the most,
They furiously commence the hunt,
Belching out death on every side.
Curse thou their hunt and devastation,
Their two steeds so black in hue;
Lay them, their backs stretched on the turf,
Scatter the heads of this black band.
There is a band of cruel hounds
Harbouring at Inch Ald Art,
They’re horrid brutes, Thou God forsake them,
Let bags out of their skins be made.
Though many be the skins of wolves,
Covering our harps, both small and great,
The cold and empty skulls are many,
Given us by these fierce hounds.
Father of Christ, with speed them strike
From Lochaber to Raon Fraoich,
Soon let the plague their bodies waste;
’Tis sad that thus I have to speak.
Though no reparation for a true hound,
For Robert’s son[157] of clustering locks.
From Loch Venachar of rich glens,
Many’s the ugly head laid low.
Though from Ben Gulbin’s sunny side,
Many the dogs to Tummel’s stream,
Who know to hunt along its side,
The eye of Christ is on them all.
’Twas told me when at Inverness,
That greyhounds were scattering the pack.
Pity the man who’s seized with fear,
’Tis like the falling sickness, sore.
Pleasing to witness hounds pursue,
Them who would slay the fine grey steeds.
May God’s Son with His holy power,
Destroy all surly cruel hounds.
Smoke every den in Schiehallion,
John Stewart of the bounding steeds,
Ere I must call a sweet-voiced pack
This litter of ugly, snarling curs.
By Garry of John Stewart of the white steed,
No antlers are seen without the head,
While ’mongst the rocky rugged woods,
Are seen the grey-skinned pack of hounds.
Bless.

[156] There are several pieces by this poet in the Dean’s MS., but we know nothing of his history. He was probably an ecclesiastic.

[157] The piece is extremely obscure, but the reference to Mac Robert and the Athole Stewarts would seem to indicate that the subjects of the poem were the murderers of King James the First. The infamous persons whom the poet denounces are said to have done evil to the race of kings.

The author of this is Gilliecallum Mac an Olla.[158]