Chapter VIII: Introduction (7)

There is no joy without the clan Donald,
No battle when they are awanting;
First of the clans in all the earth,
Each man of them is a hundred.
The noblest clan which you can find,
A race as brave as they are peaceful;
The clan whose praise does fill the lands,
Famed for their faith and godliness.
The clan so faithful, bold, and brave,
The clan so swift amidst the fight,
The clan so gentle among men,
And yet in battle none so fierce;
The clan most numerous of all
Whose number has been ever known.
The clan which never vexed the Church,
And ever dreaded its reproach.
Of all that dwell in Albin green,
This is the bravest e’er baptized.
The third of every land is theirs,
Their bravery is like the falcon’s.
The clan most numerous and famous,
Of finest form and fairest mould;
The clan that has the largest hearts,
Most patient and most liberal.
They, sons of kings, deserved no gibe
When asked in trouble to give help.
Noble were they since the time
When there was giving and poor ones.
The clan for wine and shelter best,
The first in prowess and in strength.
’Tis sad how short the length extends
Given by him who spins your thread.
They were not wicked and rough,
Nor were they gentle and weak.
In midst of trial and hardships,
Not harder than them was the rock.
The clan without pride or misdeeds,
When the spoil of battle is theirs.
’Mongst them you’d find gentlemen,
And common people with them.
Pity him who has lost their defence,
Pity him who forsakes their protection.
There is no clan like the clan Donald,
The noble clan of firmest mind.
Who is there can number their gifts?
Who is there can count their nobles?
Without limit, commencement or close,
Of excellencies among their gentry.
First of all with the clan Donald,
There is knowledge which they learn;
Last of all, there is among them
Polish, generosity, and modesty.
’Tis in sorrow and in grief
Understanding and learning are got,
By him who them would have.
No joy without the clan Donald.
Loud was the sound of their thunder,
This race so wise and faithful,
Though now they be reproached,
There is no joy without the clan Donald.
This people so great in fame,
In courtesy, mind, and firmness,
There is no right without them,
There is no joy without the clan Donald.
The son of his virgin mother,
Who hath earned for us freedom from pain,
Though he be faithful and true,
There is no joy without the clan Donald.
There is no joy.

Alas! alas! this is the head[159]
Which belonged to the blue-armed Conull;
The head where understanding was found,
Noble it was and most lovely.
Alas! alas! this is the eye
That dwelt in generous Conull’s head;
Round which the eyelid wound,
Benevolent it was and manful.
Alas! alas! this is the mouth
In which no bard did folly find;
Its lips so thin, like apples red,
Sweet as honey the mouth of Conull.
Alas! alas! this is the hand
That Conull Mac Scanlan owned;
The hand of him so brave in battle,
The hand of Conull my first beloved.
Alas! alas! this is the side
By which our noble side we laid;
It was a hound from Mull that came,
John did lie upon his side.
Alas! alas! this is the foot
Which ne’er before a warrior fled;
The foot of him in fight most brave,
The foot of the shielded son of Scanlan.
Alas! success e’er followed Conull,
Where’er it was he battle fought;
But now that my tale is done,
This place is the dwelling of tears.
Alas!

[158] This bard has been met with already as an imitator of Ossian. He was in all likelihood an ecclesiastic. Several of the early Lords of the Isles were liberal benefactors to the Church, and it is not unlikely that this liberality called forth the praises of our bard. The word “bochd,” _poor_, associated in one of the lines of this composition with “brontachd,” _bestowing_, is often by early Gaelic writers applied to monks and hermits, who lived upon the beneficence of the wealthy, and became finally enriched by their gifts.

[159] Mr. O’Curry says regarding this Conull Mac Scanlan, “I don’t know any person in our history whose name would agree with his but Congal Claen, son of Scanlan, Prince of Ulster, who fought the battle of Magh Rath in A.D. 634, in which the Four Masters say he was killed. The old account says he was disabled, and disappeared no one knows where. It would be curious if your elegy could be traced up to this hero.”

The author of this is John of Knoydart.[160]

Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre,[161]
Though great be thy trouble and pain,
I grudge thee not all thou hast suffered,
Although it be painful to tell.
I grudge not though thy ragged locks
Be searched by the winds from the glens.
I grudge thee not that thou art bound,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre;
Pity the thought e’er filled men’s breasts,
That thy friendship was not hatred;
Pity, alas! thou turn’dst not back,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre;
Thou hast the King of Isla slain,
Who freely gave his wine and money,
Him of the soft and flowing locks,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre;
Isla, king of well filled horns,
Who with his friends so kindly dealt;
Alas! who gashed his soft white skin,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre!
Beloved was that liberal hand,
Which never grudged his gold or silver,
And which in feast or hunt was first,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre.
It is my prayer to th’ Apostles’ King,
He who preserves by His great power,
That He from pain may him e’er keep,
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre.
Thou head.

[160] Of the author of this fragment we have no tradition. All we learn here is that he was a Knoydart man, that mountainous region lying between Loch Hourn and Morar, on the west coast of Inverness-shire, till lately possessed by the Macdonells of Glengarry.

[161] In a transcript of a MS. history of the Macdonalds, published in the Transactions of the Iona Club, it is said that Angus Og of Isla, or of the Isles, who fought against his father in the battle of the Bloody Bay, was assassinated by Art O’Carby, an Irish harper, instigated by M’Kenzie, whose daughter had captivated the impressible musician. In the Irish annals this harper is called Diarmad. This lay seems to commemorate the event by commemorating the punishment of the assassin, which was inflicted by drawing him between horses. The lines being composed shortly after the event, which took place about the year 1490, and being taken down by the Dean, are sufficient evidence of the historical accuracy of the statement.

The author of this is Gormlay, daughter of Flann.[162]

Melancholy earth upon the breast of Nial,
Melancholy its depth upon his grave;
Neither nobility nor fame can save,
Since that the King of the North is dead.
Whose back is turned upon this joyful world,
Now that his death-wound he received.
He from the noble race of Nial is traced,
The men who proudly governed all this land.
I, the gentle, kind, Mac Cuilenan,[163] did leave,
With Muireagan mòr I also joyful lived.
With Nial I spent a truly happy life;
Bright was my honour as with him I drunk,
Of feasts and wine I could abundance have;
My gold I freely gave the church.
If any there be who heaven reach,
How could Nial be without heaven?
Never have I seen one like Nial.
Fair was he all except the knee,
Great were his beauty and his fame,
Soft were his locks, and grey his eye.
Wrath grew upon the mighty deep,
The wind in strength blew from the east,[164]
Nial then bent him on his knee,
Stronger it blew and without fail;
It suffered no happiness nor peace.
The wind never ceased its sound,
Neither fort nor tree was spared,
Since that the courteous king is dead.
Since Nial[165] Aidh’s son died yesterday,
Numbers on numbers sorely mourn;
And though cups and horns are filled,
Sore is the blow to Conn’s great race.
Without him prosperity is joyless,
His form my heart with sorrow fills,
That I’m till judgment left behind,
Is that which fills my heart with grief.
Melancholy.

[162] Gormlay was the wife of Nial Glundubh, _Nial of the Black Knee_, who succeeded to the throne of Ireland in 916. He was of the northern O’Neills, hence called “Righ Tuaisgearta,” or _King of the North_.

[163] The famous Cormac M’Cuilenan, the King-bishop of Munster and Cashel, to whom M’Geoghagan says Gormlay was first married.

[164] Nial Glundubh was killed in battle by the Danes in 919, having reigned only three years.

[165] Nial was son of Aidh Finliath, King of Ireland. O’Flaherty mentions an elegy of Gormlay on her husband, as preserved in the Annals of Donegal.

Gormlay, daughter of Flann.[166]

Monk, remove thy foot,
Lift it off the grave of Nial.
Too long dost thou heap the earth
On him with whom I fain would lie;
Too long dost thou, Monk, there
Heap the earth on noble Nial.
Thou brown-haired friend, though gentle,
Press not with thy sole the earth.
Do not firmly close the grave,
O Priest, whose office is so sad.
Raise off the fair, black-kneed Nial,
Monk, remove thy foot.
Mac O’Nial of finest gold,
’Tis not of my will thou’rt bound.[167]
Leave his stone and his grave,
Monk, remove thy foot.
I am Gormlay, who order keeps,
Daughter I of Flann the bold;
Stand not thou upon his grave,
Monk, remove thy foot.
Monk.

* * * * *

Wounded thou hast been, great man,[168]
Whate’er the men were thou hast met;
Though thou art truly sad and sick,
’Tis joy to us that thou’st got fame.
Ten hundred ships from Greece of the Gael,
While of them only three were noble,
Thou didst attack with sharp-edged arms,
Sore was the strife while life did last;
That people with their many spears;
They live not now who were so pure,
Thy six nobles at last they slew,
Many their bold deeds at thy side.
That of thy wounds thou may’st be healed,
I pray for thee, pray thou thyself,
To Mary, the mother of the poor,
My Pater and my Creed’s for thee.
Wounded.

[166] This is another elegy of Gormlay, Queen of Ireland, on her husband, Nial Glundubh. There is something extremely mournful in these compositions of the youthful queen. Mr. O’Curry has kindly furnished the Editor with Irish copies of these two elegiac pieces, which he is about to publish in a second volume of his admirable Lectures.

[167] Referring, undoubtedly, to the mode of laying out the dead.

[168] The allusion in this fragment is not very clear. Celtic poetry is full of reference to Greece, whence a portion of the race are said to have come; but what this battle with Greeks was, the Editor cannot say. These allusions belong, without doubt, to the period when both Scotland and Ireland were brought into contact with Greek literature.

The author of this is Phelim M’Dougall.[169]

’Tis not good to travel on Sunday,
Whoever the Sabbath would keep;
Not good to be of ill-famed race;
Not good is a dirty woman;
Not good to write without learning;
Not good are grapes when sour;
Not good is an Earl without English;
Not good is a sailor, if old;
Not good is a bishop without warrant;
Not good is a blemish on an elder;
Not good a priest with but one eye;
Not good a parson, if a beggar;
Not good is a palace without play;
Not good is a handmaid if she’s slow;
Not good is a lord without a dwelling;
Not good is a temple without a burying ground;
Not good is a woman without shame;
Not good is a harper without a string;
Not good is fighting without courage;
Not good is entering a port without a pilot;
Not good is a maiden who backbites;
Not good is the poverty of a debtor;
Not good is a castle without an heir;
Not good is neglecting the household dogs;
Not good is disrespect to a father;
Not good is the talk of the drunken;
Not good is a knife without an edge;
Not good is injustice in judging;
Not good is the friendship of devils
For thy son, oh Virgin most honoured;
Though he has saved the seed of Adam,
Not good for himself was the cross.
Not good is a reader without understanding;
Not good for a man to want a friend;
Not good is a poet without a subject;
Not good is a tower without a hall;
Not good is a web without fulling;
Not good is sport without laughter;
Not good are misdeeds when prosperous;
Not good is marriage without consent;
Not good is a crown without supremacy;
Not good is ploughing by night;
Not good is learning without courtesy;
Not good is religion without knowledge.
Not good.

* * * * *

I myself, Robert, went[170]
Yesterday to a monastery,
And I was not allowed in,
Because my wife was not with me.

* * * * *

I dislike to journey for a year;[171]
I dislike the table where a woman sits;
I dislike sorrow and sadness;
I dislike a great house without joy;
I dislike seeing a good man with a bad wife;
I dislike a frown upon a prince’s face;
I dislike weak drink at a high price;
I dislike a noble without courtesy;
I dislike war when it is peace,
When nothing is allowed to pass;
I dislike a rough and cruel chief;
I dislike the men who cannot fight;
I dislike being long at a tune;
I dislike the men who grudge me food;
I dislike a jealous woman if unchaste;
I dislike the dog who cannot kill a stag;
I’m loath to go to Erin in the west,
Now that Brian of the tunes is dead;
I dislike a widow who is not cheerful;
I dislike the man of melancholy mind;
I dislike an ill-favoured old woman,
Whose tongue is sharp and rapid too;
I cannot tell to any man
All the things that I dislike.
I dislike.

[169] We have here a curious specimen of aphoristic poetry, the idea borrowed probably from the Proverbs of Solomon. These aphorisms throw some light upon the habits and modes of thought of the age in which they were produced.

[170] These lines are given as indicative of the state of public feeling at the time with respect to a great social question. The writer of these lines was manifestly no friend to monasteries, and no believer in their purity.

[171] We have here another specimen of aphoristic poetry. In the original the lines are in rhyme. The author’s name is not given, though it is probably Phelim M’Dougall.

Earl Gerald.[172]

Pity the man who overleaps his horse;
Let him that likes, my meaning understand,
That from myself my means have taken flight;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
May my curse ’mongst women rest,
Although for a time I mixed with them;
As for men who still are single,
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
That man who early is on foot,
Cannot but many evils find;
Were I to tell what I have seen,
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
The man who has got a useless wife,
Cannot do much before the foe,
The first milch cows that bellow loud;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
The wife who listens to my speech,
Who listens to my voice and cry,
Just as if wax were in her ears;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
Her husband she to wrath provokes,
Different her manner with all else,
For them she lightly steps about;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
Were she to see a weeping eye,
With any youth of handsome form,
To him she would not run but leap;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
Where is the young and sprightly maid,
Who would not quietly give her kiss,
To any lips that she might meet?
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
Though married from th’ altar and the church,
From the good priest’s worthy hand,
Still are her way and temper bad;
’Tis best to have nought to do with women.
’Tis best to have nought to do with women,
Wrath and annoyance they provoke;
He who does not this proclaim
Is sure to find a woe himself.
Pity.

[172] The following is the composition of Gerald Fitzgerald, the fourth Earl of Desmond. He is known in Ireland as Earl Gerald, the poet. There are several of his compositions scattered over the MS.; but as they are mostly of the same character--satires on the female sex--it has been thought that one specimen is sufficient. The Editor thought it desirable to give one of those, with a view to a fair representation of the contents of the MS., although there is not much in the composition itself to render it worthy of being rescued from oblivion.

The author of this is Andrew M’Intosh.

The coquetry of Duncan from Taid’s daughter,
The most impudent coquetry men have seen,
The coquetry of the wife of David,
Coquetting like the wind in her red-tailed skirts,
Men had thought that I was dumb,
Whilst I’d three reasons not to speak.

The author of this is the Bard M’Intyre.[173]

What is this ship on Loch Inch,[174]
Of which we now may speak?
What brought this ship on the loch,
Which songs cannot o’erlook?
I would like much to ask,
Who was it brought that ship,
Afloat upon that angry loch,
Where changes often come?
The fierce wind from the hills,
And bitter storms from the glens,
Oft has the vessel from the shore,
Stolen upon the dangerous sea.
Stranger, who sawest the ship,
On the rough and angry stream,
What should hinder thee to tell
About her and about her crew?
An old ship without iron or stern,
Never have we seen her like,
The vessel all with leather patched,
Not even beneath the waves is’t tight.
Her boards are trifling bits of deals,
Black patches down along her sides,
Useless nails to fix them on
Upon her scanty, stinted ribs.
What woman cargo is in the black ship
Pulling her on betwixt the waves,
The cargo heartless and senseless too?
Widows of a foolish mind,
A boasting, talkative crew,
A load vexatious and bad,
Quarrelsome and covetous,
Of evil minds and evil deeds.
Their ways and conversation bad,
A band of well-known fame,
No substance in what they say,
Drunken, singing, with levity,
A band ill-shapen, mischievous,
Who live by both sides of Loch Inch.
In spite of thee and of their ship
On the stormy sea’s dun face,
No good woman could take that ship,
However pressing the constraint.
The worst of women go to sea,
Others cannot give them help.
Let this ship be driven from the loch,
Down to the fierce and roaring deep,
Let the wind pursue the ship,
To the old point of Seananach.
There will I leave upon the stream,
The ill-favoured, ill-doing ship,
Of wicked widows full on the sea,
Without a psalm or creed e’er said,
What.

* * * * *

The fame of the house of Dunolly, little favour where they drive
a herd.[175]
This brute is much like a dog, greedy aye for stolen flesh.

[173] Nothing is known of this poet. The modern M’Intyre, the bard of Glenurchy, has a place second to none among the composers of Gaelic poetry; but it would appear that there was an older poet of the name, and one not unknown to fame. Four hundred years may produce no little change in the place which not a few men of note in our day hold in the temple of fame, and greater stars than the bard M’Intyre may have their lustre dimmed by time. He is another writer of satires on women, a kind of composition wonderfully popular, judging from our MS. at the period. We only give a few specimens of these, but there are several in the miscellany, and some of a character which, in modern days, one wonders the Dean could have admitted to his collection.

[174] The only loch of this name with which the Editor is acquainted is Loch Inch, on the Spey, in Badenoch.

[175] These satirical lines on the family of Dunolly are given as a specimen of the strain indulged in at times by the bards, to gratify their animosity against hostile clans. It need hardly be added, that the Macdougalls of Lorn were a race as distinguished for the antiquity of their descent, as for the high character of many of the name.

The author of this is John M’Murrich.[176]

Sad to me’s my fate,
Though men don’t understand,
Suffer not, Son of God,
Me to have pain to-day.
Little thought the school
That such should be my fate,
The fate which me o’ertook,
’Tis it has me destroyed.
The pain in it I have,
Is threefold what I’ve felt,
The trouble I have found
Is weighted with a stone.
For her who caused my grief,
My wrath and rage are great.
Her skin like froth of waves,
Ruddy and soft her hand,
Her lips like berries red,
My soul she gently seized.
Since I slept last night,
Sad indeed my state.
I thought she was beside me,
That I saw her smile.
She’s not been since the day,
When began my grief.
She of curling locks,
And colour richly red,
Five jewels in a knot,
In the maiden’s name.
Pity she’s not with me,
And others have her not.
That I myself might get
For evermore that friend.
Were I to suffer from,
What other men have felt,
The spear of great Cuchullin,
The horse of white-steed Teague,
The purple shield unbroken,
Famous all in war;
The speed of Mac Erc’s coursers,
Though much it is to say,
Alas, more sad for me
The trouble I endure.

[176] This John M’Muirich, or M’Vurrich, was in all likelihood a member of the family who were so long bards to Clanranald, and who derived their name from their great ancestor in the thirteenth century, Muireach Albanach. A list of the names of these bards is given for eight generations by Lachlan, who lived in 1800, in his declaration, as given in the Report of the Highland Society on Ossian, but it does not embrace this John. The piece is chiefly interesting from the historical references at the close.

Duncan M’Pherson.[177]

Alexander, hast thou left thy sadness,
Or is it so that thou canst not?
Hast thou without God passed another year,
Or dost thou mean to live thus ever?
Hast thou not found thy God,
Now that thou’rt aged and grey?
If sadness be prosperity,
Rich are the gifts thou’st got from God.

* * * * *

Four men met at the grave,[178]
The grave of Alexander the great;
They spoke the words of truth,
Over the hero of Greece the fair.
The first man of them said,
“There were yesterday with the king,
The world’s great hosts, sad the tale,
Though to-day he lonely lies.”
“Yesterday the world’s great king
Proudly rode upon the earth;
But to-day it is the earth
That rides upon the top of him.”
Then did the third wise speaker say,
“Yesterday Philip’s son owned the world;
But to-day he only owns
Of it all not seven feet.”
“Alexander, brave and great,
Who won and treasured gold and silver,
To-day,” the fourth man wisely said,
“The gold it is that treasures him.”
The palm among trees was Philip’s son,
The moon among the lesser stars,
As gold above the finest gems,
As among fish leviathan.
The lion amidst carrion,
The eagle among other birds,
As Sion hill amidst the hills,
As Jordan amidst other streams.
The polished gem ’mongst common stones,
The sea amidst all lesser streams,
Noble was the fearless man,
The man above all other men.
The man above all other men,
Save heaven’s great and holy King.
King he was of herds and boars,
Ruler of hosts and heroes too.
True was the talk these speakers had,
As at the great king’s grave they met.
Unlike to women’s empty talk,
Were the sayings of the four.
Four.

[177] This writer was probably an ecclesiastic, but nothing is known of him.

[178] This composition is one of the few of the more recent fragments in this MS. which appear elsewhere. We have a copy of it in the collection of Gaelic poems made by Ronald M’Donald, schoolmaster of Eigg, son of Alexander M’Donald, the famous Skye bard. M’Donald’s edition was most likely taken down from oral recitation, and it is remarkable how little it differs from this of the Dean’s, 250 years before.

John M’Murrich said this.

The men of Albin, and not they alone,
Unless that M’Gregor survived,
How much wrath would them destroy!
All excellence in Alexander.[179]

[179] Alexander was a family name of the Macgregors of Glenstrae. In the obituary contained in this MS. is the following entry:--1526. Obitus Gregorii filii Johannis M’Gregor, alias M’Evine M’Allester de Glenschray. This would indicate the period of Alexander as about the middle of the fifteenth century.

Finlay, the red-haired bard, said this.[180]

Gael-like is every leap of the dun horse,
A Gael she is in truth.
It is she who conquers and wins,
In all that I’ll now sing.
The praise of speed to her limbs,
In every fierce assault.
Marked, and famous her strength,
While quiet at the house of prayer.
The birds are they who could,
Strive with her in the race.
Not false is the fame of that horse,
The steed both sturdy and swift,
Liker she was to Duseivlin,[181]
Than to the beast of Lamacha.[182]
They who would view her size and triumphs,
Can nowhere find her match.
Just like the wheeling of the mountain winds,
Is the action of the prancing steed.
Hundreds admire her paces,
Like one in frenzy passing.
Like the point of an arrow this horse,
Famous are all her doings.
Bands of the great witness her course,
As with speed she rushes.
Though far before her stands the groom,
No blunderer is her rider.
Few are the words would tell her praise,
Like birds on wing her movements.
Her triumphs and paces the same,
Whether ’mong rocks or bogs she moves.
Before that horse all men do fear,
When she comes in the trappings of war.
In the troop, the hunt, or the conflict,
That horse a noble horse is.
That horse is all full of spirit,
As fameworthy she follows the banner.
That wave-like steed, hardy and keen,
Will win for her rider the praise of men.
Forth from her stall she takes the lead,
That gentle, great, and active horse.
She will triumph in speed and slaughter,
Till that the day in evening sinks.
Ready to treasure the girdle of gold,[183]
The field with violence shakes.
Startling, rounded, bright, well shod,
Gentle, broad-backed, coloured well.
A horse of such great fame as this,
I long had heard that they possessed.
Where was ever found her match,
Not he, the beast of Lamacha.
Mac Gregor ’s the master of that horse,
Prince of the house to poets free.
From Banva men do come to praise,
To Albion they do come to seek,
The man who robs from the Saxon,
And e’er puts his trust in the Gael.

[180] This Finlay is the author of several pieces in this miscellany. He is apparently the Finlay M’Nab to whom another composition is attributed, and is called in one place “Am bard maith,” _The good poet_. He seems to have been the family bard of M’Gregor, the praise of whose horse he here proclaims in most poetic strains.

[181] Duseivlin was one of the famous steeds of the Feinn.

[182] The beast of Lamacha, “Aidhre an Lamacha,” is entirely unknown to the Editor. The animal is called “Beisd,” _a beast_, in a subsequent part of the poem. It must have been some animal famous in the country for its ugliness.

[183] The girdle of gold would seem to have been the prize conferred upon the victor in a race.

Finlay the red-haired bard.

I am a stranger long to success,
’Tis time that I should have it.
’Tis time now to desist,
From satire justly due.
The way that I shall take,
To seek a noble branch,
Is to the Prince of the Gael,
Where are no worthless guests.
To Mac Gregor the brave,
Head of all the schools;[184]
He’s neither cruel nor sparing,
To praise him is our duty.
To whom courage is a right;
When summer time comes round,
Peace he never knows,
He’s in the throat of all his fellows.
When men of him do speak,
As Gregor of the blows,
’Tis his delight to drive,
Flocks and herds before him.
Of that flock John’s[185] the head,
The king at lifting cattle,
I myself will sing,
Mouth with mouth at daybreak.
When his sharp-armed men see,
Mac Gregor at the Bealach,[186]
His way so gently soft,
No weight to them their burdens.
Then when war arises,
Proclaimed in enemies’ hearts,
It is to him they’d gather,
Clothed in martial dress.
’Tis of Mac Gregor’s fame,
When fighting’s left behind.
To men not to be cruel,
His castle full of mirth;
When victory I had left
Upon the field of war,
When of the fight I spoke,
Nought loved my patron more.
Though sad, on the stormy lake,
To tell men of my grief,
To have a crew of mariners,
Is best in battle’s day.
Remember I’ll be with thee,
Mac Gregor without stain,
In face of any foe,
Long, long’s the time.
Gentle Elizabeth,
Change thou my state;
Woman of softest locks,
And of the loftiest brow.
I am.

[184] The schools of the bards. Many Highland bards at this period were trained in Ireland, of which these poems bear evident marks.

[185] In his obituary the Dean enters at 1519, May 24-26, death of John dubh MacGregor of Glenstrae, at Stronmelochane. He was buried in Dysart (Glenurchy), north of the great altar, in a stone coffin, upon the 26th of May 1519, on which day there was a great mourning in Glenurchy. The Elizabeth afterwards mentioned was probably the wife of this chief.

[186] “Bealach,” the modern “Taymouth,” was, with the territory around, in possession of the M’Gregors down to about 1490, when it passed by Royal charter into the possession of the Knights of Glenurchy.

The author of this is Duncan Mac Cailein, the good knight.[187]

Who is now chief of the beggars,
Since the famous man is dead?
Tears flow fast for the man,
For beggary has lost its strength.
The orphan is in a piteous case,
Beggary’s gone since Lachlan’s death.
In every homestead this is sad,
That beggary should want for knowledge.
If he be dead, I’ve never heard,
Of one that could compare with Lachlan,
Since God created man at first;
It is a source of bitter grief,
That without mother or a father,
Poor beggary should be so weak.
Since that Bretin’s son is dead,
Why should I not mourn his loss?
There is no man now on earth
Who can beg as he could do.
Since Lachlan the importunate’s dead,
Great’s the grief that is in Erin.
Who will now beg a little purse?
Who will even beg a needle?
Who will beg a worthless coin?
Since that rough-palmed Lachlan’s dead.
Who will beg a pair of brogues,
And then will beg a pair of buckles?
Who will beg a shoulder plaid?
Whose begging now will give us sport?
Who will beg soles for his shoes?
Who will ask a peacock’s feather?
Who will beg an eye for his belt?
Who will mix in any mischief?
Who will beg an old felt hat?
Who will beg a book to read?
Who will beg an early meal?
Who is it wears arms with his dress?
Who will beg for boots and spurs?
Who is it will beg for bristles?
Who will beg for sids and meal?
Who will beg a sheaf of rye?
Who will ask a sporran spoon?
Who will gather without shame?
Since Lachlan the hero is dead.
Who will now afford us sport?
Who will beg for maidens’ shifts,
Since old shoe’d Lachlan is dead?
Sad the fate that he should die,
Who will ask men for a rullion?
Who will steal the servant’s feather,
And who is it can’t tell the truth?
Who likes to travel in a boat,
And likes his old friends to visit?
Who will beg the hen with her eggs?
Who will beg a brood of chickens?
Who will ask the hen’s overplus,
After a handful of money?
Who will beg a headless pin?
Who can read as he can do?
That Lachlan should leave no heir,
Is that which mournful makes his death.
Who will beg for a hook and line?
Who will seek for open doors?
Who will beg for unboiled rennet?
Who will beg for anything?
Who won’t give a penny to the poor,
And yet e’en from the naked begs?
Who would oppress the very child,
And is cruel to the infant?
Who would beg for wool and butter,
That they may have it, after Lachlan?
Who would beg a woman’s collar?
Who is it likes a dirty heap?
Who would beg from young women,
From little dogs and weasels?
Who would take the fire from an infant?
Who would steal e’en the dead?
Who is sick when he is well?
Who on his gruel begs for butter?
More sad for me than this man’s death,
Is that he has left no heir.
For fear that beggary should die,
And none be found to keep it up.
Do not ye forget the man,
Men of the earth, do ye,
Each of you for himself make rhymes,
My malison on him that won’t.
If Lachlan died on Monday last,
Every man will joyful be.
Sad it is that for his death,
None there is who will lament.
Who is now.

[187] This poet is generally supposed, by those who have seen the Dean’s MS., to have been Sir Duncan Campbell of Glenurchy, one of the most distinguished of the ancestors of the present noble family of Breadalbane. There are several pieces in the MS. attributed to him. These are remarkable for caustic humour, indulged in in several cases at the expense of the female sex. He almost uniformly receives the title of “An Ridir maith,” _The good Knight_. The present piece is a strange satirical elegy on a miser.

Gormlay, daughter of Flann, the good wife.

Alas! alas! my own great pain,
Alas! that I’ve my beauty lost,
To-night sore is my wound,
Since that Mac O’Neill is dead.
Alas! to want the son of Dervail,
Alas! my fate now left behind,
Guaire’s hospitality is nought,
Erin’s a desert without him.
Alas! for the good king of Banva,
How fair thy form down to this night,
Since he, my life, in battle died,
Nought will I say but alas! alas!
Alas!

The author of this is Duncan M’Cabe.[188]

M’Dougall of bright armour,
A noble chief’s thy famous son,
All that I think is true
Of thy fair-formed, prudent child.
’T were better that thy fair head
Were now exposed than mine, kind friend.
Duncan Carrach[189] is his name,
A name that triumphed ever.
Duncan of bravest deeds,
Remember thy first honoured name;
Son of Allan,[190] do not merit,
Reproach thy race did ne’er deserve.
Since now that thou art so well known,
With every reason to esteem thee,
To thee is given the foremost place,
Since thou the favourite art of all.
True it is thou art indeed
The man to take the richest spoil.
Like a bull that’s fierce for fight,
’Tis thus thou goest to make war.
’Tis thou who traversest Cruachan,[191]
Casting thy spear beneath its knolls.
Thy fame is as that of the leopard,
Thou art Duncan of Durinis.
Thou quellest quick thy foe,
Thou stainest both hands with blood.
Thou cheerest us when we are weary,
Thou art the source of all our joy.
He is the man whom ’tis easiest
In song like mine to praise,
Which among heroes I compose,--
The generous dragon of Connal.[192]
Other fame belongs to him,
The art that is in his gun.
The bravery and skill of Erin
Bound firmly up in all his blows.
Whatever skill a king’s son has,
That he has, with no defect.
The purest speech has come to him,
This will in thy son be found.
Now I see thee raise the tax,
Truly out of every homestead,
Noble king of bravest deeds,
Descendant of that martial race.
Macdougall.

[188] We know nothing of this poet. The name is a rare one, although still existing in the Highlands. He would appear to have been a family bard of the Macdougalls of Dunolly.

[189] In the Dean’s chronicle of deaths, contained in this MS., is the following entry in Latin:--1512, Jul. 13. The death of Duncan M’Dougall, who was slain A.D. 1512, who was the son and heir of Alexander M’Dougall of Dunolly; and Duncan was buried in Ardchattan 13th July. “Carrach” means a _scald head_, from which he seems to have got his name in childhood. The poet refers to his head as now more smooth than his own.

[190] In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. part 1, p. 115, it is said, on the authority of the Acts of Council, that, in 1478, Colin Earl of Ergile was sued by Alane Sorlesone M’Cowle for warrandice of the lands of Lereage and Wouchtrouch, etc. This is probably the Alan referred to by the bard.

[191] “Ben Cruachan,” the highest mountain in Lorn, the ancient territory of the clan Dougall.

[192] Connal Ferry, the remarkable narrow at the mouth of Loch Etive, where the stream at times becomes a salt-water cascade. The name “Connal,” “Conthuil,” means a _roaring stream_.

The author of this is John M’Ewen M’Eacharn.[193]

A mournful cry amongst Conn’s[194] race,
Heavy indeed is now their loss;
As every one now follows John,
Silent they can’t be at his grave.
What grief did ever them o’ertake,
The race of Conn ne’er honour lost.
For John each man does weep,
Necessity leads us to his grave;
Sad is the land because of thy death,
Son of the noble race from Allan.
Great is our grief as thee we mourn,
Few are the men that shed not tears.
Sorely has it touched us all,
Grievous the tale that John is dead.
Tidings from the Dun went through the land,
The stranger now does o’er us rule.
Changeful the world down till John’s death,
Now they rise not to the fray;
Since then indeed thy race is sad,
This grief now has them sorely wounded.
’Tis grief to them that thou art thus,
Clan Dougall mourn for their great chief;
The conflict of their grief is long,
The tale which now is told is grievous;
Thou messenger who brought the news,
God made thee messenger of evil;
Ere men thy tidings did recite,
Pity they had not lost their ears.
The abundance of my racking grief
Has almost my eyesight ta’en away;
No feeble mourning is’t for John,
Tears for him I cannot shed;
Mourning for our buried prince,
The death of Macdougall of Dunolly.
His was the form of Conn’s great race,
Like a nut kernel, fair and rounded;
His death has been a grievous breach,
The very waves sing his lament.
Above the beach,[195] since John has died,
No ceasing is there of men’s sorrow;
Men speak not even now of joy,
Since that this grief has on them seized;
Bitter sorrow has them filled,
No word of sport, of music none;
That way is called the sacred way,
That from the beach leads to the grave.
So do men thus mourn their loss,
And women too, who loved thee well.
Shall I from thy soft locks have honour?
In place of it I have but ruin.
I mourn as on thy grave I stand,
All I see makes me lament;
Women will not leave thy grave,
So truly heavy is their sorrow.
Raise up a tomb for our fair prince,
Let it be wide as Cruachan’s cell,
That men may see by what they do,
How heavily on them weighs their grief.
The clan with weeping do thee mourn,
Their soul is sad, they cannot sleep.
Dougall’s race before thy death,
Never did fear the face of foe.
Chieftain, thy death has come on them,
’Twould be no boast to rule them now.
Not few the women at John’s grave,
Pouring their tears from day to day;
Of women bands even by night,
With bare heads gathering on the plain;
No wonder is’t that they should mourn,
Because of John of brightest fame.
No day can pass but hearts are full
Of this sad tale, that wakes our mourning.
I care not though’t be thus with them,
Though they should feel what I don’t like;
Thy death for us is ill to bear,
Sore the state to which it brings us;
I stand amidst the gloom of death,
No word is there of wonted song;
My heart is truly rent in twain,
As we speak of his departure;
Never were we thus before,
That it is grief to ask, how fares he;
’Tis cause of sorrow that he is absent,
I mourn that he is no more with us;
Now that he sleeps in his cold grave,
’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell;
They cannot cease from shedding tears,
Castle and cottage both in sorrow;
The rising tide has swept o’er hills,
So for John do mourn his comrades;
Yet there’s no heaving of the sea,
Not of the boisterous sea at Connal;[196]
For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn,
In all the borders of clan Dougall;
The land for thee does seem to weep,
Loud is the cry, with much distress,
From the musicians of Dougall’s race,
The learned men, and leading bards.
On John’s grave lies a heavy stone,
’Tis grief to me to tell the story;
Far otherwise than Neil[197] would wish,
Does every scandal now appear;
Have they no care to see his grave,
Since that John has overcome them?
The race of Conn are now but few,
Since death has ta’en away Macdougall;
No pleasure in the violin’s sounds,
Nor writing poetry without him;
Poetry brings no honour now,
Since death has seized the son of Mary;
Few are the mouths that now can tell,
How commanding is her privilege,
Now that on their backs are laid,
Both the heads of the clan Dougall;
That John’s great power I do not find
Soon after losing John his father;
May God preserve thy noble nature,
Who wisdom learned from thy Isla[198] teacher;
Horses can’t insure a triumph,
Men must leave them, and depart;
After the three, our loss is great,
My heart, in truth, can find no comfort;
Mournful in youth to see such loss,
Death has seized two Johns and Alexander;[199]
Alexander, whom no restraint could bind,
That I of him should also tell;
Thy breast was stout to the rushing wave,
Thy body now! alas my sorrow;
Never do ye seek again
That John’s young heir should go to battle;
That he should stand ’midst battle’s storm,
Lest soon he come to his long grave.

[193] We have no written or traditional account of this poet. He was manifestly one of the bards of the clan Dougall. The difficulty of deciphering the Dean’s writing is in this case increased by the peculiar measure of the composition, which is one of those well known to Irish scholars, and where the accentuation is in accordance with the Irish mode. The Editor does not pretend to have deciphered every line with perfect accuracy, but he is pretty well assured of having caught the meaning of the poet throughout.

[194] The clan Dougall, as well as the cognate clan Donald, were held by the bards to have descended from “Conn Ceud chatha,” _Conn of the hundred battles_, King of Ireland.

[195] The Macdougalls of Dunolly buried at the old Priory of Ardchattan, on the banks of Loch Etive.

[196] Connal Ferry, on Loch Etive.

[197] There is considerable obscurity about these lines. It would serve to elucidate the meaning if we knew of any feud between this chief and the clan Neil, or any person of the name of Neil belonging to any other Highland clan. The Editor has not been able to find any information on this subject.

[198] The original here is indistinct. The word “noid illeich,” made “an oide Ilich,” may be “nord Illeich,” or “an uird Ilich,” _The Isla order_, meaning some ecclesiastical order in Isla, by whom he was educated, or it may refer to the weapons of war for which Isla was famous.

[199] Alexander was Laird of Dunolly in 1493; Greg. High. p. 83. His son Duncan Carrach was slain young; Dean’s Obit. Greg. Ed. In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. pt. i. p. 114, we find that, in 1451, Stewart Lord of Lorn granted to John M’Alan of Lorn, called M’Cowle, and to John Keir (“ciar,” _dark_), his eldest son and heir, etc., twenty-nine marklands of the island of Caruvray, etc. These are probably the two Johns and Alexander of our bard. This holding of the Stewarts may explain the bard’s reference to the rule of the stranger.

The author of this is Finlay M’Nab.

The sluggard’s Book of Poems,[200]
If ’t were your wish to write in it,
Among what they have left you’ll find
Enough wherewith to fill it.
Though many the men there be,
Who cruelly the people oppress,
Never will these be found,
Honoured in famous songs.
Of all the fruits of sluggards,
Though there be of them a thousand,
The house in which these do meet,
They ne’er can by any means reach.
They are both gentle and simple,
Dressed in their Sunday coats;
And yet of all their productions,
It happens we never can hear.
I won’t their genealogy tell,
Of their history nothing I know,
But that they are out at evening,
Followed close by their hounds.
Dugall, thou art their fellow,
John’s son of the polished blade,
In whom flows the sluggard’s blood,
Write thou in the Book of Poems.
Write knowingly, intelligently,
Write their history and their life;
Don’t bring a poem on the earth,
To have it read by Mac Cailein.
Remember this my claim on thee,
Gregor, as thou hast heard
That I have as an obligation,
All thine to put in the Book of Poems.
Let there be nothing in this poem
Of priests or of tenantry;
But nothing of this band there is,
Which is not in the Book of Poems.
The sluggard’s.

[200] The word “duanaire,” here used in the original, means “a miscellany of poetical compositions.” The Dean’s MS. is a “duanaire,” but not a “duanaire nan strangair,” for the Dean seems to have been a most industrious compiler. This piece of M’Nab’s is a satire on lazy composers or compilers. It is valuable as showing that the ancient bards wrote their compositions. The number of such books must have been large, although during the course of centuries they seem to have perished with few exceptions.

The author of this is Eafric M’Corqudale.[201]

Jewel,[202] who has roused my grief,
Beloved hast thou been of me,
Beloved that joyous, generous heart,
Which thou hadst until this night.
Thy death has filled me with grief,
The hand round which I lived so long,
That I hear not of its strength,
And that I saw it not depart;
That joyful mouth of softest sounds,
Well was it known in every land.
Lion of Mull, with its white towers,
Hawk of Isla, with its smooth plains,
Shrewdest of all the men we knew,
Whom guest ne’er left without a gift.
Prince of good men, gentle, kind,
Whose mien was that of a king’s son,
Guests came to thee from Dunanoir,[203]
Guests from the Boyne[204] for lordly gifts.
Truth it is they often came,
Not oftener than gave thee joy.
Shapely falcon of Sliabh Gael,[205]
Protection to the bards thou gav’st,
Dragon of Lewis of sandy slopes,
Glad as the whisper of a stream;
The loss of but a single man
Has left me lonely, now he’s gone.
No sport, no pleasing song,
No joy, nor pleasure in the feast;
No man whom I can now love,
Of Nial’s race down from Nial òg;[206]
Among our women there’s no joy,
Our men no pleasure have in sport,
Just like the winds when it is calm,
So without music is Dun Sween.[207]
See the palace of a generous race,
Vengeance is taken on clan Neil,
The cause of many a boastful song,
And will till they lay us in the grave;
And now ’tis hard to bear, alas!
That we should lose on every side.
Didst thou, son of Adam, crush
Any cluster of three nuts,
It is to him thou lovest most
The largest third of them thou’dst give.
Thus of their husk the topmost nut,
Does to clan Neil, ungrudged, belong.
The bountiful have often poured
Their gifts on the dwelling of clan Neil.
The prince, who was the last of all,
Is he who me with gloom has filled.
In half my purpose I have failed,
Jewel, who has roused my grief.
Broken my heart is in my breast,
And so ’t will be until I die;
Left by that black and noble eyelid,
Jewel, who hast roused my grief.
Mary, mother, foster-mother of the king,
Protect thou me from every shaft;
And thou, her Son, who all things mad’st.
Jewel, who hast roused my grief.
Jewel.

[201] This poetess seems to have been the wife of the last M’Neil of Castle Sween. The name M’Corqudale is common in Kintyre.

[202] The word “paidrein,” derived from “Paidir,” _The Lord’s Prayer_, really means _a rosary_.

[203] Dunanoir was a castle on the island of Cape Clear, on the south-west coast of Ireland. See _Miscell. of Celt. Soc._ p. 143.

[204] The river Boyne. From Dunanoir to the Boyne included all Ireland.

[205] Sliabh Ghaidheael, a range of hills in Kintyre.

[206] In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. pt. i. p. 41, we find that Hector M’Torquil Mac Neil was constable of Castle Sween in 1472. In 1481 the office and lands were conferred on Colin Earl of Argyle. Between these two periods M’Neil would appear to have died, leaving no heir in the direct line.

[207] Castle Sween is an ancient stronghold at the mouth of Loch Sween in Knapdale, said to take its name from Sween of Argyle, who flourished in the thirteenth century; but the Irish annalists make mention of it at a much earlier period. It was probably a stronghold of the Dalriadic monarchs.

The author of this is Dougall Mac Gille glas.[208]