Chapter IX: Introduction (8)

Bold as a prince is John[209] in each gathering,
’Twere long to sing his race’s glory;
Of this there is no doubt ’mong men,
That he is the first of the race of kings.
Mac Gregor of the bravest deeds,
Is the boldest chief in any land;
Between his gold and Saxons’ spoil,
Well may he live in ease and peace.
Choice for courage of the Grecian Gael,
Whose meed of praise shall ne’er decay,
Abounding in charity and love,
Known in the lands of the race of kings.[210]
White-toothed falcon of the three glens,[211]
With whom we read the bravest deeds,
The boldest arm ’midst fight of clans,
Best of the chiefs from the race of kings.
When on Mac Phadrick of ruddy cheeks,
Wrath in battle’s hour awaked,
The men who with him share the fight
Are never safe amidst its blows.
Grandson to Malcom of bright eyes,
Whom none could leave but felt their loss,
The generous, gentle, shapely youth,
The readiest hand when aught’s to do.
The race of Gregor stand round John,
Not as a weak one is their blow;
The famous race without a fault,
Round him like a fence they stand.
Clan Gregor who show no fear,
Even when with the king they strive,
Though brave Gael may be the foe,
That they count of little weight.
Gael or Saxon are the same,
To these brave men of kingly race,
Sons of Gregor bold in fight,
Bend not before the fiercest foe.
Prince[212] of the host of generous men,
To Gregor of golden bridles, heir,
Pity the men whom you may spoil,
Worse for them who you pursue.
Chief of Glen Lyon of the blades,
Shield and benefactor of the Church,
His arm like Oscar’s in the fight,
To whom in all things he is like.
Kindness mantles on his red cheek,
Thy praise he justly wins, ungrudged;
Benevolence when to men he shows,
Horses and gold he freely gives.
Mac Gregor of the noble race,
No wonder though bards should fill thy court;
To his white breast there is no match,
But he so famous ’mong the Feinn.
Three fair watches him surround,
Never as captives were his men;
His arm in battle’s struggle strong,
Well did he love to hunt the deer.
In mien and manners he was like
The king who ruled amongst the Feinn.
Mac Gregor of the spoils, his fortune such
That choicest men do covet it.
Good and gentle is his blue eye,
He’s like Mac Cumhail of liberal horn,
Like when giving us his gold,
Like when bestowing gifts on bards,
Like in wooing or in hunt,
To the Cu Caird[213] among the Feinn.
Fortune attends the race of kings,
Their fame and wisdom both are great,
Their bounty, prudence, charity,
Are knit to them, the race of kings,
Wine and wax and honey,
These, with the stag-hunt, their delight.
Famous the actions of John’s clan,
Like to the sons of the Fenian king;
John himself was like to Finn,
First and chief ’mongst all his men.
Though many sought to have Finn’s power,
’Mongst those who fought against the Feinn,
On Patrick’s son fortune attends,
His enemies he has overcome.
Mac Gregor who destroys is he,
Bountiful friend of Church and bards.
Of handsome form, of women loved,
He of Glenstray of generous men.
Easy ’tis to speak of John,
His praise to raise loud in the song,
Giving his horses and his gold,
Just as a king should freely give.
King of Heaven, Mary virgin,
Keep me as I should be kept;
To the great city fearless me bring
Where dwells the Father of the king.
Bold.

* * * * *

Fond[214] are men of being high-born,
Whatever their wealth may be;
Great scorn of the illegitimate,
Who seek to approach the king.
Hear me, though ye may mock,
Ye race of commons and gentles,
The number of famous chiefs,
Who go to make up my fame.
I’m of the blood of clan Dougal,
A race of unquestioned right;
But brave and bold though they be,
’Tis not of them I’ve my all.
My kinsman is Mac Chailein,
Who freely gives gold to the bards;
Why should I be sorrowful,
My native place is in Earla.[215]
My native place is in Earla,
Clan Donald lie off to the west;
My dwelling is with clan Gillean,
The men who in battle can fight.
Mac Phee of Colonsay,
No stranger is he to my race,
And Mac Niel of Barray,
Of pure and gentle descent.
Mac Nee I also remember,
And also the powerful Mac Sween,
Clan Leod and clan Ranald,
Chiefs from whom I descend.
Cattanachs and Mac Intoshes,
They too are among my friends;
The Camerons and clan Gregor,
The men from Breadalbane who come.
Stewarts, though widely they be
Scattered throughout the whole earth,
Old, certain, swift-footed the tale,
That of them was my father’s grandmother.
In Balquhidder and Breadalbane,
My friends are numerous found;
Kindly men in bringing aid,
These are my kindred true.
Clan Lauchlan and clan Lamond,
Clan Neil, who learn feats of war;
Friends of mine are clan Tavish,
’Midst their green hills and their braes.
These little vigorous men,
Who dwell in the straths of the land,
I visit M’Dougal of Craignish,
I’ve a friend besides in Mac Ivor.
Gillean who has come from Mull,
Woman from the race of mariners,
Never did compass the earth,
The man whom she did not attract.
Faithful and steadfast friend,
Chief who was kind to Maol Donich,
In the liking which this man has,
No man more favour could get.
Fond.

[208] This poet was probably a M’Gregor.

[209] In the Dean’s Obits, as already quoted, we find that, in 1519, died John Dow M’Patrick M’Gregor of Glenstray, at Stronmelochan. He was apparently the subject of this laudatory ode. He is called grandson of Malcolm. Accordingly, we find among the Dean’s Obits, that Malcolm M’Gregor, son and heir to John M’Gregor of Glenstray, died in 1498.

[210] The original is “sliochd an row,” or “an rudha.” It is translated as if the word were “rìghe,” _kings_; but the Editor is in doubt if this be the word meant.

[211] The M’Gregor’s glens were Glenurchay, Glendochart, and Glenlyon.

[212] “Brainean,” the word here translated _prince_, is the ancient Gaelic form of the Welsh “Brenhin,” _a king_. The word is now obsolete in the Highlands.

[213] “Cu ceaird,” _The artificer’s dog_, is an old name for Cuchullin. It is said in Ireland to have originated in Cuchullin having killed the watch-dog of Cullin, artificer to King Cormac; whereupon he undertook to watch himself, and hence obtained the name of Cullin’s dog, or Cuchullin, also “Cu ceaird.”

[214] This is a curious fragment, and is of interest from the references in it to the Highland clans. The writer, who towards the close gives his name as Maoldomhnaich, _Servus Domini_, was apparently the illegitimate son of some man of note, and was in all likelihood a Maclean.

[215] There is, between Tobermory and Aros in Mull, a place marked in the maps Arile. This was probably the residence of our bard.

The author of this is the Baron Ewen M’Omie.[216]

Long do I feel my lying here,
My health to me is a stranger;
Fain would I pay my health’s full price,
Were mine the numerous spoils.
A spoil of white-haired, heavy cows,
A spoil of cows for drink or feasting,
I’d give besides the heavy bull,
If for my cure I had the price.
The herds and flocks of Mannanan,[217]
The sword and horn of Mac Cumhail,
The trumpet of Manallan[218] I’d give,
And the quiver of Cuchullin,
Ir, Evir, and Eireamon,[219]
And were I to possess them,
The harp of Curcheoil,[220] which hid men’s grief,
The shield of the King of Golnor.[221]
Lomond’s[222] ship of greatest fame,
Had I it upon the strand,
All I’ve seen I’d freely give,
Ere as now I’d long remain.
Long to me appears the coming
Of Alexander Mac Intosh,
That my disease he might drive away,
And thus I might no longer lie.
Long.

[216] The Editor has not been able to identify the author of this poetical complaint. During the existence of baronies, with their bailies or local judges, the number of barons or baron bailies in the Highlands must have been large. Of this class was most likely our poet.

[217] An ancient Celtic hero, from whom the Isle of Man takes its name, as well as the district in Scotland called Slamannan.

[218] The Editor has not been able to obtain any account of this person. There is a contraction over the second _a_ in the MS., which makes the reading doubtful.

[219] The three sons of Milidh of Spain, from whom the Milesian races are descended, according to Celtic story.

[220] The Editor can give no account of these names. The traditions respecting them seem to have perished.

[221] The Editor can give no account of these names. The traditions respecting them seem to have perished.

[222] A famous Celtic hero, from whom Ben Lomond and Loch Lomond are said to derive their names.

No Author.[223]

For the race of Gael, from the land of Greece
There is no place where they can rest;
Doubtless thou would’st much prefer
To raise the Gaelic race on high.
Now that thou risest ’gainst the Saxon,
Let not thy rising be a soft one;
Have your swords with sharpened blades,
Let your spears stand by your sides,
Let us not forsake our country,
Let us fiercely, bravely fight.
It is said by the Gael of Banva,[224]
Our fathers did the tale repeat,
And I have heard there was a time,
Long ago, that Innis Aingin[225]
Was ruled by the Fomorian[226] race,
Who raised from it a heavy tax.
Thus for a while the Saxons have
Our country burdened heavily;
And now each clan is full of fear,
And we are plunged in grievous doubt.
But now that a gathering’s begun,
There’s need that chiefs should rouse them up;
For with them, ’tis my opinion,
We will share a common fate.
Who is the man, whom we can tell,
Will from the Saxon save the Gael?
Who in our day has won much fame,
And whose house is truly noble?
Know a man, were he but willing,
Of whom we readily might tell,
His power in Banva widely known,
Men all bound with him to gather.
Archibald of the pointed head,
Of thee it is that men now speak.
Earl of Argyle,[227] I thee beseech,
Be as a hero in the conflict;
A hero who shall reign supreme
O’er Gael from the famous land;
Noble, high-born prince of the Gael,
Thou’lt in apportioned Albin reign.
Hero, who’ll desert no fight,
With sword, so long as right remains,
Who for the Gael from Greece, subjection
Ne’er suffer would at Saxon’s hand.
The very roots from whence they grow,
Pluck them that thou may’st us deliver;
Suffer not a Saxon hence to live,
After that thou overcom’st them.
Burn all their women, ugly in form;
Burn their children, every one;
Burn their black huts, burn them all;
And crush their enmity to us.
Drown their warriors in their streams,
When their accoutrements are burnt.
Cease not, while a Saxon lives,
To drown them weakened in their streams.
Remember thou, of ruddy cheeks,
The claims we on the Saxon have;
Oppression and beggary all thy days,
When that their oppression throve.
Remember thy own father Colin;[228]
Remember Archibald,[229] father to him;
Remember Duncan,[230] the prosperous,
He who was liberal and friendly;
Remember thou that other Colin;[231]
Remember Archibald[232] as well;
Remember Colin[233] first of all,
He who was brave amongst the Gael.
Remember that they never gave
Their tax from terror of the Saxon;
Much more it now belongs to thee
To see that thou bear’st not this tax.
Now that there is but thy sire’s blood,
Of Gael from the famous land,
Let the men together come,
Let them fill with fear their foes.
Let them attack the Saxon now,
Wake thee up then, son of Colin,
Golden-haired one, war is begun,
’Tis not good to sleep too much.
Great.

[223] There is a portion of the beginning of this ode wanting, and we have no means of knowing who the poet was. A reference to the history of the time, and the names introduced into the poem, however, suggest very emphatically the occasion of it. It is addressed to Archibald, Earl of Argyle, Chancellor of Scotland, who was killed at the battle of Flodden in 1513. The Saxons assailed so virulently by the poet are, in all likelihood, not the Lowland Scotch but the English, and the poem is probably a “Brosnachadh catha,” or incitement to the rising of the Scotch, and particularly the Argyle men, previous to the disastrous battle of Flodden. This invests the fragment with peculiar historical interest. There seems not to be much of the poem wanting, probably only a few lines.

[224] Ireland.

[225] There was an Innis Aingin, an island in the Shannon, famous as being the place to which St. Ciaran retired to spend the latter part of his life. It is here apparently taken to represent a portion of Ireland. See Mr. O’Curry’s Lect. p. 58.

[226] An early race of pirates, said to have infested the Irish coasts. The word is said to be derived from “fo mhuir,” _under the sea_, and is supposed to indicate their coming from the low sea coasts of Holland or Denmark.

[227] Archibald, Earl of Argyle, Chancellor of Scotland, who was killed at Flodden in 1513. He is called Iarla “Oirthir Ghaidheal,” _The sea-coast of the Gael_, which would seem to be the true etymology of “Argyle.”

[228] Colin, second Earl of Argyle, and Chancellor of Scotland, who married Isabella, second daughter of Stewart, Lord of Lorn.

[229] Sir Archibald, first Earl of Argyle, called “Gillespuig Ruadh,” _Archibald the red_.

[230] Sir Duncan of Argyle, commonly called “Dunchadh an aigh,” or _Duncan of good fortune_.

[231] Sir Colin of Argyle, called “Cailean iongantach,” _wonderful Colin_, and also “Cailean maith,” _good Colin_.

[232] Sir Archibald of Argyle, called “Gilleaspuig mòr,” _Archibald the great_.

[233] Sir Colin of Argyle, called “Cailean òg,” _young Colin_, son of Neil, son of Colin, called “Cailean mòr,” from whom the family take the patronymic of “Mac Chailein mhòir,” _The son of great Colin_. Cailean mòr was also called “Cailean na Sreang,” from a mountain between Loch Awe and Lorn, where he was killed in a feud with the Macdougalls. (MS. Gen. not. of fam. of Argyle, pen. Ed.)

The author of this is Duncan Mac Dougall Maoil.[234]

The history of the secret origin of John Mac Patrick,[235]
Why should I conceal it?
What belongs to his race is not feeble,
The bearing of that race we love.
Seldom of a feeble race it is,
Among the Gael of purest fame,
That inquiry of their origin is made,
By the men who read in books.
Firm the belief to them and me,
During the evening time so dark,
That in the blood of noble kings
Were the rights of true clan Gregor.
Now that I’m by thy green dwelling,
Listen, John, to thy family story:
A root of the very root we are,
Of famous kings of noble story.
Know that Patrick was thy father,
Malcom father was to Patrick.
Son of black John, not black his breast,
Him who feasts and chariots owned.
Another John was black John’s father,
Son of Gregor, son of John the lucky.
Three they were of liberal heart,
Three beneficent to the Church.
The father to that learned John,
Was Malcom, who his wealth ne’er hid,
Son of Duncan, surly and small,
Whose standard never took reproach.
His father was another Duncan,
Son of Gillelan of the ambush,
Noble he was, giving to friends,
Son of the famous Hugh from Urquhay.
Kennan[236] of the pointed spear,
Of Hugh from Urquhay was the father.
From Alpin,[237] of stately mien and fierce,
Mighty king of weighty blows.
This is the fourth account that’s given
Of thee, who art the heir of Patrick.
Remember well thy back-bone line,
Down from Alpin, heir of Dougal.
Twenty and one, besides thyself,
John the black, not black in heart.
Thy genealogy leads us truly
To the prosperous Fergus M’Erc.
Of thy race, which wastes not like froth,
Six generations wore the crown.
Forty kings there were and three,
Their blood and origin are known.
Three there were north and three to the south,[238]
After the time of Malcom Kenmore.
Ten of the race did wear the crown,
From the time of Malcom up to Alpin.
From Alpin upwards we do find
Fourteen kings till we reach Fergus.
Such is thy genealogy
To Fergus,[239] son of Erc the prosperous.
How many are there of thy race,
Must have been from thee to Fergus!
Noble the races mix with thy blood,
Such as now we cannot number.
The schools[240] would weary with our tale,
Numbering the kings from whom thou’rt sprung.
The blood of Arthur[241] is in thy bosom,
Precious is that which fills thy veins;
The blood of Cuan, the blood of Conn,[242]
Two wise men, glory of the race.
The blood of Grant in thy apple-red cheek,
The blood of Neil, the fierce and mighty.
Fierce and gentle, at all times,
Is the story of the royal race.
The history.

[234] This author is one of the writers of the MS., and a Macgregor. By referring to the genealogy at p. 143 of the MS., we find him designating himself as Dunchadh daoroglach, Mac Dhughaill, Mhic Eoin riabbaich--Duncan the apprentice, son of Dougall, son of John the grizzled.

[235] John dow M’Patrick M’Gregor of Glenstrae, who died in 1526.

[236] This is manifestly a mistake for Kenneth. The person meant is Kenneth M’Alpin, King of Scotland. In the genealogy given in p. 144 of the MS., this Kennan is said to have been high King of Scotland, to distinguish him from lesser chiefs, whom the Celts called kings.

[237] Alpin, King of the Scots, who flourished in the beginning of the ninth century. Several of the links in the Macgregor genealogy must be wanting in this poem. Even the name of Gregor, from whom the clan is called, does not appear at all.

[238] Both sides of Loch Tay, the ancient Macgregor territory, are still called “Tuaruith” and “Deasruith,” _north and south sides_.

[239] First king of the Dalriadic Scots.

[240] The schools of the bards, which abounded in Scotland and Ireland at this period, chiefly in Ireland, as may be discovered from this collection, for most of the composers were undoubtedly trained there. Poetry and genealogy were the chief branches studied.

[241] Arthur, King of the Strathclyde Britons, from whom the Campbells also are said to be descended.

[242] “Conn ceud catha,” _Conn of the hundred battles_, King of Ireland.

The author of this is Mac Eachag.[243]

Displeased am I with the south wind,
Which hinders the coming of John,[244]
And that he is kept away out,
On his way from the north to M’Leod.
Janet’s son, of whitest sails,
Well would he like to cross the sea;
But the south wind will not listen
To John, William’s son of swift steeds.
By night or by day as I sleep,
From the beach I see to the north,
The rushing bark of whitest sails,
The bark of him who stays defeat.
This is the fame which every man
Awards to M’William from Clar Sgith,[245]
An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth,
One who for aught he did ne’er mourned.
This is the eighth day without John,
Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye;
Like he is in mien and strength
To the great house of liberal heart.
Cheerful he is, does nought conceal,
Such is the fame of sharp-armed John.
In battle’s day he takes the lead,
Ever ready fame to win.
William’s son, my foster child,
Son to Janet, royal her race,
Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north,
All my gloom would disappear.

[243] This name is very indistinct in the MS., and cannot be given with certainty.

[244] In 1480, William Macleod of Dunvegan was killed at the battle of the Bloody Bay, and was succeeded by his son Alexander, usually called “Alastair Crotach,” or _hump-backed_ (Greg. High. p. 74). The charters give no information as to John, if a son of this William Macleod. But William’s father was John, whose father was also in all likelihood a William; and this John, whose _floreat_ was early in the fifteenth century, might be the person here meant.

[245] The old name for Skye, and throws some doubt on the derivation of the name “Sgiathanach,” usually accepted.

The author of this is Mac Gillindak,[246] the man of songs.

Lords have precedence of chiefs,
It has been so from the beginning;
It is commendable in young men,
That each should have knowledge of this.
The first who was lord of this land
Was Duncan beg (little) of the great soul,
He who as a legacy has left
Their bravery to clan Gregor.
Duncan, great by many spoils,
Was the blessed father of Malcom;
Grandfather he was to princely John,
Him who never broke his pledge.
Gregor, excellent son of Duncan,
Was son to John, and was his heir;
Famous man he was of the country,
From the bright shore of Loch Tullich,[247]
Swarthy John, so pure in speech,
Princely son of John M’Gregor,
Hunter of the well-formed deer,
He like a king aye led the fight.
Malcom of unbending truth,
Know thou John, succeeds his father,
Southwards in fair Glenurchay,
Handsome he was amongst its valleys.
The first place ’mong their ancestors
Is given by the Saxon to clan Gregor,
Of whom were three chiefs loved the hunt,
And were most active in the fight.
In the days of Conn of hundred battles,
I heard of something like this,
Of Finn of spears and sharp sword,
Cumhal’s son of famous deeds:
That of Erin the hunting and lordship
Belonged to Mac Cumhal of long locks,
Patrimony and lordship he hadn’t
Over the lands of the race of Gaul.
Forest right they had all his life,
From Kerry north to Carn Valair.
But he possessed the old rights
Which previously were his.
From Hallowmas on to Beltin,
His Feinn had all the rights.
The hunting without molestation,
Was theirs in all the forests.
Many the tributes I cannot tell,
Belonged to Finn and his men.
Tribute in Erin possessed
By Mac Cumhail from the forests.
A noble’s forest right to the Feinn,
On the banks of every stream.
But Malcom’s large tributes
Did not belong to Mac Muirn;[248]
Finn himself would never hunt
Without first asking leave.
The hunting of Scotland, without leave,
Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom.
Constant in the hunt together
Are M’Gregor and his fierce men;
No oftener did the blood-red hounds
Enter the fort of clan Boisgne.
A fighting band of chieftains
Arose with him in battle’s day,
Men whose dress sparkled with gold,
Men who conquered in the fight.
The head of clans and of huntsmen
Is the common fame of his race.
No trial of bravery or skill
Will show weakness in M’Gregor.
Many in his halls are found together,
Men who carried well-sharped swords,
Red gold glittered on their hilts,
The arms of the lion of Loch Awe.
Harmonious music among harps,
Men with dice-boxes in their hands,
Those who leave the game of tables,
Go and lead forth the hounds.
Mac Gregor of red-pointed palms,
Son of Dervail, the Saxon’s terror,
No hand like his amidst the fight,
He ’tis that ever victory won.
Liberal he ever was to bards,
Gifts which Mac Lamond[249] knows to earn.
Famous for managing his hounds,
A hand so ready with its gifts.
Mary, who stands by his side,
Of noble mind and handsome form,
Poets unite to give her praise,
Her with cheeks as berries red.
Lords.

[246] We have no tradition respecting this poet. But he must have been a bard of the M’Gregors’. The allusion to the Feinn will be understood by referring to the war-song of Gaul.

[247] Elsewhere translated Loch Tummell. “Tolve” is the word in the original. Loch Tullich lies at the head of Glenurchay.

[248] This is usually the name of Gaul, but here it is Finn, whose mother’s name was Muirn.

[249] Probably the chief bard of the MacGregors.

The author of this is Finlay, the red-haired bard.[250]

The one demon of the Gael is dead,
A tale ’tis well to remember,
Fierce ravager of Church and cross,
The bald-head, heavy, worthless boar.
First of all from hell he came,
The tale’s an easy one to tell,
Armed with the devil’s venomous spear.
But he was surely, firmly bound,
Ere quitting the black house of hell,
To the same stronghold to return,
And leave the Star of Paradise.
Then, when came the black skinned boar,
Many the devils in his train,
Each of them with horrid sound,
Their voices all in one loud strain.
Lest that he should nothing have,
It was apportioned by Mac Ruarie,[251]
As a covenant firmly fixed,
That in hell he’d live a dog.
Righteous and just is now the claim
Which Allan has against the devils.
Whatever share may be their own,
He, I think, should have much glory.
’Tis time to cease now from that band,
Of horrid sounds, and cruel heart.
Mac Ruarie from the ocean far,
Wealth thou’st got without an effort.
’Tis a report we can’t neglect,
For with Columba I must meet,
’Tis a report that fills the land,
Bald-head Allan, thou so faithless,
That thou hast, not thine only crime,
Ravaged I[252] and Relig[253] Oran.
Fiercely didst thou then destroy
Priests’ vestments and vessels for the mass.
Thou art Inche Gall’s[254] great curse,
Her revenue and stronghold spoil’st;
Thou art the man whose heart is worst
Of all who followed have thy chief,
Save one who stands at his left hand,
And he, Mac Ruarie, is thy brother.
Now thy fight we never hear,
But from the cross we hear thee cursed;
The two are good who are about thee,
Black indeed they are in form.
At the time thou first mad’st war,
There was the Abbot’s horrid corpse,
Besides that other lawless raid
Against Finan[255] in Glengarry.
Thine own cruel, hateful deeds,
Have cursed thy bald-head body, Allan,
Just as crime will always do,
Revenge itself on who commits it.
The country side, with its protest,
Has stamped mad rage on Allan’s face.
Thine own country and thy friends,
Thou hast cruelly oppressed.
The last of thy goodness was lost
Between the Sheil and the Hourn,
’Tis no wonder thou didst keep
Far away, Allan, from the gallows.
The fame which men had given thee,
Extends to thy mother and thy sister.
Time it is to cease from satire,
Worthless, cruel son of Ruarie.
Though learning which helps not manners,
The sound of thy wailing is pleasant.
The one demon.

The son has been found like his father,[256]
Above all chiefs whom we have known,
His bearing, countenance, and mind,
And with me he dwells in Lewis.
The knowledge and mind of a chief,
With which he’ll make prosperous times.
I say of this young son we’ve got,
That he is just another Roderick;[257]
How like each other are their locks,
His father’s honour to his ringlets.
In battle, too, how like the praise
Of Torquil[258] and his famous father.
Of all that in Torquil’s time may come,
None of his friends shall suffer loss,
Great deeds and victories will be,
Such as Mac Calman[259] may relate.
Many his gifts which we might praise,
Torquil of the famous race;
His are a hero’s strength and vigour,
Which he brings into the fight.
I say of him, and say in truth,
Since I have come so well to know him,
That never was there of his age
Better king who ruled in Lewis.
To him belonged the “Cairge mhordha,”[260]
The richest jewel sailed the sea,
Given it was to Mac Vic Torquil,
With which to reach his people’s land.
Mac Ruarie of cheerful music,
Had also the old cleaving sword,
Another jewel of sure effect,
’Twas given him by the King of Aineach.[261]
Since he so many presents had,
’Twas needless for him to go and seek.
A shield he had cleft in the head,
Another jewel, sounding loud.
Without he had a noble herd
Of horses, with their trappings red;
’Twouldn’t suit a man like him
Not to have many swift-paced steeds.
His was the Du Seivlin,
M’Leod’s, whom the bards would sing.
’Twas hard for those to take that horse,
Whoe’er they were that might him seek.
Torquil had many youths
Who never trembled in battle,
Who for his race seized on all lands,
A race that aye the conflict loved.
Not braver of his age was Cuchullin,
Not hardier was he than Torquil,
Him of the ready, vigorous arm,
Who boldly breaks through any breach.
Beloved though Mac Vic Torquil is,
I can’t enough his beauty praise;
He who is fair as he is the brave,
The key to every woman’s heart.
There is no son of king or chief
Of whose fame we’ve ever heard,
Though we’ve had much to do with such,
That better are to us than Torquil.
Catherine,[262] daughter of Mac Cailen,
Whose soft hand’s worthy of thy race,
Daughter of the Earl of Argyle,
Best of the women we have found.
To our isle we’ve got a woman,
Branch of a great and famous tree.
Daughter of Mac Cailen, young and gentle,
Whose locks in flowing ringlets fall.
The son.

[250] It has been suggested to the Editor that this poet might have been the chief of the Macnabs, the chief of this period being Finlay Macnab of Boquhan; and we know that the Macnabs counted themselves of the same lineage with the Macgregors. There is much in the composition given here, however, to indicate his being an ecclesiastic.

[251] We learn from Greg. High. pp. 65, 66, that Allan MacRuari, great-grandson of Ranald, and chief of clan Ranald, was one of the principal supporters of Angus, the young Lord of the Isles, at the battle of the Bloody Bay; and that he also followed Alexander of Lochalsh in his invasion of Ross and Cromarty in 1491, receiving a large share of the booty taken on the occasion. The poet describes him as a sacrilegious marauder.

[252] The ecclesiastical establishment at Iona. The Reformers had probably less to do with the destruction of the buildings in Iona than is generally thought.

[253] The church of St. Oran in Iona.

[254] The Hebrides were known as “Innsegall,” or _the islands of the strangers_, probably since the rise of the kingdom of the Norsemen there.

[255] The church of Kilfinan, at the east end of Loch Lochy, where is still the burying-place of the M’Donells of Glengarry.

[256] There is no author’s name given for this spirited eulogy. The author was probably a family bard of the Siol Torcuil, or M’Leods of Lewis.

[257] Roderick M’Leod of Lewis was head of the Siol Torcuil, or _sons of Torquil_, in 1493. (Greg. High. p. 73.)

[258] Torquil was second son of Roderick M’Leod of Lewis, the eldest having been killed in the battle of the Bloody Bay. Torquil was forfeited for harbouring Donald dubh, son of Angus Og of Islay. (Greg. High. p. 73.)

[259] Probably the chief bard of the Siol Torcuil.

[260] “Cairbhe” is _a ship_. This was probably the name of Torquil’s galley, although spelled “cairge” by the Dean.

[261] “Aineach,” a castle of the O’Kanes, within a few miles of Derry. The King of Aineach was chief of the O’Kanes.

[262] Catharine, daughter of Colin, 2d Earl of Argyle, who married Torquil Macleod of the Lewis.

The author of this is Gilliecalum Mac an ollave.[263]

The cause of my sorrow is come,
This year has not prospered with me;
Foolish who cannot understand
How my grief has on me come;
He who cannot understand
How my grief has come at once;
Since these wounds my body got,
Such wounds I’ve got I mourn.
Pleasant now, though bitter too,
To mourn my sad distress;
Sorrow fills my inmost heart,
Great was my love for him who’s gone;
My heart is broken in twain,
No wonder it should be so;
My body has neither flesh nor blood,
Like a strengthless sufferer.
’Tis no wonder if I so grieve
For Margaret’s[264] son who now is gone,
Remembering all his virtues,
And that chiefless we are left.
Sore is the loss that he is gone,
Now that in the world we’re weak,
My grief now that thy days are ended,
Is the injury done by Angus.[265]
Though it be hard for me to part
With John’s[266] son of sweetest speech,
What is worst of all is this,
That ne’er to his place he’ll return.
Though I were from happiness far,
Pursued by my foes’ reproach,
Whatever good might me o’ertake,
From them never would I buy.
No wonder though heavy my heart,
As another lord’s seen in thy place,
That my whole man should be feeble,
Now that my king is dead.
Bitter is my pain since he left,
’Tis easy the tale to relate,
’Tis hard my great sorrow to bear,
For the hero so famous who’s gone.
Great is my grief, and no wonder,
My mourning is true, sincere;
That which sorely has me pained,
Is that in Albin we’ve no race.[267]
Now since that I must leave,
As others with reproach me load,
Since he is dead, I fain would go,
Away from the rough isles of Albin.
Yet ’tis sore for me to leave,
Although I feel that go I must,
Now that my beloved is dead,
My country I must leave behind.
Last of all, what grieves me is,
And truly the cause is enough,
That my beloved will not return,
To Islay on this side of Innis.[268]
And then, besides, it is so sad,
That this during his time should come,
Wringing hearts, and bodies rending,
Without revenge being in our power.
No men on earth could think
How ready he was foes to crush,
’Twas nothing both for us and thee
That champions should come against us.
But thy foes now have pierced thee,
Pity we had not with thee died,
Fair-handed, sweet-voiced son of Mary,
That we should have none to help.
He of the fairest countenance,
Our loss is not to follow him.
All the fame thou didst enjoy,
Was such as to thy race belonged,
They who had the long curled locks,
Whose company men loved much.
Now their hearts are sore depressed,
Every comfort poor without thee.
’Twould be hard to find one like me,
And that from my lord I had,
The fellowship of priests and poets;
These are plenty, but his hand absent.
When others to the banquet go,
Of the honour my share is this,
Ever to mourn in grief unchanged,
And of sorrow drink my fill.
’Tis sad for me I do not follow,
Much his absence do we grieve;
And then o’er that which makes me mourn,
Many the other men who weep.
Many the men before our time,
Who by sorrow were brought low;
And what I’ve said does find its proof,
In a tale I’ve told before.
“I’ve heard a tale of old,” etc.[269]
_As follows in another place._
The fellow of this noble man,
Foster-son of Caoimh and Conull.

[263] It has been said in a previous note that nothing is known of this poet. But the present composition would indicate his being one of the celebrated Beatons, physicians and sennachies to the Lords of the Isles. There is a charter of lands in Islay, written in Gaelic by Fergus Beaton in 1411. There were several of the family whose name was Gilliecallum. “Mac an Olaimh ” means _son of the physician_.

[264] Margaret Livingstone, daughter of Sir Alexander Livingstone, married to Alexander Lord of the Isles.

[265] Angus Og, son of John last Lord of the Isles, who fought the battle of the Bloody Bay against his father.

[266] John, son of Alexander Lord of the Isles.

[267] Both John and Angus, sons of the last Lord of the Isles, died before their father. He was forfeited, and died in a monastery in Paisley.

[268] This word is spelled “Eithnis,” and “Einis,” and “Enis.” It is translated _Angus_ and _Innis_. But it is difficult to decide which it means; probably “Inis” in Ulster, where the Lords of the Isles had extensive possessions.

[269] See above, p. 50.

Blind Arthur Mac Gurkich.[270]

The assembled fleet at Castle Sween,
Pleasant tidings in Innisfail,
Of all the riders of the waves,
A finer ship no man e’er owned.
Tall men did manage the ship,
Men, I think, to urge their way;
No hand without a champion,
A slashing, vigorous, noble band.
With coats of black all were supplied,
In this bark, noble their race,
Bands with their brown, broad belts,
Danes and nobles were they all.
Chieftains with ivory and gold,
The crew on board this brown-sailed ship,
Each with a sheaf of warriors’ spears,
Shields on their hooks hung round the sides.
Wide-spread wings, speckled sails,
Bearing purple, all of gems;
A long, handsome, gentle band,
Stood along the stout-made spars.
The blue sea at the swift ship’s prow,
The ship laden when the tide is full;
Wattled baskets full of swords,
With shields all brought on board the bark.
Fair women, too, were in the ship,
Modest, their beds were placed on high,
Spotted cushions were provided,
Couches for the nobles’ wives.
Spotted coverings of fine linen,
This was the covering of the ship;
Handsome, easy, as she rocked,
Purple linen round each mast.
No hardened hands, no tightened belt,
Nor roughened by their usual toil;
Heroes were there, nor did they labour,
Bands of men of sweetest lips.
We heard not of so many nobles,
Of our isle from labour free;
From Erin princely champions,
A troop with soft and ruddy hair.
Not ship of all did she count swifter,
None has there been nor will be,
No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief,
Nor is there any end of all.
No ship of ships she counted swift,
Full of princely men she is,
Scattering gold among the bards,
While round the ship resounds the sea.
Many the men of sword and spear,
Many men quick in fight to mix;
Down by the sea the fighting men,
Above, the gentle women were.
Who is he provides this fleet,
At Castle Sween[271] of many hills?
A vigorous man who fears no blast,
His masts upraised, seeking his right.
John M’Sween,[272] sail thou the ship,
On the ocean’s fierce-topped back;
Raise aloft the vessel’s masts,
Let thy bark now test the sea.
A leading wind then for them rose,
At Kyle Aca[273] as rose the tide;
The speckled sails were roundly bellied,
As John ran swiftly for the land.
We entered the cheerful anchorage
In the bay of fruitful Knapdale;[274]
The noble hero, lordly, shapely,
Comely, masted, swift, victorious,
He was then near Albin’s walls,
Helpful, welcoming his men.
Fair was then the youthful hero,
Abundant dew distilling round,
Favourable at Slieve Mun’s[275] streams,
To Mac Sween, him of Slieve Mis.
Speakers then come near to ask,
They deal as with him of sharpest eye.
Branches are laid beneath their knees,
To welcome those of valour great.
Their safety in each harbour nook
Suffers from the welcome they give John.
The men of Albin’s isles then come
With welcome from the narrow sea.
The men who sweetest are that sing,
Tenfold welcomes to him bring.
For a while there was a conflict,
Between them and our men of song;
They come at last to know full well,
How fair the hill from whence came John.
Then did we fight at Castle Sween,
Just as a slender, furious hawk,
We set us down around that rock,
Every limb endowed with strength.
We pierced the bodies of our foes,
Just as a serpent fiercely wounds;
Our thin-bladed, well-edged swords,
The foreigners’ bodies fiercely hacked.
We raised the cry of great Mac Sween,
Amidst the rolling of the sea;
True it is that roll won’t help,
Broad-backed, long although it be,
Their javelins have no power to pierce
The shields which our brown coats protect.
Rathlin of the sharp rocks, hears
The music of our ringing swords.
The thin-bladed sword, in Europe best,
A spear that swift obeys the wish,
What shield on earth can it resist?
Fierce and fearless Erin’s sons.
John Mac Sween of stratagems,
With his thin, powerful, cutting sword,
He whose shield is spotted brown,
A blind man found him brave and wise.
The assembled fleet.

[270] Who this blind poet was the Editor cannot say. He can find no notice of him anywhere, nor of the attack on Castle Sween, which he describes. He was an Irish bard, and composes in the Irish dialect, making use, like the later Irish poets, of language much more difficult to understand than the older composers. The Editor encountered more difficulty in reading this piece, than in reading any other in the Dean’s MS. “Broin” is an ancient word for a _troop_ or _band_, and “cleath,” “comhlan,” “nòs,” are words for a _warrior_; but these words are entirely obsolete; so “glantair,” as the comparison of “glan,” is unknown in the modern language. There is a manifest attempt in the composition to use obsolete words; but the Editor trusts the meaning has been correctly rendered.

[271] We can find no trace in our history of this attack by the Irish Mac Sweenys on Castle Sween. The event cannot be of a very ancient date, as the Mac Sweenys are not a very ancient tribe in Ulster.

[272] One of the Mac Sweens or Mac Sweenys of Slieve Mis in Antrim.

[273] This cannot be Kyle Akin in Skye, but is probably the ancient name of the entrance to Loch Sween.

[274] Knapdale, on the west coast of Argyle, south of Crinan.

[275] Not known to the Editor, but is probably on the Knapdale side of Loch Sween.

Isabella Ni vic Cailein.[276]

Pity whose complaint is love,
Whate’er my reason thus to speak,
’Tis hard to separate from its object,
Sad’s the condition I am in.
The love which I in secret gave,
Of which I’d better never speak,
Unless I quickly get relief,
Withered and thin I’ll soon become.
The man whom I have so loved,
A love I never must confess;
Has me put in lasting bonds,
For me a hundred times ’tis pity.
Pity.

[276] This lady is elsewhere called “Contissa Ergadien,” _the Countess of Argyle_. From the name given her here, she would appear to be a daughter of the Earl of Argyle, but she might as countess be styled Ni vic Cailein, or the daughter of Colin. We know that Sir Colin Campbell of Glenurchy, was uncle and tutor to Archibald, first Earl of Argyle, and that having himself married Margaret, eldest daughter of Stuart last Lord of Lorn, he arranged a marriage between his nephew and Isabella, the second daughter, who became Countess of Argyle. She was most likely the authoress of these lines, but we have no key to the piece of domestic history to which they refer.

The author of this is Duncan Og.[277]

Seven arrows me assail,
Each of the arrows does me wound;
Between me and my God they come,
Such of my body is the desire.
The first one of these is Pride,
Which wounds me under my belt,
Often of a triumph it has me spoiled,
Which otherwise I might obtain.
The second arrow is Lust,
To whose power I’m such a slave;
Since this shaft trait’rously has me pierced,
I cannot live beyond its reach.
The third of these arrows is one
Which pierces ’midst my very joints;
Laziness, which suffers not
That I the right way e’er should chuse.
The fourth arrow is Covetousness,
O God, ’tis mournful where it wounds;
Deliverance I can never have
From this load of earth upon my back.
The fifth of these shafts is Gluttony,
Which has brought me much reproach;
Besides that it pains my self-respect,
From it my body is not free.
The sixth sore arrow of them all
Is Anger, which me from men divides;
May Mary stay them when they’re shot,
Otherwise I have no help.
The seventh shaft does pierce the eye,
Envy, which grudges others’ good;
A shaft which, however we may feel,
Is one which never does us good.
When these in his hand the enemy takes,
Many they are by’s arms destroyed;
He never shoots but what he strikes,
And never strikes but what he kills.
Son of God, I’ll place a pater,
And the apostles’ creed as well,
Between me and these wounding arms,
With five psalms, or six or seven.
Seven.

[277] There is a Duncan Og Albanach among the writers of religious poetry in the MS., who was most likely one of the Mac Vurrichs, and the author of these lines. It is hardly necessary to say that the poet refers in this composition to the seven mortal sins of the Roman Catholic Church.

The author is Murdoch Albanach.[278]

’Tis time for me to go to the house of Paradise,
While this wound’s not easily borne,
Let me win this house, famous, faultless,
While others can tell of us nought else.
Confess thyself now to the priest,
Remember clearly all thy sins;
Carry not to the house of the spotless King,
Aught that may thee expose to charge.
Conceal not any of thy sins,
However hateful its evil to tell;
Confess what has been done in secret,
Lest thou expose thyself to wrath.
Make thy peace now with the clergy,
That thou may’st be safe as to thy state;
Give up thy sin, deeply repent,
Lest its guilt be found in thee.
Woe to him forsook the Great King’s house,
For love of sin, sad is the deed;
The sin a man commits in secret,
Much is the debt his sin incurs.
This is a sermon for Adam’s race,
I think I’ve nothing said that’s false,
Though men may death for a time avoid,
’Tis true they can’t at length escape.
Thou who hast purchased Adam’s race,
Their blood, their body, and their heart,
The things we cherish may’st thou assail,
However we may them pursue.
’Tis time.

[278] Murdoch of Scotland was the first of the great race of Macvurrichs, bards to Macdonald of Clanranald. From all that can be gathered regarding him, he was an ecclesiastic, and, according to the measure of light he possessed, a man of earnest and sincere religion. It was not known, until this volume of Dean M’Gregor’s was searched, that any remains of his compositions existed; but here we find several, all very much of the same character. There is one long poem to the cross, which appears to have been modelled on the early Latin hymns. Murdoch of Scotland, or Muireadhach Albanach, would appear to have lived between A.D. 1180 and 1220. Mr. Standish H. O’Grady, late President of the Ossianic Society of Dublin, kindly sent to the writer some years ago a poem, still preserved in Ireland, containing a dialogue between Muireadhach and “Cathal Cròdhearg,” the red-handed Cathal O’Connor, King of Connaught, on the occasion of their embracing a religious life. Cathal’s “floruit” is known to have been between A.D. 1184 and 1225. As the lines are curious, they are inserted here.

Cathal croibhdhearg agus Muireadhach
Albanach maraon iar n-dul anns na braithribh
dhoibh, cecinerunt:--

A Mhuireadhaigh, meil do sgian, go ’m bearram inn do’n Aird-rìgh,
Tabhram go milis ár mòid, ’us ar dhà trillis do ’n Trianaid,
Bearraidh mise do Mhuire, an bhreath so is breath òr-chridhe,
Do Mhuire bearr am bàrr so, a dhuine seang, sùlmhal so.
Anamh leat, a mhaca ghlan, sgian tar do bharr do’d bhearradh,
Fa mhionca rioghain bhinn bhog, a cìreadh a cinn thugad.
Gach ré n’uair do foilethi dhuinn, us do Bhrian ard bhairr
chladh-ùir,
’Us do fhoileinn uair eile ri stuaidh fhoiltfhinn Bhoroimhe.
Do ghrinn comh-shnamh ’us Ua Chàis, air linntibh fuara Forghais,
Air teacht air tìr leis o’n linn, do ghrinn ’us Ua Chais
coimhshling,
An dha sgian so leath air leath, do rad dhuinn Dunchadh Cairbreach,
Nior b’fhearr dhà sgian de sginibh; bearr gu mìn a Mhuireadhaich.
Meil do chlaidheamh, a Chathail, chosnas am Banbha braonsgathaidh,
Ni chuala gun fhachuin d’fhearg, a Chathail chuanna, chròdheirg,
Dion air fhuachd ’s air ainteas inn, a inghin uasail Ioachaim,
Dean ar coimhead ’s an tìr theith, a ro gheag mhìn, a Mhuire.
A Mhuireadhaich.

TRANSLATION.

Cathal Crodhearg and Murdoch of Scotland,
on entering among the brethren, sung:--

Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the
Great King,
Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our heads to
the Trinity.
I will shave mine to Mary, this is the doing of a true heart,
To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.
Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it,
Oftener has a sweet, soft queen, comb’d her hair beside thee.
Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the
well-curled locks,
And once on a time that I did bathe, at the wall of the
fair-haired Boroimhe,
I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of
the Fergus.
When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove
in a race.
These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach,
No knives of knives were better, shave gently then, Murdoch.
Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva,
Ne’er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave,
red-handed Cathal,
Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle daughter
of Joachim,
Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch, Mary.
Murdoch.

The above Murdoch.

That there should be in God’s Son’s heart
A sinner like me, how great the tale,
And that there should to me be given,
On my lips to have the cross of Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ, sanctify as thou art wont,
My two feet, and my two hands,
Sanctify me of thy good will,
Even my blood, and flesh, and bones.
I never cease committing sin,
Because that my body loves it well;
May consecration come from afar,
Upon my head and on my heart.
Glorious great One, save thou me
From every grief which me has seized,
Ere I’m laid beneath the turf,
May my way be plain and smooth.
That.

The author of this is Murdoch Albanach.

Thou Trinity, do thou me teach,
Thou Lord, whose praise all men must sing,
Thou Trinity, come on my tongue,
Bless it in thy judgment great.
Holy Trinity in the heavens,
Strengthen thou my spiritual arms;
Come to, and dwell in my heart,
Thou head of all thy holy race.
Guide thou my hand, and teach my heart,
Teach my eye, thou King of truth;
Come to my voice, move on my tongue,
Quicken my ear, and bless my lips.
This is the mouth which ye have torn,
Which checks men’s conflicts, nought forgets;
This is the tongue that ne’er spared speech,
Bless it, Beloved of my soul.
From thee, O Trinity, alas! O Trinity,
Let healing come, speak thou to me;
There is, as in the white-wood oak,
In me a sinful, corrupt heart.
Though sinful, I never man destroyed,
Ne’er did I steal, O Son of God;
Never did my hand slay man,
For Mary’s love, answer thou me.
’Tis true, I’ve made lying refuges,
Deceived by lies of men of fame,
Building on others’ lie my lie,
O King, shall I in this succeed?
Thou who in me prayer begett’st,
’Tis no sin to follow thee;
’Twas neither righteous men nor great,
But God a refuge found for me.
No man in this world can me teach,
But only thou, O Lord, alone,
None keepeth truth but heaven’s King,
To His wisdom none is like,
If I am in the way of truth,
My tonsure vow requires it all;
If, O Trinity, on a lie I rest,
Lead me to the way of truth.
Earth or clay shall not me cover,
But waves of judgment, little the wrath,
Nothing else shall be to hide me,
But, O King, burning red-flamed fire.
Trinity, thou mad’st this world,
Both of fire and of earth;
Of earth and fire all men are made,
So at the end it will be found.

GENEALOGY OF THE MACGREGORS.

John son of Patrick, son of Malcom, son of John the black, son of John, son of Gregor, son of John, son of Malcom, son of Duncan the little, son of Duncan from Srulee, son of Gilelan, son of Hugh of Urchy, son of Kenneth, son of Alpin; and this Kenneth was head king of Scotland, in truth, at that time; and this John is the eleventh man from Kenneth, of whom I spoke.--And Duncan the servitor, son of Dougal, son of John the grizzled, wrote this from the books of the genealogists of the kings; and it was done in the year of our Lord One thousand five hundred and twelve.

THE ORIGINAL GAELIC OF

THE BOOK OF THE DEAN OF LISMORE

WITH A MODERN VERSION.

THE ORIGINAL GAELIC.

A houdir Ossan M’Finna.