Chapter XI: Part II: ," Edinburgh, 1779, 12mo. He was admitted as a Writer to the (7)

The poetic remains of Dougal Buchanan do not afford extensive materials for translation. The subjects with which he deals are too solemn, and their treatment too surcharged with scriptural imagery, to be available for the purposes of a popular collection, of which the object is not directly religious. The only exception that occurs, perhaps, is his poem on "The Skull." Even in this case some moral pictures[105] have been omitted, as either too coarsely or too solemnly touched, to be fit for our purpose. A few lines of the conclusion are also omitted, as being mere amplifications of Scripture--wonderful, indeed, in point of vernacular beauty or sublimity, but not fusible for other use. Slight traces of imitation may be perceived; "The Grave" of Blair, and some passages of "Hamlet," being the apparent models.

[102] "Statistical Account of Fortingall."--Stat. Acc., x., p. 549.

[103] The same account observes that though none of his works are published but his sacred compositions, he composed "several songs on various subjects."

[104] Published at Glasgow, 1836.

[105] These are his descriptions of "The Drunkard," "The Glutton," and "The Good and Wicked Pastor."

A CLAGIONN.

THE SKULL.

As I sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave
Lo! a featureless skull on the ground;
The symbol I clasp, and detain in my grasp,
While I turn it around and around.
Without beauty or grace, or a glance to express
Of the bystander nigh, a thought;
Its jaw and its mouth are tenantless both,
Nor passes emotion its throat.
No glow on its face, no ringlets to grace
Its brow, and no ear for my song;
Hush'd the caves of its breath, and the finger of death
The raised features hath flatten'd along.
The eyes' wonted beam, and the eyelids' quick gleam--
The intelligent sight, are no more;
But the worms of the soil, as they wriggle and coil,
Come hither their dwellings to bore.
No lineament here is left to declare
If monarch or chief art thou;
Alexander the Brave, as the portionless slave
That on dunghill expires, is as low.
Thou delver of death, in my ear let thy breath
Who tenants my hand, unfold;
That my voice may not die without a reply,
Though the ear it addresses is cold.
Say, wert thou a May,[106] of beauty a ray,
And flatter'd thine eye with a smile?
Thy meshes didst set, like the links of a net,
The hearts of the youth to wile?
Alas every charm that a bosom could warm
Is changed to the grain of disgust!
Oh, fie on the spoiler for daring to soil her
Gracefulness all in the dust!
Say, wise in the law, did the people with awe
Acknowledge thy rule o'er them--
A magistrate true, to all dealing their due,
And just to redress or condemn?
Or was righteousness sold for handfuls of gold
In the scales of thy partial decree;
While the poor were unheard when their suit they preferr'd,
And appeal'd their distresses to thee?
Say, once in thine hour, was thy medicine of power
To extinguish the fever of ail?
And seem'd, as the pride of thy leech-craft e'en tried
O'er omnipotent death to prevail?
Alas, that thine aid should have ever betray'd
Thy hope when the need was thine own;
What salve or annealing sufficed for thy healing
When the hours of thy portion were flown?
Or--wert thou a hero, a leader to glory,
While armies thy truncheon obey'd;
To victory cheering, as thy foemen careering
In flight, left their mountains of dead?
Was thy valiancy laid, or unhilted thy blade,
When came onwards in battle array
The sepulchre-swarms, ensheathed in their arms,
To sack and to rifle their prey?
How they joy in their spoil, as thy body the while
Besieging, the reptile is vain,
And her beetle-mate blind hums his gladness to find
His defence in the lodge of thy brain!
Some dig where the sheen of the ivory has been,
Some, the organ where music repair'd;
In rabble and rout they come in and come out
At the gashes their fangs have bared.

* * * * *

Do I hold in my hand a whole lordship of land,
Represented by nakedness, here?
Perhaps not unkind to the helpless thy mind,
Nor all unimparted thy gear;
Perhaps stern of brow to thy tenantry thou!
To leanness their countenances grew--
'Gainst their crave for respite, when thy clamour for right
Required, to a moment, its due;
While the frown of thy pride to the aged denied
To cover their head from the chill,
And humbly they stand, with their bonnet in hand,
As cold blows the blast of the hill.
Thy serfs may look on, unheeding thy frown,
Thy rents and thy mailings unpaid;
All praise to the stroke their bondage that broke!
While but claims their obeisance the dead.

* * * * *

Or a head do I clutch, whose devices were such,
That death must have lent them his sting--
So daring they were, so reckless of fear,
As heaven had wanted a king?
Did the tongue of the lie, while it couch'd like a spy
In the haunt of thy venomous jaws,
Its slander display, as poisons its prey
The devilish snake in the grass?
That member unchain'd, by strong bands is restrain'd,
The inflexible shackles of death;
And, its emblem, the trail of the worm, shall prevail
Where its slaver once harbour'd beneath.
And oh! if thy scorn went down to thine urn
And expired, with impenitent groan;
To repose where thou art is of peace all thy part,
And then to appear--at the Throne!
Like a frog, from the lake that leapeth, to take
To the Judge of thy actions the way,
And to hear from His lips, amid nature's eclipse,
Thy sentence of termless dismay.

* * * * *

The hardness of iron thy bones shall environ,
To brass-links the veins of thy frame
Shall stiffen, and the glow of thy manhood shall grow
Like the anvil that melts not in flame!
But wert thou the mould of a champion bold
For God and his truth and his law?
Oh, then, though the fence of each limb and each sense
Is broken--each gem with a flaw--
Be comforted thou! For rising in air
Thy flight shall the clarion obey;
And the shell of thy dust thou shalt leave to be crush'd,
If they will, by the creatures of prey.

[106] Maiden or virgin--_orig._

AM BRUADAR.

THE DREAM.

We submit these further illustrations of the moral maxims of "The
Skull." In the original they are touched in phraseology scarcely
unworthy of the poet's Saxon models.

As lockfasted in slumber's arms
I lay and dream'd (so dreams our race
When every spectral object charms,
To melt, like shadow, in the chase),

A vision came; mine ear confess'd
Its solemn sounds. "Thou man distraught!
Say, owns the wind thy hand's arrest,
Or fills the world thy crave of thought?

* * * * *

"Since fell transgression ravaged here
And reft Man's garden-joys away,
He weeps his unavailing tear,
And straggles, like a lamb astray.

"With shrilling bleat for comfort hie
To every pinfold, humankind;
Ah, there the fostering teat is dry,
The stranger mother proves unkind.

"No rest for toil, no drink for drought,
For bosom-peace the shadow's wing--
So feeds expectancy on nought,
And suckles every lying thing.

"Some woe for ever wreathes its chain,
And hope foretells the clasp undone;
Relief at handbreadth seems, in vain
Thy fetter'd arms embrace--'tis gone!

"Not all that trial's lore unlearns
Of all the lies that life betrays,
Avails, for still desire returns--
The last day's folly is to-day's.

"Thy wish has prosper'd--has its taste
Survived the hour its lust was drown'd;
Or yields thine expectation's zest
To full fruition, golden-crown'd?

"The rosebud is life's symbol bloom,
'Tis loved, 'tis coveted, 'tis riven--
Its grace, its fragrance, find a tomb,
When to the grasping hand 'tis given.

"Go, search the world, wherever woe
Of high or low the bosom wrings,
There, gasp for gasp, and throe for throe,
Is answer'd from the breast of kings.

"From every hearth-turf reeks its cloud,
From every heart its sigh is roll'd;
The rose's stalk is fang'd--one shroud
Is both the sting's and honey's fold.

"Is wealth thy lust--does envy pine
Where high its tempting heaps are piled?
Look down, behold the fountain shine,
And, deeper still, with dregs defiled!

"Quickens thy breath with rash inhale,
And falls an insect[107] in its toil?
The creature turns thy life-blood pale,
And blends thine ivory teeth with soil.

"When high thy fellow-mortal soars,
His state is like the topmost nest--
It swings with every blast that roars,
And every motion shakes its crest.

"And if the world for once is kind,
Yet ever has the lot its bend;
Where fortune has the crook inclined,
Not all thy strength or art shall mend.

"For as the sapling's sturdy stalk,
Whose double twist is crossly strain'd,
Such is thy fortune--sure to baulk
At this extreme what there was gain'd.

"When Heaven its gracious manna hail'd,
'Twas vain who hoarded its supply,
Not all his miser care avail'd
His neighbour's portion to outvie.

"So, blended all that nature owns,
So, warp'd all hopes that mortals bless--
With boundless wealth, the sufferer's groans;
With courtly luxury, distress.

"Lift up the balance--heap with gold,
Its other shell vile dust shall fill;
And were a kingdom's ransom told,
The scales would want adjustment still.

"Life has its competence--nor deem
That better than enough were more;
Sure it were phantasy to dream
With burdens to assuage thy sore.

"It is the fancy's whirling strife
That breeds thy pain--to-day it craves,
To-morrow spurns--suffices life
When passion asks what passion braves?

"Should appetite her wish achieve,
To herd with brutes her joy would bound;
Pleased other paradise to leave,
Content to pasture on the ground.

"But pride rebels, nor towers alone
Beyond that confine's lowly sphere--
Seems as from the Eternal Throne
It aim'd the sceptre's self to tear.

"'Tis thus we trifle, thus we dare;
But, seek we to our bliss the way,
Let us to Heaven our path refer,
Believe, and worship, and obey.

"That choice is all--to range beyond
Nor must, nor needs; provision, grace,
In these He gives, who sits enthroned,
Salvation, competence, and peace."

The instructive vision pass'd away,
But not its wisdom's dreamless lore;
No more in shadow-tracks I stray,
And fondle shadow-shapes no more.

[107] _Orig._--The venomous red spider.

DUNCAN MACINTYRE.

Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,--the late Dr Stewart of Luss,--who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister.

Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard.

Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.

MAIRI BHAN OG.

MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.

My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,
My life-time love, my own!
The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie
Was bound to me alone,
By covenant true, and ritual holy,
Gave happiness all but divine;
Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,
Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.

* * * * *

'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted
Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,
The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,
That force can never unbind.
I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,
While I gain'd a love and a bride,
I heard my heart, and could tell each second,
As its pulses struck on my side.

* * * * *

I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,
And said that no salve could save;
She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,
For herself to my breast she gave.

* * * * *

Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee
For chasing away, away,
My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,
And teaching no more to stray.
I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,
All shapely from branch to stem,
My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying
To cull the fairest from them;
One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,
Bent lowly down to my hand,
And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,
To me, the least of the band.
I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,
Where the stream's transparence ran,
Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in,
Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.
Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection
With such a prize to my share!
My love is a ray, a morning reflection,
Beside me she sleeps, a star.

[108] Gaelic, "gealag"--descriptive of the salmon, from its glossy brightness.

BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.

Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality--the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,--although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.

URLAR.

The noble Otter hill!
It is a chieftain Beinn,[109]
Ever the fairest still
Of all these eyes have seen.
Spacious is his side;
I love to range where hide,
In haunts by few espied,
The nurslings of his den.
In the bosky shade
Of the velvet glade,
Couch, in softness laid,
The nimble-footed deer;
To see the spotted pack,
That in scenting never slack,
Coursing on their track,
Is the prime of cheer.
Merry may the stag be,
The lad that so fairly
Flourishes the russet coat
That fits him so rarely.
'Tis a mantle whose wear
Time shall not tear;
'Tis a banner that ne'er
Sees its colours depart:
And when they seek his doom,
Let a man of action come,
A hunter in his bloom,
With rifle not untried:
A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,
To strike a trusty dint,
And make the gun-lock glint
With a flash of pride.
Let the barrel be but true,
And the stock be trusty too,
So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew,
Shall be purple-dyed.
He should not be novice bred,
But a marksman of first head,
By whom that stag is sped,
In hill-craft not unskill'd;
So, when Padraig of the glen
Call'd his hounds and men,
The hill spake back again,
As his orders shrill'd;
Then was firing snell,
And the bullets rain'd like hail,
And the red-deer fell
Like warrior on the field.

SIUBHAL.

Oh, the young doe so frisky,
So coy, and so fair,
That gambols so briskly,
And snuffs up the air;
And hurries, retiring,
To the rocks that environ,
When foemen are firing,
And bullets are there.
Though swift in her racing,
Like the kinsfolk before her,
No heart-burst, unbracing
Her strength, rushes o'er her.
'Tis exquisite hearing
Her murmur, as, nearing,
Her mate comes careering,
Her pride, and her lover;--
He comes--and her breathing
Her rapture is telling;
How his antlers are wreathing,
His white haunch, how swelling!
High chief of Bendorain,
He seems, as adoring
His hind, he comes roaring
To visit her dwelling.
'Twere endless my singing
How the mountain is teeming
With thousands, that bringing
Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming,
With his hind, and her gala
Of younglings, that follow
O'er mountain and beala,[112]
All lightsome are beaming.
When that lightfoot so airy,
Her race is pursuing,
Oh, what vision saw e'er a
Feat of flight like her doing?
She springs, and the spreading grass
Scarce feels her treading,
It were fleet foot that sped in
Twice the time that she flew in.
The gallant array!
How the marshes they spurn,
In the frisk of their play,
And the wheelings they turn,--
As the cloud of the mind
They would distance behind,
And give years to the wind,
In the pride of their scorn!
'Tis the marrow of health
In the forest to lie,
Where, nooking in stealth,
They enjoy her[113] supply,--
Her fosterage breeding
A race never needing,
Save the milk of her feeding,
From a breast never dry.
Her hill-grass they suckle,
Her mammets[114] they swill,
And in wantonness chuckle
O'er tempest and chill;
With their ankles so light,
And their girdles[115] of white,
And their bodies so bright
With the drink of the rill.
Through the grassy glen sporting
In murmurless glee,
Nor snow-drift nor fortune
Shall urge them to flee,
Save to seek their repose
In the clefts of the knowes,
And the depths of the howes
Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]

URLAR.

In the forest den, the deer
Makes, as best befits, his lair,
Where is plenty, and to spare,
Of her grassy feast.
There she browses free
On herbage of the lea,
Or marsh grass, daintily,
Until her haunch is greased.
Her drink is of the well,
Where the water-cresses swell,
Nor with the flowing shell
Is the toper better pleased.
The bent makes nobler cheer,
Or the rashes of the mere,
Than all the creagh that e'er
Gave surfeit to a guest.
Come, see her table spread;
The _sorach_[117] sweet display'd
The _ealvi_,[118] and the head
Of the daisy stem;
The _dorach_[119] crested, sleek,
And ringed with many a streak,
Presents her pastures meek,
Profusely by the stream.
Such the luxuries
That plump their noble size,
And the herd entice
To revel in the howes.
Nobler haunches never sat on
Pride of grease, than when they batten
On the forest links, and fatten
On the herbs of their carouse.
Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,
When the supper-time
Calls all their hosts from roaming,
To see their social prime;
And when the shadows gather,
They lair on native heather,
Nor shelter from the weather
Need, but the knolls behind.
Dread or dark is none;
Their 's the mountain throne,
Height and slope their own,
The gentle mountain kind;
Pleasant is the grace
Of their hue, and dappled dress,
And an ark in their distress,
In Bendorain dear they find.

SIUBHAL.

So brilliant thy hue
With tendril and flow'ret,
The grace of the view,
What land can o'erpower it?
Thou mountain of beauty,
Methinks it might suit thee,
The homage of beauty
To claim as a queen.
What needs it? Adoring
Thy reign, we see pouring
The wealth of their store in
Already, I ween.
The seasons--scarce roll'd once,
Their gifts are twice told--
And the months, they unfold
On thy bosom their dower,
With profusion so rare,
Ne'er was clothing so fair,
Nor was jewelling e'er
Like the bud and the flower
Of the groves on thy breast,
Where rejoices to rest
His magnificent crest,
The mountain-cock, shrilling
In quick time, his note;
And the clans of the grot
With melody's note,
Their numbers are trilling.
No foot can compare,
In the dance of the green,
With the roebuck's young heir;
And here he is seen
With his deftness of speed,
And his sureness of tread,
And his bend of the head,
And his freedom of spring!
Over corrie careers he,
The wood-cover clears he,
And merrily steers he
With bound, and with fling,--
As he spurns from his stern
The heather and fern,
And dives in the dern[120]
Of the wilderness deep;
Or, anon, with a strain,
And a twang of each vein
He revels amain
'Mid the cliffs of the steep.
With the burst of a start
When the flame of his heart
Impels to depart,
How he distances all!
Two bounds at a leap,
The brown hillocks to sweep,
His appointment to keep
With the doe, at her call.
With her following, the roe
From the danger of ken
Couches inly, and low,
In the haunts of the glen;
Ever watchful to hear,
Ever active to peer,
Ever deft to career,--
All ear, vision, and limb.
And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin,
With their horses and following,
Should rush to her dwelling,
And our prince[122] in his trim,
They might vainly aspire
Without rifle and fire
To ruffle or nigh her,
Her mantle to dim.
Stark-footed, lively,
Ever capering naively
With motion alive, aye,
And wax-white, in shine,
When her startle betrays
That the hounds are in chase,
The same as the base
Is the rocky decline--
She puffs from her chest,
And she ambles her crest
And disdain is express'd
In her nostril and eye;--
That eye--how it winks!
Like a sunbeam it blinks,
And it glows, and it sinks,
And is jealous and shy!
A mountaineer lynx,
Like her race that 's gone by.

CRUNLUATH (FINALE).

Her lodge is in the valley--here
No huntsman, void of notion,
Should hurry on the fallow deer,
But steal on her with caution;--
With wary step and watchfulness
To stalk her to her resting place,
Insures the gallant wight's success,
Before she is in motion.
The hunter bold should follow then,
By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,
And nestle in the gulley, then,
And watch with deep devotion
The shadows on the benty grass,
And how they come, and how they pass;
Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,
To quicken her emotion.
With nerve and eye so wary, sir,
That straight his piece may carry, sir,
He marks with care the quarry, sir,
The muzzle to repose on;
And now, the knuckle is applied,
The flint is struck, the priming tried,
Is fired, the volley has replied,
And reeks in high commotion;--
Was better powder ne'er to flint,
Nor trustier wadding of the lint--
And so we strike a telling dint,
Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]

[109] Anglicised into _Ben_.

[110] The deer.

[111] Stag of the first head.

[112] Pass.

[113] Any one who has heard a native attempt the Lowland tongue for the first time, is familiar with the personification that turns every inanimate object into _he_ or _she_. The forest is here happily personified as a nurse or mother.

[114] Bog-holes.

[115] Stripings.

[116] _Gaelic_--Easan-an-tsith.

[117] Primrose.

[118] St John's wort.

[119] A kind of cress, or marshmallow.

[120] _Anglice_--dark.

[121] _Gaelic_--Caoillt; who, with Cuchullin, makes a figure in traditional Gaelic poetry.

[122] _Gaelic_--King George.

[123] Literally--"From the barrel of Nic-Coisean." This was the poet's favourite gun, to which his muse has addressed a separate song of considerable merit.

THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]

Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of
Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at
his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired
of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in
his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence
a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment
of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his
feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the
original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are
enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the
spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the
Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at
our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems
of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it
to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr
Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain,
of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come
forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of
Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic
productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride,
thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of
patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he
carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as
enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was
love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.

Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal
May happen to a Highlan' man;
Though he fall in love he soon may feel
He cannot get the fancied one;
The first I loved in time that 's past,
I courted twenty years, ochone!
But she forsook me at the last,
And Duncan then was left alone.

To Edinbro' I forthwith hied
To seek a sweetheart to my mind,
An', if I could, to find a bride
For the fause love I left behind;
Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,
"I ken a widow secretly,
An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,
To put her, Duncan, in your way."

As was his wont, I trow, did he
Fulfil his welcome promise true,
He gave the widow unto me,
And all her portion with her too;
And whosoe'er may ask her name,
And her surname also may desire,
They call her Janet[125]--great her fame--
An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.

She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,
No vexing gloom or look at hand,
As high in rank and in degree
As any lady in the land;
She 's my support and my relief,
Since e'er she join'd me, any how;
Great is the cureless cause of grief
To him who has not got her now!

Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite,
Altho' she liveth still at ease--
An' allow the crested stags to fight
And wander wheresoe'er they please,
A young wife I have chosen now,
Which I repent not any where,
I am not wanting wealth, I trow,
Since ever I espoused the fair.

I pass my word of honour bright--
Most excellent I do her call;
In her I ne'er, in any light,
Discover'd any fault at all.
She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,
Without a hidden fault, my friend;
In her, defect I never found,
Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.

When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!
For money in a great degree;
Ah, George's daughter--generous lass--
Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;
She keepeth me in drink, and stays
By me in ale-houses and all,
An' at once, without a word, she pays
For every stoup I choose to call!

An' every turn I bid her do
She does it with a willing grace;
She never tells me aught untrue,
Nor story false, with lying face;
She keeps my rising family
As well as I could e'er desire,
Although no labour I do try,
Nor dirty work for love or hire.

I labour'd once laboriously,
Although no riches I amass'd;
A menial I disdain'd to be,
An' keep my vow unto the last.
I have ceased to labour in the lan',
Since e'er I noticed to my wife,
That the idle and contented man
Endureth to the longest life.

'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed--
In whom I faithfully believe,
She 's able still to earn my bread,
An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;
I 'll have no lack of linens fair,
An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,
An' trust me that all worldly care
Now gives me not the least concern.

[124] The "Auld Town Guard" of Edinburgh, which existed before the Police Acts came into operation, was composed principally of Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as "Captain Campbell," was the last, and a favourable specimen of this class of civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his "knee breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the cocked hat," he considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest functionary in the world. He delighted to be called "the Provost's right-hand man." Archie is still well remembered by many of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that he could do great things for him by merely speaking to "his honour the Provost;" and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say sometimes--"There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!" He took care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they returned to the hills.

[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.

[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and elsewhere.

JOHN MACODRUM.

Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.

Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian, in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have," quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."

Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.

His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.

ORAN NA H-AOIS,

THE SONG OF AGE.

Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,
The notes would betray the languor of woe;
My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone
That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.
The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare,
And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,
Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,
For under the sun is no hope of release.
'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen
Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside;
How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower
The arm of our power, and the step of our pride.
As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,
The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,
So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,
Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.
Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,
And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;
Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve--
In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.
To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,
Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;
On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]
The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.
Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held
By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;
The friends of our love at thy call must remove,--
What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?
They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store,
Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;
Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,
Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.
Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face
To hasten its race on the route to the tomb,
To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,
Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;
Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,
Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!
To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,
Even sympathy dies--and thy helper is none.
We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'd
Thy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;
Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,
And the ivory[128] tare from its sockets' repose.
Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,
Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;
What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,
And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!
Thou leper of fear--thou niggard of cheer--
Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?
Thou contempt of the brave--oh, rather the grave,
Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.
Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,
Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;
Thou bane of delight--when thy shivering plight,
And thy grizzle of white,[129] and thy crippleness, come
To beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,
And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;
All unwelcome they call--from the hut to the hall
The confession of all is, "_'Tis time he were dead_!"

The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young, warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of "age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering eternity.

[127] Alluding to the plagues.

[128] The teeth.

[129] _Gaelic_--Matted, rough, gray beard.

NORMAN MACLEOD;

OR, TORMAID BAN.

Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had his _marrow_ in a Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question, and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130] in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person, besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the father of a Glasgow professor,[131] whom we remember occupying the chair of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814, assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.

The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still passed for a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a later date is assigned to the production.

The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come in for a share of the bard's resentment.

All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on," which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,--being a simple allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"--no ignoble emblem, certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.

[130] In Stat. Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.

[131] Hugh Macleod.

CABERFAE,

THE STAGHEAD.[132]

A health to Caberfae,
A toast, and a cheery one,
That soon return he may,
Though long and far his tarrying.
The death of shame befal me,
Be riven off my eididh[133] too,
But my fancy hears thy call--we
Should all be _up and ready, O_!
'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,
Thine arm, inaction scorning,
Assign their dues to the Munroes,
Their _welcome_ in the morning.
Nor stood the Cátach[134] to his bratach[135]
For dread of a belabouring,
When up gets the Staghead,
And raises his cabar on.

Woe to the man of Folais,[136]
When he to fight must challenge thee;
Nor better fared the Roses[137]
That lent _Monro_ their valiancy.
The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139]
They tarried not the melee in;
Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir,
Culloden-wards, undallying.
Away they ran, while firm remain,
Not one to three, retiring so,
The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven,
Scarce a pistol firing, O!
Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils,
He cries in haste his cabul[143] on,
He flies--as soars the Staghead,
And raises his cabar on.

Like feather'd creatures flying,
That in the hill-mist shiver,
In haste for refuge hieing,
To the meadow or the river--
So, port they sought, and took to boat,
Bewailing what had happened them,
To trust was rash, the missing flash
Of the rusty guns that weapon'd them.
The coracle of many a skull,
The relics of his neighbour, on,
Monro retreats[144]--for Staghead
Is raising his cabar on.

I own my expectation,--
'Tis this has roused my apathy,
That He who rules creation
May change the dismal hap of thee,
And hasten to restore thee
In safety from thy danger,
To thine own, in joy and glory,
To save us from the stranger.
With princely grace to give redress,
Nor a taunt to suffer back again;
The fell Monro has felt thy blow,
And should he dare attack again,
Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,
The flames to quench he 'll labour on,
Of castle fired--when Staghead
High raises his cabar on!

I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,
A gracious chieftain ever,
The Cátach[145] self below thee,
And the Gallach[145] cower'd for cover;
But ever more their striving,
When claim'd respect thine eye,
Thy scourge corrected, driving
To other lands to fly.
Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,
No panic fear shall turn them,
With steel-cap, blade, and _skene_ array'd,
Their banning foes they spurn them.
Clan-Shimei[146] then may dare them,
They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,
Needs but a look--when Staghead
Once raises his cabar on.

Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,
Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147] O!
Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,
That forays with the beagle, O!
For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148]
My song shall raise the mountain-deer;
The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,
He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.
His lodge is in the forest;--
While carion-flesh enticing
Thy greedy maw, thou buriest
Thou kite of prey! thy claws in
The putrid corse of famish'd horse,
The greedy hound a-striving
To rival thee in gluttony,
Both at the bowels riving.
Thou called the _true bird_![149]--Never,
Thou foster child of evil,[150] ha!
How ill match with thy feather[151]
The talons[152] of thy devilry!
But when thy foray preys on
Our harmless flocks, so dastardly,
How often has the shepherd
With trusty baton master'd thee;
Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,
Else, not alone, belabouring,
He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,
Up-raising his cabar on.[153]

Woe worth the world, deceiver--
So false, so fair of seeming!
We 've seen the noble Siphort[154]
With all his war-notes[155] screaming;
When not a chief in Albain,
Mac-Ailein's[156] self though backing him,
Could face his frown--as Staghead
Arose with his cabar on.

To join thy might, when call'd the right,
A gallant army springing on,
Would rise, from Assint to the crags
Of Scalpa, rescue bringing on.
Each man upon, true-flinted gun,
Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;
With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157]
When up rose thy cabar on!

Came too the men of Muideart,[158]
While stream'd their flag its bravery;
Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159]
That havock'd on the cavalry.
Macalister,[160] Mackinnon,
With many a flashing trigger there,
The foemen rushing in on,
Resistless shew'd their vigour there.
May fortune free thee--may we see thee
Again in Bràun,[161] the turreted,
Girt with thy clan! And not a man
But will get the scorn he merited.
Then wine will play, and usquebae
From flaggons, and from badalan,[162]
And pipers scream--when Staghead
High raises his cabar on.

[132] Applicable both to the chief and his crest.

[133] Literally, "_the dress_," (pron. _eidi_,) _i.e._, Highland garb, not yet abolished.

[134] Sutherlanders, or Caithness men.

[135] Banner.

[136] Monro of Fowlis.

[137] Rose of Kilravock and his clan.

[138] Grant of Grant.

[139] Lovat.

[140] Of Culloden.

[141] Of Sutherland.

[142] Lord Reay.

[143] Steed. The Celtic "Cabul" and Latin "Caballus" correspond.

[144] Here the bard is a little obscure; but he seems to mean that the Monroes made their escape over the skulls of the dead, as if they were boats or coracles by which to cross or get away from danger.

[145] The Caithness and Sutherland men.

[146] Lovat's men.

[147] The eagle being the crest of the Monro.

[148] The _eagle_; the crest of Monro of Fowlis. The filthy and cruel habits of this predatory bird are here contrasted with the forest-manners of the stag in a singular specimen of clan vituperation.

[149] _Fioreun_, the name of the eagle, signifying true bird.

[150] Literally--Accursed by Moses, or the Mosaic law.

[151] The single eagle's feather crested the chieftain's bonnet.

[152] Literally--If thy feather is noble, thy claws are (of) the devil!

[153] This picture of the eagle is not much for edification--nor another hit at the lion of the Macdonalds, then at feud with the Seaforth. The former is abridged, and the latter omitted; as also a lively detail of the _creagh_, in which the Monroes are reproached with their spoilages of cheese, butter, and winter-mart beef.

[154] Seaforth.

[155] Literally--Bagpipes.

[156] Macallammore: Argyle.

[157] Macdonald of Sleat.

[158] Clanranald's country.

[159] Literally--Of blue steel.

[160] Mac-Mhic-Alister, the patronymic of Glengary.

[161] Castle Brahan, Seaforth's seat.

[162] _Gaelic_--Barrels of liquor, properly _bùidealan_.

END OF VOL. I.

GLOSSARY.

_A-low_, on fire.

_Ava_, at all.

_Ayont_, beyond.

_Ban_, swear.

_Bang_, to change place hastily.

_Bangster_, a violent person.

_Bawks_, the cross-beams of a roof.

_Bein_, good, suitable.

_Bicker_, a dish for holding liquor.

_Boddle_, an old Scottish coin--value the third of a penny.

_Boggie_, a marsh.

_Brag_, vaunt.

_Braw_, gaily dressed.

_Busk_, to attire oneself.

_Buss_, bush.

_Cantie_, cheerful.

_Castocks_, the pith of stalks of cabbages.

_Caw_, to drive.

_Chat_, talk.

_Chuckies_, chickens.

_Chuffy_, clownish.

_Clavering_, talking idly.

_Cleeding_, clothing.

_Clishmaclavers_, idle talk.

_Clocksie_, vivacious.

_Cock-up_, a hat or cap turned up before.

_Coft_, purchased.

_Cogie_, a hollow wooden vessel.

_Coozy_, warm.

_Cosie_, snug, comfortable.

_Cowt_, cattle.

_Creel_, a basket.

_Croft_, a tenement of land.

_Croon_, to make a plaintive sound.

_Crouse_, brisk.

_Crusie_, a small lamp.

_Cuddle_, embrace.

_Curpin_, the crupper of a saddle.

_Cuttie_, a short pipe.

_Daff_, sport.

_Daut_, caress.

_Daud_, blow.

_Daunder_, to walk thoughtlessly.

_Dautit_, fondled.

_Dirdum_, tumult.

_Disjasket_, having appearance of decay.

_Doited_, stupid.

_Dool_, grief.

_Dorty_, a foolish urchin.

_Douf_, dull.

_Dowie_, sad.

_Draigle_, draggle.

_Dringing_, delaying.

_Drone_, sound of bagpipes.

_Dung_, defeated.

_Eerie_, timorous.

_Eident_, wary.

_Elf_, a puny creature.

_Fashious_, troublesome.

_Fauld_, a fold.

_Ferlies_, remarkable things.

_Fleyt_, frightened.

_Fogie_, a stupid old person.

_Foumart_, a pole-cat.

_Fraise_, flattery.

_Frumpish_, crumpled.

_Gabbit_, a person prone to idle talk.

_Gart_, compelled.

_Giggle_, unmeaning laughter.

_Gin_, if.

_Girse_, grass.

_Glaikit_, stupid.

_Glamrie_, the power of enchantment.

_Glower_, stare.

_Grusome_, frightful.

_Grist_, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.

_Gutchir_, grandfather.

_Gutters_, mud, wet dust.

_Hain_, save, preserve.

_Hap_, cover.

_Havens_, endowments.

_Henny_, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.

_Hinkum_, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.

_Howe_, a hollow.

_Hyne_, hence.

_Kail_, cabbages, colewort.

_Kebbuck_, a cheese.

_Keil_, red clay, used for marking.

_Ken_, know.

_Kenspeckle_, having a singular appearance.

_Leal_, honest, faithful.

_Leese me_, pleased am I with.

_Lyart_, gray-haired.

_Loof_, the palm of the hand.

_Lowin_, warm.

_Lucky, A_, an old woman.

_Luntin_, smoking.

_Mailin_, a farm.

_Maukin_, a hare.

_Mirk_, dark.

_Mishanter_, a sorry scrape.

_Mittens_, gloves without fingers.

_Mouldie_, crumbling.

_Mouls_, the earth of the grave.

_Mows_, easy.

_Mutch_, a woman's cap.

_Neip_, a turnip.

_Neive_, the closed fist.

_Nippen_, carried off surreptitiously.

_Ouk_, week.

_Owerlay_, a cravat.

_Perk_, push.

_Perlins_, women's ornaments.

_Poortith_, poverty.

_Preed_, tasted.

_Randy_, a scold, a shrew.

_Rate_, slander.

_Rink_, run about.

_Routh_, abundance.

_Rummulgumshin_, common sense.

_Sabbit_, sobbed.

_Scant_, scarce.

_Scartle_, a graip or fork.

_Scrimply_, barely.

_Scug_, shelter.

_Seer_, sure.

_Shaw_, a plantation.

_Shiel_, a sheep shed.

_Skeigh_, timorous.

_Skiffin_, moving lightly.

_Smeddum_, sagacity.

_Snooded_, the hair bound up.

_Spaewife,_ a female fortune-teller.

_Spence_, a larder.

_Steenies_, guineas.

_Sud_, should.

_Sumph_, a soft person.

_Swankie_, a clever young fellow.

_Sweir_, indolent.

_Syne_, then.

_Tabbit_, benumbed.

_Tapsle-teerie_, topsyturvy.

_Ted_, toad.

_Thairms_, strings.

_Thowless_, thoughtless.

_Thraw_, twist.

_Tint_, lost.

_Tirl_, to uncover.

_Tocher_, dowry.

_Toss_, toast.

_Towmond_, a year.

_Trig_, neat, trim.

_Tryst_, appointment.

_Tyced_, made diversion.

_Vauntit_, boasted.

_Weel_, will.

_Whigmigmorum_, political ranting.

_Wile_, choice.

_Wist_, wished.

_Wizen_, the throat.

_Wow_, vow.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.

VOL. II.

ALTRIVE. _THE RESIDENCE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD._

EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]

* * * * *

[Signature: James Hogg]

THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD

Lithographed from an original Portrait in the possession of his widow by Schenck & McFarlane, Edinburgh.]

* * * * *

THE

MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;

OR,

THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE PAST HALF CENTURY.

WITH

Memoirs of the Poets,

AND

SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED MODERN GAELIC BARDS.

BY

CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D. F.S.A. SCOT.

IN SIX VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

EDINBURGH: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE, BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.

M.DCCC.LVI.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PAUL'S WORK.

TO

JOHN BROWN, ESQ., OF MARLIE.

My dear Sir,

I dedicate to you this second volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL," as a sincere token of my estimation of your long continued and most disinterested friendship, and of the anxiety you have so frequently evinced respecting the promotion of my professional views and literary aspirations.

I have the honour to be,
My dear Sir,
your most obliged,
and very faithful servant,
CHARLES ROGERS.

Argyle House, Stirling,
_December 1855._