Chapter XX: Introduction: TO (9)

Now simmer decks the fields wi' flowers,
The woods wi' leaves so green,
An' little burds around their bowers
In harmony convene;
The cuckoo flees frae tree to tree,
While saft the zephyrs blaw,
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?
When Jockie 's far awa' on sea,
When Jockie 's far awa';
But what are a' thae joys to me,
When Jockie 's far awa'?

Last May mornin', how sweet to see
The little lambkins play,
Whilst my dear lad, alang wi' me,
Did kindly walk this way!
On yon green bank wild flowers he pou'd,
To busk my bosom braw;
Sweet, sweet he talk'd, and aft he vow'd,
But now he 's far awa'.
But now, &c.

O gentle peace, return again,
Bring Jockie to my arms,
Frae dangers on the raging main,
An' cruel war's alarms;
Gin e'er we meet, nae mair we 'll part
While we hae breath to draw;
Nor will I sing, wi' aching heart,
My Jockie 's far awa';
My Jockie 's far awa,' &c.

MAGGIE AN' ME.

AIR--_"The Banks o' the Dee."_

The sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander
Amang the wild flowers, as they deck the green lea,
An' by the clear burnies that sweetly meander,
To charm us, as hameward they rin to the sea;
The nestlin's are fain the saft wing to be tryin',
As fondly the dam the adventure is eyein',
An' teachin' her notes, while wi' food she 's supplyin'
Her tender young offspring, like Maggie an' me.

The corn in full ear, is now promisin' plenty,
The red clusterin' row'ns bend the witch-scarrin' tree,
While lapt in its leaves lies the strawberry dainty,
As shy to receive the embrace o' the bee.
Then hope, come alang, an' our steps will be pleasant,
The future, by thee, is made almost the present;
Thou frien' o' the prince an' thou frien' o' the peasant,
Thou lang hast befriended my Maggie an' me.

Ere life was in bloom we had love in our glances,
An' aft I had mine o' her bonnie blue e'e,
We needit nae art to engage our young fancies,
'Twas done ere we kent, an' we own't it wi' glee.
Now pleased, an' aye wishin' to please ane anither,
We 've pass'd twenty years since we buckled thegither,
An' ten bonnie bairns, lispin' faither an' mither,
Hae toddled fu' fain atween Maggie an' me.

SIT DOWN, MY CRONIE.[116]

Come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack,
Let the win' tak the cares o' this life on its back,
Our hearts to despondency we ne'er will submit,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet;
An' sae will we yet, an' sae will we yet,
We 've aye been provided for, an' sae will we yet.

Let 's ca' for a tankar' o' nappy brown ale,
It will comfort our hearts an' enliven our tale,
We 'll aye be the merrier the langer that we sit,
We 've drunk wi' ither mony a time, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.

Sae rax me your mill, an' my nose I will prime,
Let mirth an' sweet innocence employ a' our time;
Nae quarr'lin' nor fightin' we here will permit,
We 've parted aye in unity, an' sae will we yet,
An' sae will we yet, &c.

[116] The last stanza of this song has, on account of its Bacchanalian tendency, been omitted.

BRAES O' BEDLAY.[117]

AIR--_"Hills o' Glenorchy."_

When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,
My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day;
My heart loups licht, an' I join in a sang
Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay.
How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,
When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,
Whaur Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes
That screen us sae weel, on the braes o' Bedlay.

There 's nane sae trig or sae fair as my lassie,
An' mony a wooer she answers wi' "Nay,"
Wha fain wad hae her to lea' me alane,
An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.
I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,
Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her,
Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threatnin' can sell her,
It 's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.

We 'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,
Whaur aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,
Whaur luve was invited and cares were beguiled
By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay.
Sae luvin', sae movin', I 'll tell her my story,
Unmixt wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,
Whaur wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,
Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.

[117] The braes of Bedlay are in the neighbourhood of Chryston, about seven miles north of Glasgow.

JESSIE.

AIR--_"Hae ye seen in the calm dewy mornin'."_

Hae ye been in the North, bonnie lassie,
Whaur Glaizert rins pure frae the fell,
Whaur the straight stately beech staun's sae gaucy,
An' luve lilts his tale through the dell?
O! then ye maun ken o' my Jessie,
Sae blythesome, sae bonnie an' braw;
The lassies hae doubts about Jessie,
Her charms steal their luvers awa'.

I can see ye 're fu' handsome an' winnin',
Your cleedin 's fu' costly an' clean,
Your wooers are aften complainin'
O' wounds frae your bonnie blue e'en.
I could lean me wi' pleasure beside thee,
Ae kiss o' thy mou' is a feast;
May luve wi' his blessins abide thee,
For Jessie 's the queen o' my breast.

I maun gang an' get hame, my sweet Jessie,
For fear some young laird o' degree
May come roun' on his fine sleekit bawsy,
An' ding a' my prospects agee.
There 's naething like gowd to the miser,
There 's naething like light to the e'e,
But they canna gie me ony pleasure,
If Jessie prove faithless to me.

Let us meet on the border, my Jessie,
Whaur Kelvin links bonnily bye,
Though my words may be scant to address ye,
My heart will be loupin' wi' joy.
If ance I were wedded to Jessie,
An' that may be ere it be lang,
I 'll can brag o' the bonniest lassie
That ere was the theme o' a sang.

WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

As the confidential friend, factor, and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, William Laidlaw has a claim to remembrance; the authorship of "Lucy's Flittin'" entitles him to rank among the minstrels of his country. His ancestors on the father's side were, for a course of centuries, substantial farmers in Tweedside, and his father, James Laidlaw, with his wife, Catherine Ballantyne, rented from the Earl of Traquair the pastoral farm of Blackhouse, in Yarrow. William, the eldest of a family of three sons, was born in November 1780. His education was latterly conducted at the Grammar School of Peebles. James Hogg kept sheep on his father's farm, and a strong inclination for ballad-poetry led young Laidlaw to cultivate his society. They became inseparable friends--the Shepherd guiding the fancy of the youth, who, on the other hand, encouraged the Shepherd to persevere in ballad-making and poetry.

In the summer of 1801, Laidlaw formed the acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. In quest of materials for the third volume of the "Border Minstrelsy," Scott made an excursion into the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow; he was directed to Blackhouse by Leyden, who had been informed of young Laidlaw's zeal for the ancient ballad. The visit was an eventful one: Scott found in Laidlaw an intelligent friend and his future steward, and through his means formed, on the same day, the acquaintance of the Ettrick Shepherd. The ballad of "Auld Maitland," in the third volume of the "Minstrelsy," was furnished by Laidlaw; he recovered it from the recitation of "Will of Phawhope," the maternal uncle of the Shepherd. A correspondence with Scott speedily ripened into friendship; the great poet rapidly passing the epistolary forms of "Sir," and "Dear Sir," into "Dear Mr Laidlaw," and ultimately into "Dear Willie,"--a familiarity of address which he only used as expressive of affection. Struck with his originality and the extent of his acquirements, Scott earnestly recommended him to select a different profession from the simple art of his fathers, especially suggesting the study of medicine. But Laidlaw deemed himself too ripe in years to think of change; he took a farm at Traquair, and subsequently removed to a larger farm at Liberton, near Edinburgh.

The sudden fall in the price of grain at the close of the war, which so severely affected many tenant-farmers, pressed heavily on Laidlaw, and compelled him to abandon his lease. He now accepted the offer of Sir Walter to become steward at Abbotsford, and, accordingly, removed his family in 1817 to Kaeside, a cottage on the estate comfortably fitted up for their reception. Through Scott's recommendation, he was employed to prepare the chronicle of events and publications for the _Edinburgh Annual Register_; and for a short period he furnished a similar record to _Blackwood's Magazine_. He did not persevere in literary labours, his time becoming wholly occupied in superintending improvements at Abbotsford. When Sir Walter was in the country, he was privileged with his daily intercourse, and was uniformly invited to meet those literary characters who visited the mansion. When official duties detained Scott in the capital, Laidlaw was his confidential correspondent. Sir Walter early communicated to him the unfortunate event of his commercial embarrassments, in a letter honourable to his heart. After feelingly expressing his apprehension lest his misfortunes should result in depriving his correspondent of the factorship, Sir Walter proceeds in his letter: "You never flattered my prosperity, and in my adversity it is not the least painful consideration that I cannot any longer be useful to you. But Kaeside, I hope, will still be your residence, and I will have the advantage of your company and advice, and probably your services as amanuensis. Observe, I am not in indigence, though no longer in affluence; and if I am to exert myself in the common behalf, I must have honourable and easy means of life, although it will be my inclination to observe the most strict privacy, the better to save expense, and also time. I do not dislike the path which lies before me. I have seen all that society can shew, and enjoyed all that wealth can give me, and I am satisfied much is vanity, if not vexation of spirit." Laidlaw was too conscientious to remain at Abbotsford, to be a burden on his illustrious friend; he removed to his native district, and for three years employed himself in a variety of occupations till 1830, when the promise of brighter days to his benefactor warranted his return. Scott had felt his departure severely, characterising it as "a most melancholy blank," and his return was hailed with corresponding joy. He was now chiefly employed as Sir Walter's amanuensis. During his last illness, Laidlaw was constant in his attendance, and his presence was a source of peculiar pleasure to the distinguished sufferer. After the funeral, Sir Walter's eldest son and his lady presented him with a brooch, their marriage gift to their revered father, which he wore at the time of his decease; it was afterwards worn by his affectionate steward to the close of his life. The death of Scott took place on the 21st of September 1832, and shortly thereafter Laidlaw bade adieu to Abbotsford. He was appointed factor on the Ross-shire property of Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth,--a situation which he subsequently exchanged for the factorship of Sir Charles Lockhart Ross of Balnagowan, in the same county. Compelled to resign the latter appointment from impaired health, he ultimately took up his residence with his brother, Mr James Laidlaw, tenant at Contin, near Dingwall, in whose house he expired on the 18th of May 1845, having attained his sixty-fifth year. At an early age he espoused his cousin, Miss Ballantyne, by whom he had a numerous family. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Contin, a sequestered spot under the shade of the elevated Tor-Achilty, amidst the most interesting Highland scenery.

A man of superior shrewdness, and well acquainted with literature and rural affairs, Laidlaw was especially devoted to speculations in science. He was an amateur physician, a student of botany and entomology, and a considerable geologist. He prepared a statistical account of Innerleithen, wrote a geological description of Selkirkshire, and contributed several articles to the "Edinburgh Encyclopedia." In youth, he was an enthusiast in ballad-lore; and he was especially expert in filling up blanks in the compositions of the elder minstrels. His original metrical productions are limited to those which appear in the present work. "Lucy's Flittin'" is his masterpiece; we know not a more exquisitely touching ballad in the language, with the single exception of "Robin Gray." Laidlaw was a devoted friend, and a most intelligent companion; he spoke the provincial vernacular, but his manners were polished and pleasing. He was somewhat under the middle height, but was well formed and slightly athletic, and his fresh-coloured complexion beamed a generous benignity.

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.[118]

AIR--_"Paddy O'Rafferty."_

'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',
And Martinmas dowie had wind up the year,
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in 't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear.
For Lucy had served in "The Glen" a' the simmer;
She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her,
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stan'in',
Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see.
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burnside she gaed slaw wi' the flittin',
Fare-ye-weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang.
She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',
And robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

Oh, what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,
Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' the gither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I was sabbin',
I 'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
Though now he said naething but Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see,
He cudna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it 's drowkit;
The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea,
But Lucy likes Jamie;--she turn'd and she lookit,
She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,
And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn;
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.

[118] This exquisite ballad was contributed by Laidlaw to Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." There are two accounts as to the subject of it, both of which we subjoin, as they were narrated to us during the course of a recent excursion in Tweedside. According to one version, Lucy had been in the service of Mr Laidlaw, sen., at Blackhouse, and had by her beauty attracted the romantic fancy of one of the poet's brothers. In the other account Lucy is described as having served on a farm in "The Glen" of Traquair, and as having been beloved by her master's son, who afterwards deserted her, when she died of a broken heart. The last stanza was added by Hogg, who used to assert that he alone was responsible for the death of poor Lucy. "The Glen" is a beautiful mountain valley opening on the Tweed, near Innerleithen; it formerly belonged to Mr Alexander Allan, but it is now the possession of Charles Tennent, Esq., Glasgow.

HER BONNIE BLACK E'E.

AIR--_"Saw ye my Wee Thing."_

On the banks o' the burn while I pensively wander,
The mavis sings sweetly, unheeded by me;
I think on my lassie, her gentle mild nature,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When heavy the rain fa's, and loud, loud the win' blaws,
An' simmer's gay cleedin' drives fast frae the tree;
I heedna the win' nor the rain when I think on
The kind lovely smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

When swift as the hawk, in the stormy November,
The cauld norlan' win' ca's the drift owre the lea;
Though bidin' its blast on the side o' the mountain,
I think on the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When braw at a weddin' I see the fine lasses,
Though a' neat an' bonnie, they 're naething to me;
I sigh an' sit dowie, regardless what passes,
When I miss the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

When thin twinklin' sternies announce the gray gloamin',
When a' round the ingle sae cheerie to see;
Then music delightfu', saft on the heart stealin',
Minds me o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e.

Where jokin' an' laughin', the lave they are merry,
Though absent my heart, like the lave I maun be;
Sometimes I laugh wi' them, but aft I turn dowie,
An' think on the smile o' my lassie's black e'e.

Her lovely fair form frae my mind 's awa' never,
She 's dearer than a' this hale warld to me;
An' this is my wish, may I leave it if ever
She rowe on anither her love-beaming e'e.

ALAKE FOR THE LASSIE!

AIR--_"Logie o' Buchan."_

Alake for the lassie! she 's no right at a',
That lo'es a dear laddie an' he far awa';
But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain
That lo'es a dear lad, when she 's no lo'ed again.

The fair was just comin', my heart it grew fain
To see my dear laddie, to see him again;
My heart it grew fain, an' lapt light at the thought
O' milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.

The bonnie gray morn scarce had open'd her e'e,
When we set to the gate, a' wi' nae little glee;
I was blythe, but my mind aft misga'e me richt sair,
For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.

I' the hirin' richt soon my dear Jamie I saw,
I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;
I watch'd an' baid near him, his motions to see,
In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.

He never wad see me in ony ae place,
At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face;
I wonder aye yet my heart brakna in twa,
He just said, "How are ye," an' steppit awa'.

My neebour lads strave to entice me awa';
They roosed me an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;
But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,
For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.

His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!
He 's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;
An' sud he do sae, he 's be welcome to me--
I 'm sure I can never like ony but he.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.

ALEXANDER MACDONALD.

Alexander Macdonald, who has been termed the Byron of Highland Bards, was born on the farm of Dalilea, in Moidart. His father was a non-juring clergyman of the same name; hence the poet is popularly known as _Mac-vaistir-Alaister_, or Alexander the parson's son. The precise date of his birth is unknown, but he seems to have been born about the first decade of the last century. He was employed as a catechist by the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge, under whose auspices he afterwards published a vocabulary, for the use of Gaelic schools. This work, which was the first of the kind in the language, was published at Edinburgh in 1741. Macdonald was subsequently elected schoolmaster of his native parish of Ardnamurchan, and was ordained an elder in the parish church. But the most eventful part of his life was yet to come. On the tidings of the landing of Prince Charles Edward, he awoke his muse to excite a rising, buckled on his broadsword, and, to complete his duty to his Prince, apostatised to the Catholic religion. In the army of the Prince he bore an officer's commission. At the close of the Rebellion, he at first sought shelter in Borodale and Arisaig; he afterwards proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of teaching children in the Jacobite connexion. The latter course was attended with this advantage; it enabled him by subscription to print a volume of Gaelic poetry, which contains all his best productions. Returning to his native district, he attempted farming without success, and ultimately he became dependent on the liberality of his relations. He died sometime subsequent to the middle of the century.

Macdonald was author of a large quantity of poetry, embracing the descriptive, in which his reading made him largely a borrower; the lyrical in which he excelled; the satirical, in which he was personal and licentious; and the Jacobitical, in which he issued forth treason of the most pestilential character. He has disfigured his verses by incessant appeals to the Muses, and repeated references to the heathen mythology; but his melody is in the Gaelic tongue wholly unsurpassed.

THE LION OF MACDONALD.

This composition was suggested by the success of Caberfae, the clan song of the Mackenzies. Macdonald was ambitious of rivaling, or excelling that famous composition, which contained a provoking allusion to a branch of his own clan. In the original, the song is prefaced by a tremendous philippic against the hero of Caberfae. The bard then strikes into the following strain of eulogy on his own tribe, which is still remarkably popular among the Gael.

Awake, thou first of creatures! Indignant in their frown,
Let the flag unfold the features that the heather[119] blossoms crown;
Arise, and lightly mount thy crest while flap thy flanks in air,
And I will follow thee the best, that I may dow or dare.
Yes, I will sing the Lion-King o'er all the tribes victorious,
To living thing may not concede thy meed and actions glorious;
How oft thy noble head has woke thy valiant men to battle,
As panic o'er their spirit broke, and rued the foe their mettle!
Is there, thy praise to underrate, in very thought presuming,
O'er crested chieftainry[120] thy state, O thou, of right assuming!
I see thee, on thy silken flag, in rampant[121] glory streaming,
As life inspired their firmness thy planted hind feet seeming.
The standard tree is proud of thee, its lofty sides embracing,
Anon, unfolding, to give forth thy grandeur airy space in.
A following of the trustiest are cluster'd by thy side,
And woe, their flaming visages of crimson, who shall bide?
The heather and the blossom are pledges of their faith,
And the foe that shall assail them, is destined to the death.
Was not a dearth of mettle among thy native kind?
They were foremost in the battle, nor in the chase behind.
Their arms of fire wreak'd out their ire, their shields emboss'd with gold,
And the thrusting of their venom'd points upon the foemen told;
O deep and large was every gash that mark'd their manly vigour,
And irresistible the flash that lighten'd round their trigger;
And woe, when play'd the dark blue blade, the thick back'd sharp Ferrara,
Though plied its might by stripling hand, it cut into the marrow.
Clan Colla,[122] let them have their due, thy true and gallant following,
Strength, kindness, grace, and clannishness, their lofty spirit hallowing.
Hot is their ire as flames aspire, the whirling March winds fanning them,
Yet search their hearts, no blemish'd parts are found
all eyes though scanning them.
They rush elate to stern debate, the battle call has never
Found tardy cheer or craven fear, or grudge the prey to sever.
Ah, fell their wrath! The dance[123] of death sends legs and arms a flying,
And thick the life blood's reek ascends of the downfallen and the dying.
Clandonuil, still my darling theme, is the prime of every clan,
How oft the heady war in, has it chased where thousands ran.
O ready, bold, and venom full, these native warriors brave,
Like adders coiling on the hill, they dart with stinging glaive;
Nor wants their course the speed, the force,
--nor wants their gallant stature,
This of the rock, that of the flock that skim along the water,
Like whistle shriek the blows they strike, as the torrent of the fell,
So fierce they gush--the moor flames' rush their ardour symbols well.
Clandonuil's[124] root when crown each shoot of sapling, branch, and stem,
What forest fair shall e'er compare in stately pride with them?
Their gathering might, what legion wight, in rivalry has dared;
Or to ravish from their Lion's face a bristle of his beard?
What limbs were wrench'd, what furrows drench'd,
in that cloud burst of steel,
That atoned the provocation, and smoked from head to heel,
While cry and shriek of terror break the field of strife along,
And stranger[125] notes are wailing the slaughter'd heaps among!
Where from the kingdom's breadth and length might other muster gather,
So flush in spirit, firm in strength, the stress of arms to weather;
Steel to the core, that evermore to expectation true,
Like gallant deer-hounds from the slip, or like an arrow flew,
Where deathful strife was calling, and sworded files were closed
Was sapping breach the wall in of the ranks that stood opposed,
And thirsty brands were hot for blood, and quivering to be on,
And with the whistle of the blade was sounding many a groan.
O from the sides of Albyn, full thousands would be proud,
The natives of her mountains gray, around the tree to crowd,
Where stream the colours flying, and frown the features grim,
Of your emblem lion with his staunch and crimson[126] limb.
Up, up, be bold, quick be unrolled, the gathering of your levy,[127]
Let every step bound forth a leap, and every hand be heavy;
The furnace of the melee where burn your swords the best,
Eschew not, to the rally where blaze your streamers, haste!
That silken sheet, by death strokes fleet, and strong defenders manned,--
Dismays the flutter of its leaves the chosen of the land.

[119] The clan badge is a tuft of heather.

[120] The Macdonalds claimed the right wing in battle.

[121] A lion rampant is their cognizance; gules.

[122] Their original patronymic, from, we suppose, _Old King Coul_; Coll, or Colla, is a common name in the tribe.

[123] The "Mire Chatta," or battle-dance, denotes the frenzy, supposed to animate the combatants, during the period of excitement.

[124] The clan consisted of many septs, whose rights of precedence are not quite ascertained; as Sleat, Clanronald, Glengarry, Keppoch, and Glencoe.

[125] _Lit._ Lowland or stranger. Killiecrankie and Sheriff Muir, not to mention Innerlochy and Tippermuir, must have blended the dying shrieks of Lowlanders with the triumphant shouts of the Gael. The image is a fine one.

[126] The armorial emblem was gules.

[127] Prince Charles Edward was expected.

THE BROWN DAIRY-MAIDEN.

Burns was fascinated with the effect of this song in Gaelic; and adopted the air for his "Banks of the Devon."

My brown dairy, brown dairy,
Brown dairy-maiden;
Brown dairy-maiden,
Bell of the heather!

A fetter beguiling, dairy-maiden, thy smiling;
Thy glove[128] there 's a wile in, of white hand the cover;
When a-milking, thy stave is more sweet than the mavis,
As his melodies ravish the woodlands all over;
Thy wild notes so cheerie, bring the small birds to hear thee,
And, fluttering, they near thee, who sings to discover.
To fulness as growing, so liquid, so flowing,
Thy song makes a glow in the veins of thy lover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

They may talk of the viol, and its strings they may try all,
For the heart's dance, outvie all, the songs of the dairy!
White and red are a-blending, on thy cheeks a-contending,
And a smile is descending from thy lips of the cherry;
Teeth their ivory disclosing, like dice, bright round rows in,
An eye unreposing, with twinkle so merry;
At summer-dawn straying, on my sight beams are raying,
From the tresses[129] they 're playing of the maid of the dairy.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

At milking the prime in, song with strokings is chiming,
And the bowie is timing a chorus-like humming.
Sweet the gait of the maiden, nod her tresses a-spreading
O'er her ears, like the mead in, the rash of the common.
Her neck, amber twining, its colours combining,
How their lustre is shining in union becoming!
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

Thy duties a-plying, white fingers are vying
With white arms, in drying the streams of the heifer,
O to linger the fold in, at noonday beholding,
When the tether 's enfolding, be my pastime for ever!
The music of milking, with melodies lilting,
While with "mammets" she 's "tilting," and her bowies run over,
Is delight; and assuming thy pails, as becoming
As a lady, dear woman! grace thy motions discover.
My brown dairy, brown dairy, &c.

[128] Dress ornaments are much prized by the humbler Gael, and make a great figure in their poetry.

[129] The most frequent of all song-images in Gaelic, is the description of yellow or auburn hair.

THE PRAISE OF MORAG.

This is the "Faust" of Gaelic poetry, incommunicable except to the native reader, and, like that celebrated composition, an untranslatable tissue of tenderness, sublimity, and mocking ribaldry. The heroine is understood to have been a young person of virtue and beauty, in the humbler walks of life, who was quite unappropriated, except by the imagination of the poet, and whose fame has passed into the Phillis or Amaryllis _ideal_ of Highland accomplishment and grace. Macdonald was married to a scold, and though his actual relations with Morag were of the Platonic kind, he was persuaded to a retractation, entitled the "Disparagement of Morag," which is sometimes recited as a companion piece to the present. The consideration of brevity must plead our apology with the Celtic readers for omitting many stanzas of the best modern composition in their language.

URLAR.

O that I were the shaw in,[130]
When Morag was there,
Lots to be drawing
For the prize of the fair!
Mingling in your glee,
Merry maidens! We
Rolicking would be
The flow'rets along;
Time would pass away
In the oblivion of our play,
As we cropp'd the primrose gay,
The rock-clefts among;
Then in mock we 'd fight,
Then we 'd take to flight,
Then we 'd lose us quite,
Where the cliffs overhung.

Like the dew-drop blue
In the mist of morn
So thine eye, and thy hue
Put the blossom to scorn.
All beauties they shower
On thy person their dower;
Above is the flower,
Beneath is the stem;
'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers,
'Tis a star 'mid the streamers,
'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers
The foremost of them!
Darkens eye-sight at thy ray!
As we wonder, still we say
Can it be a thing of clay
We see in that gem?

Since thy first feature
Sparkled before me,
Fair! not a creature
Was like thy glory.[131]....

[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.

[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye.

SIUBHAL.

Away with all, away with all,
Away with all but Morag,
A maid whose grace and mensefulness
Still carries all before it.
You shall not find her marrow,
For beauty without furrow,
Though you search the islands thorough
From Muile[132] to the Lewis;
So modest is each feature,
So void of pride her nature,
And every inch of stature
To perfect grace so true is.[133]

* * * * *

O that drift, like a pillow,
We madden to share it;
O that white of the lily,
'Tis passion to near it;
Every charm in a cluster,
The rose adds its lustre--
Can it be but such muster
Should banish the Spirit!

URLAR.

We would strike the note of joy
In the morning,
The dawn with its orangery
The hill-tops adorning.
To bush and fell resorting,
While the shades conceal'd our courting,
Would not be lack of sporting
Or gleeful _phrenesie_;
Like the roebuck and his mate,
In their woodland haunts elate
The race we would debate
Around the tendril tree.

SIUBHAL.

Thou bright star of maidens,
A beam without haze,
No murkiness saddens,
No disk-spot bewrays.
The swan-down to feeling,
The snow of the gaillin,[134]
Thy limbs all excelling,
Unite to amaze.
The queen, I would name thee,
Of maidenly muster;
Thy stem is so seemly,
So rich is its cluster
Of members complete,
Adroit at each feat,
And thy temper so sweet,
Without banning or bluster.
My grief has press'd on
Since the vision of Morag,
As the heavy millstone
On the cross-tree that bore it.
In vain the world over,
Seek her match may the rover;
A shaft, thy poor lover,
First struck overpowering.

When thy ringlets of gold,
With the crooks of their fold,
Thy neck-wards were roll'd
All weavy and showering.
Like stars that are ring'd,
Like gems that are string'd
Are those locks, while, as wing'd
From the sun, blends a ray
Of his yellowest beams;
And the gold of his gleams
Behold how he streams
'Mid those tresses to play.
In thy limbs like the canna,[135]
Thy cinnamon kiss,
Thy bright kirtle, we ken a'
New phoenix of bliss.
In thy sweetness of tone,
All the woman we own,
Nor a sneer nor a frown
On thy features appear;
When the crowd is in motion
For Sabbath devotion,[136]
As an angel, arose on
Their vision, my fair
With her meekness of grace,
And the flakes of her dress,
As they stream, might express
Such loveliness there.
When endow'd at thy birth
We marvel that earth
From its mould, should yield worth
Of a fashion so rare.

URLAR.

I never dream'd would sink
On a peak that mounts world's brink,
Of sunlight, such a blink,
Morag! as thine.
As the charmings of a spell,
Working in their cell,
So dissolves the heart where dwell
Thy graces divine.

SIUBHAL.

Come, counsel me, my comrades,
While dizzy fancy lingers,
Did ever flute become, lads,
The motion of such fingers?
Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137]
Or see or hear, before her,
Such gracefulness, adore her
Yet, woes me, how concealing
From her I 've wedded, dare I?
Still, homeward bound, I tarry,
And Jeanie's eye is weary,
Her truant unrevealing.
The glow of love I feel,
Not all the linns of Sheil,
Nor Cruachan's snow avail
To cool to congealing.[138]....

CRUNLUATH.

My very brain is humming, sirs,
As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs,
And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs,
My passion such a flame is.
My very eyes are blinding, sirs,
Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs,
Nor height nor distance minding, sirs,
The crag, as Corrie, tame is....

[132] Mull.

[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.

[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands.

[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.

[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.

[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.

NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility.

Glad tidings for the Highlands!
To arms a ringing call--
Hammers storming, targets forming,
Orb-like as a ball.[139]
Withers dismay the pale array,
That guards the Hanoverian;
Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er,
The help is nigh we weary on.
From friendly east a breeze shall haste
The fruit-freight of our prayer--
With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140]
A prince to do and dare;
Stuart his name, his sire's the same,
For his riffled crown appealing,
Strong his right in, soon shall Britain
Be humbled to the kneeling.
Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield,
And firearms play defiance;
Forwards they fly, and still their cry,
Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions.
Make ready for your travel,
Be sharp-set, and be willing,
There will be a dreadful revel,
And liquor red be spilling.
O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife,
Are burning for the slaughter,
Would let their volley, like fire to holly,
Blaze on the usurping traitor.
Full many a soldier arming,
Is laggard in his spirit,
E'er his blood the flag is warming
Of the King that should inherit.
He may be loon or coward,
That spur scarce touch would nearly--
The colours shew, he 's in a glow,
Like the stubble of the barley.
Onward, gallants! onward speed ye,
Flower and bulwark of the Gael;
Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy,
Rosy-red, and do not quail.
Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous,
As your princely strain beseems,
In your hands, alert for conflict,
While the Spanish weapon gleams.--
Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143]
Humming music to the gale;
Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144]
Proud the banner staff to bear.
A slashing weapon on his thigh,
He tends his charge unfearing;
Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh,
To the gristle nostrils sheering.
Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight,
The finger white, the clever, he
That gives the war-pipe his embrace
To raise the storm of bravery.
A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring
Battle-sounding breeze of her
Would stir the spirit of the clans
To rake the heart of Lucifer.
March ye, without feint and dolour,
By the banner of your clan,
In your garb of many a colour,
Quelling onset to a man.
Then, to see you swiftly baring
From the sheath the manly glaive,
Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing
Marrow-showering of the brave!
Woe the clattering, weapon-battering
Answering to the piobrach's yell!
When your racing speeds the chasing,
Wide and far the clamours swell.
Hard blows whistle from the bristle
Of the temples to the thigh,
Heavy handed as the land-flood,
Who will turn ye, or make fly?
Many a man has drunk an ocean
Healths to Charlie, to the gorge,
Broken many a glass proposing
Weal to him and woe to George;
But, 'tis feat of greater glory
Far, than stoups of wine to trowl,
One draught of vengeance deep and gory,
Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl!
Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all,
Join ye to your clans your cheer!
Nor heed though wife and child pursue all,
Bidding you to fight, forbear.
Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty,
Gallant in your loyal pride,
By your hacking, low as bracken
Stretch the foe the turf beside.
Our stinging kerne of aspect stern
That love the fatal game,
That revel rife till drunk with strife,
And dye their cheeks with flame,
Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear
Their foemen's crested brows,
The red-coats feel the barb of steel,
And hot its venom glows.
The few have won fields, many a one,
In grappling conflicts' play;
Then let us march, nor let our hearts
A start of fear betray.
Come gushing forth, the trusty North,
Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon;
And prances high their chivalry,
And death-dew sits each sword on.

[138] Here Morag's musical performance on the flute, form the subject of a panegyric, in which Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath are imitated.

[139] "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.

[140] The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour, was assumed by the Jacobites.

[141] "Come, and I will give you flesh," a Highland war-cry invoking the birds and beasts of prey to their bloody revel.

[142] Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.

[143] Flag.

[144] Warrior.

[145] Lovat and his clan.

JOHN ROY STUART.

John Roy Stuart was a distinguished officer in the Jacobite army of 1745. He was the son of a farmer in Strathspey, who gave him a good education, and procured him a commission in a Highland regiment, which at the period served in Flanders. His military experiences abroad proved serviceable in the cause to which he afterwards devoted himself. In the army of Prince Charles Edward, he was entrusted with important commands at Gladsmuir, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; and he was deemed of sufficient consequence to be pursued by the government with an amount of vigilance which rendered his escape almost an approach to the miraculous. An able military commander, he was an excellent poet. His "Lament for Lady Macintosh" has supplied one of the most beautiful airs in Highland music.[146] In the second of his pieces on the battle of Culloden, translated for the present work, the lamentation for the absence of the missing clans, and the night march to the field, are executed with the skill and address of a genuine bard, while the story of the battle is recited with the fervour of an honourable partisan. Stuart died abroad in circumstances not differing from those of the best and bravest, who were engaged in the same unhappy enterprise.

[146] See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.

LAMENT FOR LADY MACINTOSH.

This is the celebrated heroine who defended her castle of Moy, in the absence of her husband, and, with other exploits, achieved the surprisal of Lord Loudon's party in their attempt to seize Prince Charles Edward, when he was her guest. Information had been conveyed by some friendly unknown party, of a kind so particular as to induce the lady to have recourse to the following stratagem. She sent the blacksmith on her estate, at the head of a party of other seven persons, with instructions to lie in ambush, and at a particular juncture to call out to the clans to come on and hew to pieces "the scarlet soldiers," as were termed the royalist troops. The feint succeeded, and is known in Jacobite story as the "Route of Moy." The exploit is pointedly alluded to in the Elegy, which is replete with beauty and pathos.

Does grief appeal to you, ye leal,
Heaven's tears with ours to blend?
The halo's veil is on, and pale
The beams of light descend.
The wife repines, the babe declines,
The leaves prolong their bend,
Above, below, all signs are woe,
The heifer moans her friend.

The taper's glow of waxen snow,
The ray when noon is nigh,
Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd
Our star of morn, as high
The southern west its blast released,
And drown'd in floods the sky--
Ah woe! was gone the star that shone,
Nor left a visage dry
For her, who won as win could none
The people's love so well.
O, welaway! the dirging lay
That rung from Moy its knell;
Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue,
With roses wont to dwell!
How can we think, nor swooning sink,
To earth them in the cell?

Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem,
And snowy as its flower,
So once, and now must love allow,
The grave chest such a dower!
The fairest shoot of noble root
A blast could overpower;
'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed,
That bids our eyes to shower.

Beseems his grief the princely chief,
Who reins the charger's pride,
And gives the gale the silken sail,
That flaps the standard's side;
Who from the hall where sheds at call,
The generous shell its tide,
And from the tower where Meiners'[147] power
Prevails, brought home such bride.

[147] She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The founder of the family was a De Moyeners, in the reign of William the Lion. The name in Gaelic continued to testify to its original, being _Meini_, or _Meinarach_.

THE DAY OF CULLODEN.

Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust,
And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground;
So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear,
Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound.
For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm
With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown;
The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued,
While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne?
Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace,
Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small,
Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight,
But the musters that failed at the moment of call--
Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world,
Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day;
Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril,
Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array?
Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain
That never were hail'd to the carnage of war--
Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled?
How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar!
Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom
That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd,
Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts
Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd!
And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow
Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command,
And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd,
So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand.
But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead,
As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight;
Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime,
And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right!
Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn,
And Alister Rua the king of the feast;
And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart,
Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased.
In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright,
Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced;
Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning,
When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast.
As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil,
Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather,
That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor,
Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather
Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed,
And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun,
Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger,
And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156]
Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong
To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought;
To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust
Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought.
His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns,
And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue;
But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal,
From the south or the north, the award of his due.
And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne,
Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree;
May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit
Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be
As barren and bare--not a partner to share,
Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace;
Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour,
Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race!
Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high,
And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey,
And the lieges each one, from the child to the man,
The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.

[148] George the First's Queen was a divorcée. The Jacobites retorted the alleged spuriousness of the Chevalier de St George, on George II., the reigning Sovereign.

[149] _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the Sutherland expedition, but did not reach in time to take part in the action.

[150] Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton, and with his clan, greatly distinguished in the Jacobite wars.

[151] Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.

[152] Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the greater number fled to Inverness. Being the least considerable in force, they were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland's light horse, and almost entirely massacred.

[153] The Farquharsons formed part of the unfortunate right wing in the battle, and suffered severely.

[154] The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into action before the order to engage had been transmitted over the lines. They were of course the principal sufferers.

[155] An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of Clanranald, Glengarry, and Keppoch, by being deprived of their usual position--the right wing. Their motions are supposed to have been tardy in consequence. The poet was himself in the right wing.

[156] The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with historic truth and great poetic effect.

[157] Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.

[158] Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.

[159] The Duke of Cumberland.

JOHN MORRISON.

John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In 1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness. He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required _a diligence_ to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to waylay and murder the official employed in the _diligence_ had been concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented, through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty. Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance, Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen, and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.

MY BEAUTY DARK.

The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife, upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.

My beauty dark, my glossy bright,
Dark beauty, do not leave me;
They call thee dark, but to my sight
Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.

'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160]
Came tirling at my door,
The image of a lovely lass
That haunts me evermore.

Beside my sleeping couch she stood,
And now she mars my rest;
Still as I try the solemn mood,
She hunts it from my breast.

At lecture and at study
That ankle white I span,
Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,--
A fay I seem to scan.

Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray
That dashes to the side,
Or like the silver-tail'd that play
Their gambols in the tide.

As heaps of snow on mountain brow
When shed the clouds their fleece,
Or churn of waves when tempest raves,
Thy swelling limbs in grace.

Thy eyes are black as berries,
Thy cheeks are waxen dyed,
And on thy temple tarries
The raven's dusk, my pride!

Gives light below each slim eye-brow
A swelling orb of blue,
In April meads so glance the beads,
In May the honey-dew.

Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap,
But sheaf-like, neatly bound
Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream
As bright thine ears around.

Those raven spires of hair, that fair,
That turret-bosom's shine!
False friends! from me that banish'd thee,
Who fain would call thee mine.

No lilts I spin, their love to win,
The viol strings I shun,
But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear
My wisdom, dearest one!

[160] Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.

ROBERT MACKAY.

THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.