JOHN MACLEAN.
Among the bards of some note who flourished in the first quarter of this century is John MacLean, usually styled the Laird of Coll’s Bard. He is one of the last of the order of family [bards, or senachies]. But the office in his case does not appear to have been of much advantage to himself—it was more honourable [and ornamental] than remunerative. MacLean was born in the Island of Tiree in 1787. As an instance of the tenacity with which Highlanders cleave to the traditional pedigrees of their families, it maybe mentioned that he traced himself back through the MacLeans of Treisinnis, of Ardgour, and of Duart to the great Hector Roy of the Battles, who was killed at Harlaw in 1411. But this is a small claim as compared with that advanced by a Dublin schoolmaster, John O’Hart, who, in a pamphlet dedicated to her Majesty Queen Victoria, whom he regards somewhat as a fellow-sovereign, pretends to trace his pedigree to the mighty monarchs of Eire who once reigned in “Tara’s Hall!” MacLean published a collection of poetry, most of the pieces being his own composition, in 1818; another volume of his own poems appeared at Antigonish in 1836. His works complete have since been issued in excellent style under the title of “Clàrsach na Coille” (Harp of the Wood), edited with intelligence and care by the Rev. A. M. Sinclair of Nova Scotia, whose Gaelic scholarship and enthusiasm are well known on this side of the Atlantic. It is said that “in the poet’s younger days the people of Tiree led merry lives; they did not trouble themselves with hard work; they had, however, plenty to eat and drink. The island was full of distilleries, and whisky-drinking was carried on to a very great extent. There were capital dancers in the place, and certainly these men did not allow their legs to become stiff through want of exercise upon the floor.” This picture of island-life suggests the material which was frequently the source of inspiration to bardic lucubrations. After learning the trade of shoemaking, MacLean started for Glasgow, where he married. In 1810 he was drafted into the militia, but was discharged next year. In 1819 he emigrated to Nova Scotia, where he lived till the year 1848, much respected and appreciated by all his countrymen who knew him. It appears that MacLean has composed religious poetry, though little known—some of his hymns being printed in Glasgow in 1835. Here is an account of this side of his nature: “It was not till he had been several years in Barney’s River that he turned his attention to this species of composition. His hard lot in this world no doubt tended to direct his attention to a better world. He had always led a good moral life—a more truthful or a more honest could not be found. He had always observed the worship of God regularly in his family.” MacLean is a bard of considerable powers, but cannot be compared with the bards whose names are known wherever the Gaelic language is spoken. One song of his has been highly popular, mainly because of the sweet air that is attached to it. The following verses will show the manner of the song, Och a rùin gur tu air m’aire:—
Each day I sigh here a lonely stranger,
I cannot sing with my heart love-laden;
I was right foolish to give my promise
To her of Canna, the youthful maiden.
It was with gladness I left the island,
Home of my childhood and my devotion,
To seek the gold here that may be found not
In those bare islands amid the ocean.
How proud and happy I was with Allan
Beginning work in the gray of morning;
’Twere better far to be there than labour
A lonely stranger ’neath Lowland scorning.
I would not stay in my native island,
To my ambition the land was narrow;
When Lowland lasses inquire in English,
I say in Gaelic, “I came from Barra.”
This song is so painfully simple and commonplace, notwithstanding its popularity, that it can scarcely bear translation at all, unless the translator is permitted to introduce some of the stock sentiment and phraseology of the muse. One of MacLean’s best pieces is on the Laird of Coll’s Boat. Another of more than average merit was written shortly after his arrival in Nova Scotia. It shows the bard ill at ease in his new surroundings in the Coille Ghruamach, or Gloomy Wood. It opens thus:—
I stray alone in these woods of shadows,
My thoughts are restless, I feel in pain;
This place conflicts with the laws of nature,
My strength forsakes me in heart and brain.
I cannot sing the old songs of Albin,
My bosom saddens to hear their strain;
My Gaelic dies since I speak no longer
That tongue still cherished beyond the main.
Alas! small wonder although I sorrow
Behind the hills in this gloomy wood,
In this lone desert by Barney’s River,
With bare potatoes alone for food.
Ere cultivation is seen rejoicing
O’er all the land and the trees are cleared,
My strength will fail in an arm exhausted
While yet the children are left unreared.
MacLean is one of the last of the old order of bards. His poetry shows little or no trace of English reading; and the theme of the majority of his poems is the praise of the Laird of Coll or some kindred chieftain. Very appropriately might the happy couplet of Sir Walter Scott describing the old and infirm minstrels of other days be applied to MacLean—
“A simple race! they waste their toil,
For the vain tribute of a smile.”
It ought to be mentioned, however, that the Laird of Coll showed on more than one occasion that he did not forget his enthusiastic senachie.
CHAPTER XIV.
POPULAR SONGS.
“Ho gur toigh leam! he gur toigh leam!
Ho gur toigh leam féin a’ Ghàilig!
’S toigh leam i ’sgach àit am bi mi;
Bheir i ann am chuimhn’ a’ Ghàidlh’ltachd.”
—Chorus of Popular Song.
English:
Ho, I love the sweet old Gaelic!
It reminds me of the Highlands,
Hay, I love that tongue of heroes,
Everywhere in far or nigh lands.
Considerable activity was shown in the beginning of this century in collecting the floating mass of poetry then extant in the Highlands. Celtic patriots who dreaded the immediate decease of the ancient language of Albin set themselves in praiseworthy fashion to the task of rescuing this popular literature from the devouring jaws of time and change. A brief survey of the various publications which were the practical outcome of this happy determination will exhibit no unworthy results. These results, in many cases achieved at great self-sacrifice, are more deserving of notice when it is remembered how expensive it was then to publish bulky volumes, especially in the Gaelic language, and how limited was the constituency to whose support the persistent patriots appealed. Their devotion to their venerable mother-tongue, supposed to be on her death-bed, deserves our gratitude; and if their ghosts occasionally revisit in the glimpses of the moon, the scenes of their self-denying labours, they must be gratified to hear still the echoes of their much-loved tongue resounding as of yore through the glens and by the seashore as well as in crowded halls in our large centres of population. Peace be [to their names]! and long may the torch of Gaelic enthusiasm, which they kept lighted, and handed down to us, be preserved a burning power in the bosoms of our Highland countrymen.
It is not proposed to do here much more than the mere enumeration of some of these collections of poetry. This itself will be sufficient, along with the array of Gaelic bards that have already passed in review before us, to show further how unfounded is the general dictum that there is no Gaelic literature—no books in the language of the Highlander.
Some popular songs of this period are—“Mairi Dhonn” and “Mairi Ghreannar,” by Kenneth Mackenzie of Lochbroom; “’Scanail m’Aigne,” and “Soraidh Slàn do’n Ailleagan,” [by the brothers] William and Alexander Mackenzie, of Lochcarron; “An Làr Dhonn,” by Murdoch Mackenzie, of Achilty, Ross-shire; “Thug mi’n Oidhche raoir san Airidh,” by John Macgillivray; “Gaor nam Ban Muileach,” by Margaret Maclean of Mull; “O’n tha mi fo Mhuladh air m’Aineol,” by the Rev. Charles Stewart, D.D., of Strachur; “Nighean Donn na Buaile,” by the Rev. Duncan Macfarlane, latterly of Perth; “Gu ma slàn a chì Mi,” by Hector Mackenzie, an Ullapool sailor; “A Nighean Bhui Bhan,” by Donald Macinnes; “Mo run geal Og,” by Christina Ferguson, of Contin; “Thainig an Gille Dubh,” by Lady Malcolm Raasay; “A Mhairi Bhòidheach,” by a North [Uist schoolmaster]; “Moladh Caber-Féidh,” by Norman Macleod of Assynt, whose two sons, Professor Macleod of Glasgow and the Rev. Augus Macleod of Rogart, were well known last century.
Anonymous pieces are many: “An Gille Dubh ciar Dubh,” “Mo Nighean Chruinn Donn;” “Fear a’ Bhàta;” “Cuir a Chinn Dìleas;” “An Nochd gur faoin mo Chadal domh;” “Och mar tha Mi;” “Ho-ro Eileinich, Ho-gu” (the three last being evidently composed by Islaymen); “Tha Tigh’n Fodham” (MacDhughail, ’ic Lachuin?), a verse of which Boswell boasted of being able to sing when he was with Johnson on his tour in the Hebrides. The popular collections of songs will supply many more.
Since 1812 the following collections of miscellaneous pieces of poetry have appeared:—P. Macfarlane’s (1813); in this volume was first published a part of MacLachlan’s translation of Homer (the 3rd Book). P. Turner’s (1813), mostly culled from the works of the well-known heroic bards. H. and J. MacCallum’s (1816), principally Ossianic or heroic ballads. J. MacLean’s (1818), containing much original matter. Inverness collection (1821, Fraser); James Munro’s Ailleagan (1830), which has maintained its popularity all along. Other small things appeared early in the century—Eoin Bheag nan Creagaibh Aosda (1819); Ceilleirean Binn nan Creagan Aosda (1819), and a choice collection of Scotch Songs with Gaelic translations (Inverness, 1829). “The Harp of Caledonia,” “An t-Aosdana,” “The Mountain Songster,” “An Duanaire,” have been published more recently, and are still in circulation. The most valuable of all the collections is “The Beauties of Gaelic Poetry”—a magnificent volume, on which much labour was spent, by John Mackenzie. The productions of many of the Gaelic bards are given in this work, along with biographical notices, and much critical and explanatory matter. Mackenzie, who was a native of Wester Ross, was a man of great talent and industry; but his æsthetic and moral tastes not being of a high order, he allowed many pieces of an [immoral tendency] to appear, which somewhat marred the work. It is the magnum opus of Gaelic literature. The “Oranaiche,” by Archibald Sinclair (1879) is another large and excellent work, which does great credit to the compiler and publisher. With the exception of the “Beauties,” which is of a different sort, there is no collection in Gaelic like Sinclair’s, whether we regard the variety, the extent, and the quality of the contents.
While the “Beauties” contain the best productions of the principal bards during the last three hundred years, the “Oranaiche,” gives us the better known songs of the present century, many of the lyrics being the compositions of living writers, from whom Mr Sinclair, often at very considerable trouble to himself, obtained the manuscripts, and took down the words at the author’s or others’ dictation. There are two hundred and ninety songs in this handsome volume, many of them very long—a general characteristic of Gaelic songs—and not a few, it must be admitted, more of the nature of poems than of lyrics. The songs in this collection are of all sorts—humorous, patriotic, satiric, and sentimental. The latter class predominates; indeed, it constitutes three-fifths of the whole. In considering the range of poetic culture discernible in this volume, it is remarkable to note the almost total absence of martial songs. The bards of this century would appear to have been baptised in the perennial stream of the tender passion of which they sing with such evidently luscious delight. This is the one great theme which they take up with the devotion of their whole being. Another subject which here and there gives a tinge of sadness to the book is the depopulation of the Highlands, which is so fitted, like the troubles of a jilted and suffering lover, to elicit, in all its intensity, the melancholic element in the Celtic nature. Mac-na-bracha (Son of Malt) also comes [in for frequent] and hearty praise, drinking Deoch-slainte being capable at all times of invoking in many Highland bosoms the purest and most generous feelings and sympathies. It ought to be observed, however, as Sheriff Nicolson suggests in his excellent volume of Gaelic proverbs, that although usqueba is so much identified with the failings of the modern Highlander, this exhilarating beverage was almost unknown to the Gael until last century, the drink known till then being mostly “fion dearg na Frainc,” the red wine of France. It has been remarked above, that this volume does not present us with many martial lyrics. This fact reminds us of the great change that has come over the Highlands. The obvious explanation is that the warlike ardour which was wont to flow forth in battle incitements has been toned down by the altered circumstances of the people since the day of Culloden, and runs now into the natural stream of the tender passion. On the other hand, if we go back to the days of Finian chivalry we find a martial element in all the productions of the bards; and this continued largely to prevail as long as the Gael habitually carried about with him his claymore, ready to fight for his person or follow his chief to the field.
One of the best, and the only genuine martial song in the “Oranaiche,” is the first in the volume, Buaidh leis na Seoid, by Alexander Macgregor, schoolmaster at Dull. It contains sixteen stanzas of four lines of twelve syllables in length, and having a chorus takes a long time to sing it; but the martial enthusiasm it breathes, along with many suggestive historical references, are such that audiences sit frequently spellbound till the whole piece is rehearsed. Of the humorous pieces in the volume mention may be made of The Dun Horse, The Minister and the Bailie, and The Advent of an Escaped Irish Balloon on the shore of one of the Hebrides. The author of the last-mentioned represents the whole island as in commotion when the monster approached the shore—old men and old women taking for granted that this could be no less a personage than the devil himself, who came at last to claim his own.
There are upwards of fifty names of composers in the “Oranaiche,” many of whom are still living, and who are not known on the pages of another book. With this fact before us surely it cannot be affirmed that the race of bards is gone. I was once present at a meeting of a Highland Association in Glasgow, where I was informed there were no less than six bards, authors of published, well-known songs. It is difficult to conceive how so many of the irritable genius could work in harmony or dwell together in unity and in poetic brotherhood. Among the fifty above-mentioned occur the following less known Celtic names:—Lady D’Olyly D. Orr, MacMurchie, MacPhail, Macroy, MacLugas, MacAffer, Wilkinson, etc. etc. Let us now glance at some of the best-known songs.
Gu ma Slan a chi Mi, the composition of an Ullapool sailor, the air of which is very pretty, is a highly popular song. I have tried to render some verses of it thus:—
Full happy may I see thee,
My faithful auburn maid!
Sweet girl with flowing tresses
In pretty smiles arrayed.
My soul was oft-uplifted
By words thy lips have said;
And oft by strains of gladness
My fluttering heart allayed.
This night to me how dreary
Upon the ocean tide!
My slumber is full cheerless—
To thee my fancies glide.
Without thee here I sorrow,
My thoughts are at thy side;
I pine away in anguish
Till thou become my bride.
Warm eyes are thine like berries,
With lashes sweetly lined;
Fresh cheeks are thine like rowans,
In loveliness enshrined.
My heart is filled with fondness
For one so true and kind;
And ever since I left thee,
The days like years I find.
’Twas said I shunn’d thee, dearest,
Ere hither I was borne;
My kiss that I denied thee
While leaving thee forlorn.
Let no such tale, dear, grieve thee,
Reject their speech with scorn;
Thy breath to me smells sweeter
Than dewy grass in morn.
Some of the most popular songs are anonymous. Ho-ro Eileinich belongs to this class, and is a great favourite at large Highland gatherings on account of the swinging character of the air and metre. Here are a few verses:—
O, green island of the sea!
Native home, I love but thee:
Fairest fields of earth that be,—
The bonnie braes of Landai.
There afar I see Ardmore,
Home of game that I adore;
There my heart is evermore
Among the hills of Landai.
Thy dark brow though rocky be,
Early shines the sun on thee;
Heights of deer! I long to see
Beyond the shore of Landai.
Oft there fell beneath my hand,
Spotted seal upon the sand;
Snowy swans upon the strand,
And heathcocks in fair Landai.
O! I love thee, Islay green,
Of my youthful days the scene;
Where the best of men have been
Who loved the songs of Landai.
One of the finest songs in the language is Muile nam Mor Bheann, or Mull of the High Hills. On account of its peculiarity of metre, it does not lend itself readily to easy translation. Some of its verses run thus:—
In Mull of the woods there lives the maiden
For whom my poor heart is now love-laden:
Though dead be that love like joys of Eden
I woo no lasses in Cowal.
Chorus.
All cheerless and lonely here I sorrow;
No fond ray of hope is seen each morrow,
My heart has refused fresh love to borrow;
It turns to the wood-crowned island.
Like beautiful sheen of rosy morning
The glow of thy cheek is sweetly burning;
The troth of my love if thou art spurning
Soon linen and sods will shroud me.
For thine is the charm that wins devotion
The graces of form that wake emotion,
As bright as the sea-gull on the ocean,
Or cannach on brows of Morven.
Were mine thy fond kiss I’d cease repining,
Thy love would restore my health declining,
O! let me behold the beauties shining
Around the maiden of Morven.
A glance into the Oranaiche and other collections of Gaelic songs will reveal to the casual student of Gaelic literature what vast treasures of lyrics the language contains. These songs admirably exhibit the emotional lyrical spirit of the Gael, and leads us to much of the source of the genius of song which has rendered Scotland so deservedly renowned.
The Rev. Angus Macintyre, late of Kinlochspelvie, composed several poems of great merit. His love-song, “O’s runach leam an ribhinn donn,” is very pretty. [A translation by] Mr H. Whyte will be found in an interesting little volume recently published, “The Celtic Garland.” Here are some verses:—
I dearly love my auburn maid
That dwells behind the mountain,
At eve I’ll meet her in the glade,
To roam by dell and fountain.
Though here with hounds I chase the deer,
Where streamlets bright meander,
To yonder glen, where dwells my dear,
My thoughts will ever wander.
The birds that round about me fly,
Pour forth their notes of gladness;
While here alone I sit and sigh
In sorrow and in sadness.
Her hair around her shoulders flows
With graceful waving motion,
Her snow-white bosom heaving goes
Like sea-gull on the ocean.
One of the popular songs and airs among Highlanders is that of “Finary.” The verses that have become so well-known in connection with this song are not those to which the air was attached originally. The original song was “Irinn àrinn u horo,” by Allan Macdougall, a lyric of fair merit, but which has never attained to anything like the popularity of “Finary.” The author of “Finary” appropriated an air already popular, like the author of “Màiri Laghach.” The reputed author of “Finary” is the elder Dr Norman Macleod, and certainly the theme of the song is founded on an event in his personal history. It is a farewell to Finary, where the manse of his father was situated, in Morven, on the occasion of Norman leaving home to attend the first session at Glasgow University. The sentiment is very pathetic and natural, and very readily lays hold of the tenderest chords of the heart of the home-loving Highlander. There is something about it, the antiquarian reference to the past, and its touches descriptive of natural scenery, which remind us of the genius of Macleod. Yet it has been doubted whether he was the author of the original English version—the English one being regarded as the original. Mr Neil Campbell, of County Down, now of Glasgow, a man who knows a good deal of generally unknown facts relating to the Gaelic literature of this century, once told the writer that the Rev. Mr Kelly, of Campbeltown, once Dr Macleod’s friend and colleague in that town, was the author of the English version, which, apart from the home-loving sentiment and air, is rather poor poetry. The following is the first verse, which shows reason but the veriest imperfection of rhyme:—
The wind is fair, the day is fine;
Swiftly, swiftly runs the time;
The boat is floating on the tide.
That wafts me off from Finary.
But apart from the artistic execution of the verses, the sweet, high-souled, and patriotic sentiments conveyed in them would always recommend them to the warm-hearted and emotional Gael. The history of “Fionnairidh” has always seemed to me something like that of “God Save the Queen,” or “The Address to the Cuckoo.” The names of Bruce and Lowe are connected with the last just as those of Macleod and Kelly are with the first. One of the few who could authoritatively decide the precise authorship of “Fionnairidh”—was that true and highly-gifted Highlander the late Dr John Macleod of Morven; and also his learned relative Dr Clerk of Kilmailie, who could write with accuracy of the different versions, English and Gaelic, of Eirich agus tiugainn, O.
The following Gaelic version—eight stanzas, there are four more—are given as they came through the hands of the late Archibald Sinclair, who had probably something to do with it. It was first printed on a leaflet, was then copied into the “Gael” in 1872, and has been several times published in whole or in part since:—
Tha ’n latha maith, ’s an soirbheas ciùin;
Tha ’n nine ruith, ’s an t-àm dhuinn-dlùith;
Tha ’m bat’ ’g am fheitheamh fo a siùil,
Gu’ m thoirt a null o Fhionn-Airidh.
Tha ioma mìle ceangal blath
Mar shaighdean ann am féin an sas;
Mo chridhe ’n impis a bhi sgaint’
A chionn bhi fagail Fionn-Airidh.
Bu tric a ghabh me scriob leam fhéin,
Mu ’n cuairt air lùchairt Fhinn an tréin;
’S a dh’éisd mi sgeulachdan na Féinn
’G an cur an céill am Fionn-Airidh.
’S bu tric a sheall mi feasgair Mairt
Far am biodh Oisein sinn a dhan;
A’ comhead gréin’ aig ioma tra
Dol seach gach la ’s mi ’m Fionn-Airidh.
Beannachd le athair mo ghraidh,
Bidh mi cuimhneah ort gu brath,
Ghuidhinn gach sonas is agh
Do ’n t-seaun fhear bhan am Fionn-Airidh.
Mo mhathair!—’s ionmhuin t’ ainm r ’a luaidh—
Am feum mi tearbadh uait cho luath?
Is falbh a’m’ allabanach truagh
An cian uait féin ’s o Fhionn-Airidh!
Soraidh leatsa, brathair chaoin,
Is fòs le peathraichibh mo ghaoil;
Cuiribh bròn is deôir a thaobh
’S biodh aoibh oirbh ann am Fionn-Airidh.
Beannachd le beanntaibh mo ghaoil!
Far am faigh mi fiadh le lagh:
Gu ma fad’ an coileach-fraoich
A’ glaodhaich ann am Fionn-Airidh.
The chorus consists of Eirich agus tiugainn, O, “Let us rise and come away,” [repeated three times], with a fourth line, “Farewell, farewell to Finary.” The following rendering is an adaptation by the writer. The form “Finorie” is used to preserve a sort of sympathetic sympathy with and likeness to terms with similar endings in Lowland ballads, such as “Glenorie,” etc. This form has also more sympathy with the music:—
Translation:
The day is good, the wind is fair;
The sands of time the hour declare;
There rides the boat that hence will bear
Me far away from Finorie.
A thousand ties my soul enchain;
Like arrows they awaken pain;
My heart is nearly broke in twain
Since I must leave thee, Finorie.
Often alone I sought the hold
Where mighty Fingal lived of old;
Often I heard long legends told
Of Finian deeds in Finorie.
Often I viewed at Eve the spring
Where Ossian tuned his harp to sing;
Where sheen of gold the sun did bring
Upon the heights of Finorie.
Farewell, dear father, best of men,
Far from me in the Highland glen!
Heav’n smile on thee till back again
I come to see dear Finorie.
Mother! a name to me most dear;
To lose thy tender care I fear;
But in my snareful journey here
I think of thee and Finorie.
O brother of my love, adieu!
Dear sisters, hide your grief from view;
Your tears suppress, your joys renew;
Be happy while at Finorie.
Farewell, ye mountains capp’d with snow;
Ye wild resorts of deer and roe;
Long may the heath-cock live to crow
Among the braes of Finorie.
But matters are still further complicated in connection with this favourite song. A gentleman from North Argyll assured the writer that another Gaelic version was in general circulation long ago in Mull and Morven. This might have been the original one by Dr Macleod himself, from which Kelly translated; and the fact that the original chorus, “Eirich agus tiugainn O,” has been known only in Gaelic favours this supposition. Surely old folks in Morven must still be able to repeat this supposed original version if it ever had existence. If so, it is to be hoped that some one will take the trouble of giving it to the world. But whoever the author was, the song has obtained unquestionable hold of the Highland heart, no doubt largely because it refers to an early event in the history of the “Highlander’s friend,” the good, genial, and large hearted Norman Macleod.
Poetry like that of A Mackay, of Moyhall (1821), of Archibald Grant, of Glenmoriston (1863), of John Macinnes (1875), Callum Macphail (1879), and of John Macfadyen (1890), shows excellent ease in verse-making, and no small amount of humour at times; but it does not demand serious examination. That so many volumes should be published indicates much activity and energy on the part of an obscure Gaelic muse.
Another bard of the name of Grant may be mentioned as belonging to this class. Many of the popular lyrics have been composed by authors who have not given us more than one or two songs. Mo Nighean Dubh was written by the Rev. Mr Morrison of Petty; Mairi Laghach, by John Macdonald of Lochbroom; Bonneid is it, by A. Macalister of Islay; Eilein an Fhraoich, by M. MacLeod of Lewis. The mass of lyrics of this class is something enormous. When translated into English they are felt to be simple—sometimes painfully simple—metrical inartistic utterances of love-enkindled hearts. Attached to tender and often very pretty airs they have lived on the lips of thousands, and have cheered weary workers in the field and at the fireside. Of the nameless class of plaintive lilts is the following:—Mo Run Geal Dileas, well known throughout the Highlands. There are many versions of it, and the number of verses is scarcely ever the same. The [chorus is rather] unintelligible, and may have belonged to an earlier set of verses. The verses translated give a very fair conception of the merits and the spirit of the original. Like the Laureate’s Mariana, many of these Highland singers show much of the “a-weary, a-weary” condition of soul, and people of pretended lofty moral culture condemn the poor lyrists for manifesting such excess of feeling.
My faithful fair one, my own, my loved one,
My faithful fair one, return again;
O, I return not! my love, I may not;
For my own dear one is weak with pain.
O, that I were in the form of sea-gull,
That swims so lightly upon the sea;
Soon would I leave for the isle of Islay,
Where lives the maiden that grieved me.
O, that I were with the best of maidens!
In pleasant glades of the mountain side;
With none to hear us but woodland songsters,
I’d kiss my own one with loving pride.
I was a season in foreign regions—
In sunny climes that are far away;
None with thy beauty my eye could find there;
And with the fairest I would not stay.
I will not strive with the tree that bends not,
Though on its branch-tops sweet apples grow;
Farewell be with thee, if thou hast left me,
Ne’er came an ebb-tide without a flow.
Mairi Laghach has become a great favourite, and has been translated more than once. The author was John Macdonald, latterly of Crobeg, in Lewis. He adopted the chorus of an inferior song which a Muracha nam Bo composed for his own daughter, who did not seem to elicit much admiration from the ungallant bachelors in the neighbourhood. Macdonald took up the air and composed the set of verses that are now so popular. It is worthy of remark that in his case also the subject of his song was a baby, and not a grown-up girl or woman. Steering his barque across the Minch his thoughts reverted to the friendly home he left behind him in Stornoway, and anxious to examine his poetic gifts he composed his song to Wee Mary, as it might be rendered, who then could not walk. Eventually she became his wife. Once on a visit to Ireland, the author was surprised to hear, while he himself was still a young man, his own song sung in an adjoining room, which shows how readily a song that catches the popular ear and taste will travel.
An endeavour is made to be as literal as possible in the following translation, which must necessarily want much of the aroma of the original:—
Early roved my Mary
With me through Glen-Smeoil,
When young love’s keen arrow
Pierced me to the soul.
With such living fervour
We together drew,
That none under heaven
Ever loved so true.
Oftentimes with Mary
To the hill I strayed,
Innocent and happy
Through the grassy glade:
Cupid ever busy
Teaching us to love,
As we rested fondly
In the sun-lit grove.
Though the wealth of Albin
Were assigned to me,
How could I be happy,
Dear one, without thee?
I would rather kiss thee,
As my own true bride,
Than possess the treasures
Found in Europe wide.
Thine the snowy bosom,
Filled with love for me,
Breast of beauty fairer
Than the swan on sea:
With the lovely tresses
Round thy ears that stray,
Golden curly wavelets
In their fond array.
All the pomp of princes
Did our pride surpass,
With our bed of grandeur
On the leaves and grass:
Flowers of the desert
Heart and soul to feed;
Streamlets from the mountains
Nourishing each seed.
Nought that men invented—
Pipe nor harp—could play
Music with the sweetness
Of our love-born lay:
With the larks above us,
Thrushes on the spray,
Cuckoos in the greenwood
Warbling to the May.
It is of course impossible to preserve the music of the original in any translation; the renderings given above are intended merely to indicate something of the spirit of the lyric treasures enshrined in Gaelic. Any one turning to our collections of poetry, especially to Sinclair’s “Oranaiche,” will at once see that the Highlands are as rich as the Lowlands in song literature, and that the poetry produced, is of an equally high order. There are hundreds of pieces nameless and claimless on the lips of thousands which will continue to be sung as long as there will be a tongue to speak the Gaelic language. Such has been the poetic literature which for ages the Gael has chiefly loved and cherished, and the better recognition of which would enable the Highlander and Lowlander alike to show to the world a body of song such as no country of the size of Scotland has ever yet produced. Many suppose that the ancient language of Caledonia is dead or dying;—it was never read nor written so extensively as now. And it ought to be further remembered that the lyric genius of the Highland Celt is not confined to what we have in Gaelic. Many men of Gaelic extraction have exhibited their gift of song and music in other spheres. Not to speak of the poets Ferguson and Burns, in whose veins Celtic blood largely flowed, Thomas Campbell, was one of these. Hector Macneill, the hope of Scotland [after the death] of Burns, was another. The connection of Lord Macaulay with the lyric genius of the Gael has been already pointed out. The songs of Dr Charles Mackay are known to all the readers of English poetry; and those of Peter Macneill of Tranent are on the full tide of popular esteem. The names of George Macdonald and Robert Buchanan are familiar to all the students of contemporary literature. In the kindred spheres of music and the drama we come across the names of Mr Hamish MacCunn, Dr A. C. Mackenzie, President of the Royal Academy of Music, and the prima donna Miss Macintyre. Scores of others might be mentioned whose genius is traceable to their Gaelic extraction, there being scarcely a Highland clan name that has not its representative among the crowned sons of song. In the ecclesiastical world the stars of Celtic or Gaelic names are a legion. The position of Archbishop in the great see of York has been attained successively by two men of Gaelic extraction—the eloquent Magee being a descendant of the Mackays of Islay, and his successor MacLagan being a member of a distinguished Highland family which has given us the Gaelic bard MacLagan, a profound Professor of Theology, late of Aberdeen—and now the Archbishop himself.
The survey which we have just taken of our popular poetry clearly indicates that the Gaelic is still the language in which many compose and write. Many would heartily sing thus with Professor Blackie:—
Is there a Gael that dare despise
His mither tongue and a’ that,
And clips his words in Saxon wise?
He’s but a cuif for a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their hums and ha’s and a’ that,
We’ll still be true to speech we drew
Frae mither’s lips for a’ that.
The deep, full-breasted Highland tongue,
Wi’ gairm and glaodh and a’ that,
Ere Roman fought or Greeklings sung,
Was sounded loud for a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their classic lore and a’ that,
On Highland braes the Celtic phrase
Comes banging out for a’ that.
At the same time we have no wish to preserve Gaelic, as Professor Blackie has said, in any artificial or galvanised existence. We merely ask fair-play for it on the scene of linguistic competition.
And this fair-play it is now more than ever likely to receive, the Highlanders having their own representatives now in Parliament and in the county and parochial councils. As long as bards continue to arise—and there is no sign that the supply will be readily exhausted—and the people love to rehearse their strains, so long will the Gaelic remain a living factor in the land. In these pages it is attempted to show the extent and nature of this sort of literature of the people; but as Highlanders we do not wish, in attempting to bring the literature of our language before the world, to challenge comparison with other bodies of literature. Our main purpose is served if we succeed in showing to our fellow-countrymen, Highland and Lowland, that there are national literary treasures which have been hitherto comparatively overlooked, and which ought in an important degree to add to the already high fame of bonnie Scotland as a land whose glens and bens, whose rivers and lakes are everywhere vocal with songs of love and patriotism.
CHAPTER XV.
BARDS OF THE CELTIC RENAISSANCE.
“That poet turned him first to pray
In silence; and God heard the rest,
’Twixt the sun’s footsteps down the west.”
—E. B. Browning.
Before the plough of cruel eviction from their homes cut deep furrows into the Highland heart, the bards, such as Duncan Bàn, loved to sing of the pleasures of the chase; but the second quarter of the nineteenth century witnessed a change in this respect. A new, if not a revolutionary spirit—at least one of discontent—got abroad throughout the land. This “divine discontent” seized upon the Highland bards, and the burning strains of Maclachlan of Morven and William Livingston, no longer ran in the older moulds of Macintyre and others. The extension of the franchise, the study of history and the science of language, the growing sympathy with oppressed nationalities, the revival of Christian forces, and the increasing value attached to human life,—these and many other “cries of the human,” helped forward a movement which may be fitly described as a [Celtic Renaissance]. This Highland movement was reinforced by kindred and sympathetic influences from Ireland, Wales, and circles of social and linguistic learning on the Continent, until it eventually bore statutory fruit in the Highland Land Act of 1886, which constitutes an Imperial Charter of hereditary right to their native land for the Gaelic-speaking communities of Scotland. This was an achievement which even bards with millennial visions and hopes could scarcely look forward to a generation ago.
The wails of the bards over Highland depopulation, however, nursed the people’s discontent as well as their resolution to assert themselves. A good proportion of the authors whose compositions come under notice in this chapter come under the spell of the Celtic Renaissance. Indeed this spirit of national resurrection is the vital force pervading their productions which would be poor and barren without it.