THE COCHULIN BALLADS.
Taken in chronological order, the Cochulin ballads come up first for consideration. Much credit is due to Mr Campbell for his attempt at a chronological classification of these productions, a very difficult matter, considering the vagueness, historically, of everything connected with the heroic period. As far as dates of composition are concerned, all that can be safely affirmed is that these ballads were composed between the Christian era and the thirteenth century, some of them undoubtedly belonging to the earlier, and some of them to the later centuries of that period. Copies of many of them were made by Sir James Macgregor, Dean of Lismore, between 1512-26. Then they were regarded as very ancient. Those relating to Cochulin and to his son Conlach are:—Cochulin and Evir; Cochulin’s Sword; Cochulin’s Car; Garbh Mac Stairn; Conlach’s Death; The Heads. According to ancient annals Cochulin lived in the first century. Connal Cearnach Mac Edirskeol is the author of the last-mentioned ballad, The Heads, and the most ancient of all the Heroic poets. Cochulin was his foster-son; and when he was slain Connal revenged himself on his enemies by putting them all to death. In the ballad, Evir, the wife or betrothed of Cochulin, is told the names of those put to death, whose heads he carried on a withe. There is a heroine of Dun sgathaich, Skye, called Aoife, who also is mixed up with Cochulin’s story. The length of the ballad is 96 lines. The following is a literal translation of the first six stanzas:—
Connal, these heads are little worth,
Though in their blood thine arms did’st soil;
These heads thou hast upon the withe
Tell me their owners, now thy spoil.
Daughter of Orgill of the steeds,
Evir, whose words sweet feelings waken,
’Twas to avenge Cochulin’s death
That I these many heads have taken.
Whose is that nearest thy left arm,—
That mighty, hairy, dusky head,—
That head whose colour has not changed,
With cheeks than any rose more red?
The king of fleet steeds owned that head,
Said Cairbar’s son, keen lance in war;
’Twas to avenge my foster-son
I took that head and bore it far.
Whose is that head I see beyond
Inwrapt with soft and flowing hair,
His eye like glass, his teeth like bloom,
With beauty that is peerless there?
Manadh, the one that owned the steeds,
The son of Aoife—pirate true;
I left his trunk without its head,
His people every one I slew.