The literature of the Highlanders

by Nigel MacNeill

WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.

The Bard of Lochfyne is probably the best-known hitherto of the Gaelic singers of this century; but his place is disputed by the sweet lyrist of Rahoy. Though not so popular as these two, as a mere singer, because he has produced so few songs suitable for singing, William Livingston must be regarded as the most powerful poetic personality among the Celtic bards of this century. Like Browning among the English poets, Livingston is less known than minor claimants for bardic recognition, because the general reader of Gaelic poetry is not always capable of appreciating anything higher in the poetic scale than smooth-flowing verse and mellifluous rhymes that make no demand on the severer exercise of thought. But his position as a bard among his contemporaries has been more than once recognised by a few of the most distinguished Celtic scholars and critics of his time. In competition for prizes offered by the Glasgow Celtic Society, on three occasions Livingston obtained the first prize, some of the adjudicators being the late Rev. Dr Smith of Inverary; the late Rev. Duncan MacNab of Renfield Free Church, Glasgow; and the late Rev. Duncan MacLean of Glenorchy;—the last being himself a sacred poet of very considerable genius. Many of his competitors on these occasions are authors of very popular songs, but their productions must be credited with more rhyme than poetic power.

William Livingston was born in Gartmain, in Islay, in the year 1808. There are not many of his kith and kin in that island now, nor is there any evidence that his humble progenitors were anything else than some of those nomadic individuals or families, of a Celto-Germanic character, unconnected particularly with any of the well-known clans, but who, in the political economy of the Highlands were ranged under the name of “siol Dhomhnuill,” or some other, and in latter days became more unreasonably Celtic in their race antipathies than the purer Celts themselves. The late notorious Mitchell and the present leaders of the Irish Home Rulers are Irish instances of what has been stated. The bard Livingston is a Scottish instance; and the proximity of his native place to Ireland’s northern coasts may have some suggestive value, especially when his training, or rather no training, and the sources of his historical and social knowledge are taken into consideration. There is another Livingstone of Highland extraction—his family were originally from Mull—who has had some connection with Glasgow like his namesake the bard; but Dr David Livingstone, the devoted and distinguished African traveller, turned his attention and directed his labours to the amelioration of the condition of Africa’s benighted and dusky children. Livingstone, the traveller, regarded all the sons of humanity, whether they were black or white, of whatever race, as the sons of the one great Father, equally good and precious in his sight, and all of one blood; but Livingston the bard devoted all his energies to the patriotic rehearsal, in prose and verse, of the doughty deeds and ancient prowess of our Scottish ancestors; with him the Scotsman alone ought to occupy the position of lord of creation, especially if it could be proved he was a Celt,—and the Englishman especially, on account of his continual oppression of the smaller kingdom of Scotland, he, like Irishmen of a certain order, regarded with intense dislike, as the universal tyrant throughout the civilised world. The bones of the distinguished traveller Dr Livingstone were deposited in their final resting-place in Westminster Abbey amid the sympathetic tears of all civilised nations. He was a cosmopolitan patriot, one of the few extraordinary men whom God vouchsafes in the progress of the ages for the enlightenment of the dark places of the earth and the promotion of the highest interests of universal humanity. Livingston, the bard, whose pursuit after knowledge under unusually unfavourable conditions, and whose indomitable perseverance and fervour of heart were not unlike those of David Livingstone had but a very limited vision of the functions of his mission into the world. The duties which he assigned to himself were the magnifying of Scotland’s fame and glory, the lashing in Wallace and Bruce fashion of the Teutonic intruder from the south of the Tweed, and the special vindication of the Celtic character from the continual aspersions of the uncircumcised Saxon. He did his work with a will, but there was no need for it. It was as uncalled for as Thomson’s work on Liberty, which, undertaken in an unwise moment, notwithstanding its fine poetry, the public, not without reason, condemned to “gather spiders and to harbour dust.” When highly needed work goes without its reward it cannot be a matter of surprise that unnecessary ebullitions of patriotism do not always pay; so poor Livingston, like not a few of the order of Bards, died somewhat neglected in an obscure street of the philanthropic city of Glasgow. But he did not die unknown to a few sympathising friends. The members of the Islay Association and others were always anxious to relieve the necessities of the poet when his temper and ways made it possible to be of some service to him. In some respects his own independence was like that proud independence of his native country, of which he was so fervent a singer. He died in 1870, his wife predeceasing him a few weeks.

Much of the character of Livingston is traceable to his upbringing. In youth he received no education, and his earliest training when a boy was herding cattle. Was not Rob Donn, the Sutherlandshire Bard, also a herd? But it was thought fit to set the embryo herd-poet to learn a trade, and he served his time at tailoring, which he carried on in a desultory fashion all his days, and in which he was intelligently and sympathetically assisted by his frugal wife. He was thus a grown-up man before he got any education, and all he ever got was self-taught; and had his pride permitted him to tell the story of his struggles after knowledge, English, Latin, French, Greek, and a little Hebrew, it would furnish an interesting chapter in the annals of the pursuit of learning under difficulties. The manuscripts of his in possession of the writer show the extraordinary pains he took with his work—his endeavours after a purer English style, even when well-advanced in years—and what a long time he was a wooer of the muses before he arrived at the intensity of poetical conception which distinguished his later poetry. His earlier efforts do not seem to have been very successful, and they are of a somewhat humorous character. He almost stands alone among the prominent Gaelic bards in having given us no love songs. The reason is that he was probably a married man before the dormant powers of his poetic nature awakened. While there is much tenderness in all his descriptions of nature, the reader of his poetry must feel that he is always surrounded by an atmosphere of martial enthusiasm and intense patriotic sentiment. He was too wise to attempt the singing of a passion the power of which did not evidently permeate his nature; but the love of fatherland, the story of the gory struggle of Scottish independence were to him all-absorbing sources of inspiration; and to these he always turns, and finds in them the congenial themes on which he enthusiastically lavishes the rich poetic gifts with which he was endowed.

Livingston published his first volume of poetry in 1858. A smaller volume followed a few years afterwards, in 1865; and in 1868 a few poems in pamphlet form, one of them being a prize production—being the third piece for which he received a prize from the Glasgow Celtic Society. The year before his death he began to arrange his poems with a view to publishing them all in one volume, but before he transcribed more than half a dozen of them his pen was arrested by an invisible Power.

“Death’s subtle seed within,

Sly treacherous miner! working in the dark

Smiled at the well-concerted scheme.”

I well remember how the old bard, with his magnificent beard, which he often stroked with evident admiration, and which seemed to be growing up to his very eyes—small piercing eyes that scanned the neighbours suspiciously—emphasised the hope that when the proposed volume would appear, it would contain fully as much first-class poetry as the works of either of the three Gaelic modern bards, Mackay, Macintyre, or Macdonald. It is pleasant to know that the work which the bard had so much at heart has been accomplished under the auspices of the Islay Association, mainly at the suggestion and with the assistance of a patriotic countryman—Mr Colin Hay—who is a great admirer of Livingston’s poetry.

The longest of Livingston’s poems is a dramatic piece entitled The Danes in Islay. It is the only proper dramatic poem in the language. The subject is one that the poet could take up with much enthusiasm, as he pictured to himself the Norse army in a fleet of sixty-three sail entering the spacious Lochindaul, and dropping anchor there with no friendly intent. The bard’s historical and antiquarian knowledge stood him here in good stead. The great Macdonald, Prince of the Isles, is the central figure, and next to him the aged but faithful Mackay of Rhinns, both of whom are immediately informed by their watchful scouts of the advent of those hereditary foes, the Norse invaders, on the green shores of Islay, which was once in their own possession. The fiery cross is sent all over the island to call together the brave subjects of the Macdonald to defend their homes and hearths. A battle takes place; and in the final struggle there are many heroes who do great and incredible deeds, chief among whom are—Nuagan Mor, a Norse prince; Raosbun, Gilleathain Thora, and Donncha Mor Laorain. Though this is one of the most ambitious of Livingston’s productions, yet it is not equal as a whole, and not so finished, nor of so high an order as, for example, his prize poems; but the lyrical portions of it are very fine, the marching song of Mackay of Rhinns, to the tune of Mnathan a’ Ghlinne so, being quite a gem. Here are some verses of a war chant which occurs in the poem. The Norse invaders are supposed to rehearse the following wild and fierce lyric as they drop anchor in the harbour of Lochindaul:—

Here we come, but we thus will not leave you—

The axe, axe;

To-morrow will startle and grieve you

With the axe, the axe.

A red blazing torch in each dwelling—

The axe, the axe;

Your goods plundered, your captured wives yelling—

The axe, the axe.

Fleeing, and cursing, and wailing—

The knife, knife;

The girth of your knees shall be failing

For the knife, knife,

They who meet us shall leave that place never—

The knife, knife;

Morn or eve shall they see them for ever—

The knife, knife;

None shall live to tell of the Reaver

With the axe, axe;

But the raven above shall be croaking—

The axe, axe;

And then feast on their limbs till he’s choking—

The axe, axe.

You now live who in blood then shall welter—

The knife, knife;

Cave or hole cannot hide you or shelter

From the knife, knife.

Through your throats the hoarse chorus ascending—

The knife, knife;

In that cry screams and groans shall keep blending—

The knife, knife.

All these ills shall your great men entangle—

The axe, axe—

Ere their heads on our green withs shall dangle—

The axe, axe;

The nerves of their necks we will rend them—

With the axe, axe;

To the anvil to roast then we’ll send them—

The axe, axe—

The head of Mackay shall we shinty—

The axe, axe—

Down the Rhinns, where his kin shall grow scanty,

With the axe, axe.

The Danes in Islay is not the only cath or battle that the bard has sought to immortalise in tough classical Celtic. We have also several vigorous poems on the battles of Scotland’s earlier struggles for independence. Livingston’s muse is nearly wholly of a martial order, which, while it explains his want of popularity among what he would regard as a somewhat effeminate generation, is the more remarkable when it is remembered how purely sentimental the most of his contemporary bards have been. The titles of three other poems are—The Battle of Mona Phraca, The Battle of Dail-righ—regarded as his best—and that of Tra-Ghruinard, where the great Sir Lachlan MacLean of Duart fell, pierced by the fatal shaft of the dwarf Dubh-Shee, who offered services the Knight of Duart despised. The dwarf is described by the bard in pretty expressive terms—“Treoich a ghuir an Diabhul ’san Lag an Diura!” The best of all his poems is the 100 lines (the number was limited) prize poem on the achievements of the Highland regiments in the Crimean war. There is nothing better, and not many poems equal to it in the whole range of Celtic poetry. The best-known of his poems is Fios thun a’ Bhaird, or Word to the Bard, supposed to have been sent to him in Glasgow from a farmer’s wife in Islay, the late Mrs Blair, of Lonban, who showed much kindness to the bard when on a visit to his native island, and whose son is the popular minister, the Rev. Robert Blair, who was a constant friend of Livingston, and who edited the complete edition of his works (1881). In this delightful poem he describes in stanzas of great beauty and tenderness the changes that have taken place, the ruins of the depopulated districts, and the natural scenery of the island. The following are the opening stanzas of the Message to the Bard:—

The morn is bright with sunshine,

And soft the west wind sighs;

The loch is calm and quiet,

Since peace reigns in the skies.

Bedecked with canvas gaily,

Barks glide unwearily;

To the Bard rehearse the story

Of these things I hear and see.

This is the month of blossom,

When the herds of cattle go

To the glens of lonely corries,

Where they neither reap nor sow.

But in these green-clad inches

My kine now never be:

To the Bard rehearse the story

Of these things I hear and see.

On heathy heights in thousands

Stray flocks of kine and sheep;

And deer rush o’er the wild steeps

Where freshening breezes sweep—

The noble antlered race

Bedewed that tread the hills with glee,

To the Bard rehearse the story

Of these things I hear and see.

One of the most admired of Livingston’s poems is that on the achievements of the Highland regiments under Sir Colin Campbell in the Crimean War. As much of its beauty consists in a sort of proverbial form of expression, of which the bard was a consummate master, and in a rhythm of consonantal rhymes, much of what is powerful in the original becomes quite prosaic when rendered literally into English. Here is the first half of the poem, which may indicate something of its manner:—

Alma.

Tidings of awe came to my ear—

An ominous threat that war was near;

I sought out Albin’s central height,

To view the distant scene of fight.

I saw beneath one standard there—

The figure of the Northern Bear.

There thousands in their armèd might

Panted for battle’s fierce delight.

O’er Alma’s heights the Russians rolled,

Defiant, warlike, keen, and bold;

In war-array the hostile force

Stood there in ranks of foot and horse;

Then came the order for the Gael

Those scarpy brows of death to scale.

Down from that hoary rocky crest

Poured showers of fire into their breast;

Forward the fearless heroes leapt;

Mid clouds of slaughter on they swept;

“For Victory” the Lion roared;

The Finian clans unsheathed the sword,

Like rapid swollen floods in Clyde;

Grand, swift as Es-linn’s silver tide;

So rushed the heroes in their might

Of ardour to the field of fight,

Beneath that proud, unconquered shred

Of ancient fame the Gaels were led;—

With those broad brands ye did unsheathe

Ye left destruction, groans, and death;—

Ye from the land of hill and flood

Heroic thus the foe withstood;

And from those rocky heights of woe,

Ye swept disgraced that host of snow.

They trembled as they saw with dread

The lion, rousing, raging, red,

To scatter with resistless force

And ire their columns, man and horse;

Deeds sure to kindle our emotion

While earth remaineth wed to ocean.

Balaclava.

’Mid thund’ring guns and clash of arms

I saw amass the Russian swarms

On Balaclava’s dusky plain;

There waved the eagle fierce and fell

To widen more its ravenous reign,

Like a foul bird of restless hell.

Thousands responding bent on prey,

And gorging blood her power obey;

The hoarse-voiced horn began to bray;

The steeds of war began to neigh, &c.

Notwithstanding his exceeding patriotism it cannot be said that Livingston was either very generous or magnanimous. While haunted with painful suspicions he allowed the canker of vindictiveness to mar the finer elements of his nature. His envy also rendered him almost intolerable to all his Highland literary friends in Glasgow. But these, as one of them once remarked, could afford to prize all that was good in the bard and overlook his shortcomings. When this friend was dying William came to ask his forgiveness, which he was assured he had, with the remark, “William, my ghost will not trouble you.” This gentleman knew the bard’s selfish motive in asking pardon, and the superstitious reason for his so doing. Notwithstanding all this, the man was not many days in his grave when the bard began to attack him in a scurrilous letter in the newspapers, which, however, was not inserted. He might be described as a Celtic brother of Walter Savage Landor, whom he resembled in several respects. But the sphere of life in which Livingston was born, and his want of early education, ought to make us charitable in our judgments of the savage element of his character. It must be acknowledged, at the same time, that beneath the barbarian patriotism of his nature there lay a depth of tenderness and warmth of a grateful heart, which we discern in several of his pieces on individual persons. There can be no doubt, also, that many of his eccentricities arose from finding himself out of joint in the social world, where mere patriotism or poetic talent cannot frequently obtain the means or influence which self-conscious spirits so hopelessly look for.

Blar Shunadail, a piece of considerable length and merit, was published in The Gael after his death. The only other piece of importance is Driod-fhoitan Imhir an Racain, a poem of five or six hundred lines long.

It ought to be mentioned that two gentlemen, one belonging to Kintyre and the other to Cowal, were constant friends to Livingston—the late Mr Gilchrist, printer, Glasgow, and also Mr Duncan Whyte, of the same city. Livingston was intensely Celtic in all his ideas and habits. He has written a good deal of prose in English; but in that language he is like a lion in chains. He published “A Vindication of the Celtic Character,” a goodly volume of strong Celtic feeling and prejudice, such as we would now expect from an Irish Celt; also, several parts of a history of Scotland, which he did not finish, he and the publishers having disagreed on account of the strong anti-English feeling displayed by the writer. He swallowed the old Scottish chroniclers, especially their anti-English prejudices, and accepted as pure truth all that they have recorded. The Scotsman of the days of Bruce and Wallace scarcely cherished so much of the spirit of nationality and animosity against England as Livingston did. At the same time there was an element of hollowness in his assumed patriotism into which, however, he sought to thoroughly work himself, like some others of his countrymen of the present day. It can scarcely be denied that an element of unhealthiness prevailed in the moral basis of his nature; but unlike many others of the Highland poets, the smallest trace cannot be found in his works. A few years ago a monument was erected to his memory in Janefield Cemetery, Glasgow. Well has he described his own spirit in the following quatrain of Scotch:—

We see the buckles glancin’

On his fraochan shoon,

He’ll mak’ the Lawlands Hielan’

Ere he’ll lea’ the toun.