Drowned.
LATER GAELIC
No wonder my heart it is sore,
No wonder the tears that I weep;
My true love I’ll see him no more,
He lies fathoms down in the deep.
He lies fathoms down in the deep,
Where the cold clammy seaweeds abound.
How cruel thy wild waves to me,
O sea that my true love hast drowned!
O sea that my true love hast drowned,
Thou hast reft me of joy evermore;
Thy waves make me shudder with fear
As I listen and hear their wild roar.
My true love and I, hand in hand,
Often wandered the uplands among,
Where the wild flowers are freshest to see,
And the wild birds are freest of song;
But alas for the days that are gone,
Alas for my sorrow and me!
Alas that my true love is drowned
Fathoms down in the depths of the sea!
The Manning of the Birlinn.
The Sailing.
ALEXANDER MACDONALD
The sun had opened golden yellow,
From his case,
Though still the sky wore dark and drumly
A scarr’d and frowning face:
Then troubled, tawny, dense, dun-bellied,
Scowling and sea-blue,
Every dye that’s in the tartan
O’er it grew.
Far away to the wild westward
Grim it lowered,
Where rain-charged clouds on thick squalls wandering
Loomed and towered.
Up they raised the speckled sails through
Cloud-like light,
And stretched them on the mighty halyards,
Tense and tight.
High on the mast so tall and stately—
Dark-red in hue—
They set them firmly, set them surely,
Set them true.
Round the iron pegs the ropes ran,
Each its right ring through;
Thus having ranged the tackle rarely,
Well and carefully,
Every man sat waiting bravely,
Where he ought to be.
For now the airy windows opened,
And from spots of bluish grey
Let loose the keen and crabbed wild winds—
A fierce band were they—
’Twas then his dark cloak the ocean
Round him drew.
Dusky, livid, ruffling, whirling,
Round at first it flew,
Till up he swell’d to mountains, or to glens,
Dishevelled, rough, sank down—
While the kicking, tossing waters
All in hills had grown.
Its blue depth opened in huge maws,
Wild and devouring,
Down which, clasped in deadly struggles,
Fierce strong waves were pouring.
It took a man to look the storm-winds
Right in the face—
As they lit up the sparkling spray on every surge-hill,
In their fiery race.
The waves before us, shrilly yelling,
Raised their high heads hoar,
While those behind, with moaning trumpets,
Gave a bellowing roar.
When we rose up aloft, majestic,
On the heaving swell,
Need was to pull in our canvas
Smart and well:
When she sank down with one huge swallow
In the hollow glen,
Every sail she bore aloft
Was given to her then.
The drizzling surges high and roaring
Rush’d on us louting,
Long ere they were near us come,
We heard their shouting:—
They roll’d sweeping up the little waves
Scourging them bare,
Till all became one threatening swell,
Our steersman’s care.
When down we fell from off the billows’
Towering shaggy edge,
Our keel was well-nigh hurled against
The shells and sedge;
The whole sea was lashing, dashing,
All through other:
It kept the seals and mightiest monsters
In a pother!
The fury and the surging of the water,
And our good ship’s swift way
Spatter’d their white brains on each billow,
Livid and grey.
With piteous wailing and complaining
All the storm-tossed horde,
Shouted out “We’re now your subjects;
Drag us on board.”
And the small fish of the ocean
Turn’d over their white breast—
Dead, innumerable, with the raging
Of the furious sea’s unrest.
The stones and shells of the deep channel
Were in motion;
Swept from out their lowly bed
By the tumult of the ocean;
Till the sea, like a great mess of pottage,
Troubled, muddy grew
With the blood of many mangled creatures,
Dirty red in hue—
When the horn’d and clawy wild beasts,
Short-footed, splay,
With great wailing gumless mouths
Huge and wide open lay.
But the whole deep was full of spectres,
Loose and sprawling
With the claws and with the tails of monsters,
Pawing, squalling.
It was frightful even to hear them
Screech so loudly;
The sound might move full fifty heroes
Stepping proudly.
Our whole crew grew dull of hearing
In the tempest’s scowl,
So sharp the quavering cries of demons
And the wild beasts’ howl.
With the oaken planks the weltering waves were wrestling
In their noisy splashing;
While the sharp beak of our swift ship
On the sea-pigs came dashing.
The wind kept still renewing all its wildness
In the far West,
Till with every kind of strain and trouble
We were sore distress’d.
We were blinded with the water
Showering o’er us ever;
And the awful night like thunder,
And the lightning ceasing never.
The bright fireballs in our tackling
Flamed and smoked;
With the smell of burning brimstone
We were well-nigh choked.
All the elements above, below,
Against us wrought;
Earth and wind and fire and water,
With us fought.
But when the evil one defied the sea
To make us yield,
At last, with one bright smile of pity,
Peace with us she seal’d:
Yet not before our yards were injured,
And our sails were rent,
Our poops were strained, our oars were weaken’d,
All our masts were bent.
Not a stay but we had started,
Our tackling all was wet and splashy,
Nails and couplings, twisted, broken.
Feeshie, fashie,
All the thwarts and all the gunwale
Everywhere confess’d,
And all above and all below,
How sore they had been press’d.
Not a bracket, not a rib,
But the storm had loosed;
Fore and aft from stem to stern,
All had got confused.
Not a tiller but was split,
And the helm was wounded;
Every board its own complaint
Sadly sounded.
Every trennel, every fastening
Had been giving way;
Not a board remain’d as firm
As at the break of day.
Not a bolt in her but started,
Not a rope the wind that bore,
Not a part of the whole vessel
But was weaker than before.
The sea spoke to us its peace prattle
At the cross of Islay’s Kyle,
And the rough wind, bitter boaster!
Was restrained for one good while.
The tempest rose from off us into places
Lofty in the upper air,
And after all its noisy barking
Ruffled round us fair.
Then we gave thanks to the High King,
Who rein’d the wind’s rude breath,
And saved our good Clan Ranald
From a bad and brutal death.
Then we furl’d up the fine and speckled sails
Of linen wide,
And we took down the smooth red dainty masts,
And laid them by the side—
On our long and slender polish’d oars
Together leaning—
They were all made of the fir cut by Mac Barais
In Eilean Fionain—
We went with our smooth, dashing rowing,
And steady shock,
Till we reach’d the good port round the point
Of Fergus’ Rock.
There casting anchor peacefully
We calmly rode;
We got meat and drink in plenty,
And there we abode.
The Lament of the Deer.
(Cumha nam Fiadh.)
ANGUS MACKENZIE
O for my strength! once more to see the hills!
The wilds of Strath-Farar of stags,
The blue streams, and winding vales,
Where the flowering tree sends forth its sweet perfume.
My thoughts are sad and dark!—
I lament the forest where I loved to roam,
The secret corries, the haunt of hinds,
Where often I watched them on the hill!
Corrie-Garave! O that I was within thy bosom
Scuir-na-Làpaich of steeps, with thy shelter,
Where feed the herds which never seek for stalls,
But whose skin gleams red in the sunshine of the hills.
Great was my love in youth, and strong my desire,
Towards the bounding herds;
But now, broken, and weak, and hopeless,
Their remembrance wounds my heart.
To linger in the laich[24] I mourn,
My thoughts are ever in the hills;
For there my childhood and my youth was nursed—
The moss and the craig in the morning breeze was my delight.
Then was I happy in my life,
When the voices of the hill sung sweetly;
More sweet to me, than any string,
It soothed my sorrow or rejoiced my heart.
My thoughts wandered to no other land
Beyond the hill of the forest, the shealings of the deer,
Where the nimble herds ascended the hill,—
As I lay in my plaid on the dewy bed.
The sheltering hollows, where I crept towards the hart,
On the pastures of the glen, or in the forest wilds—
And if once more I may see them as of old,
How will my heart bound to watch again the pass!
Great was my joy to ascend the hills
In the cause of the noble chief,
Mac Shimé of the piercing eye—never to fail at need,
With all his brave Frasers, gathered beneath his banner.
When they told of his approach, with all his ready arms,
My heart bounded for the chase—
On the rugged steep, on the broken hill,
By hollow, and ridge, many were the red stags which he laid low.
He is the pride of hunters; my trust was in his gun,
When the sound of its shot rung in my ear,
The grey ball launched in flashing fire,
And the dun stag fell in the rushing speed of his course.
When evening came down on the hill,
The time for return to the star of the glen,
The kindly lodge where the noble gathered,
The sons of the tartan and the plaid,
With joy and triumph they returned
To the dwelling of plenty and repose;
The bright blazing hearth—the circling wine—
The welcome of the noble chief!