THE BOOK OF THE DEAN OF LISMORE.
The author of this is Ossian,[40] the son of Finn:[41]
I’ve seen the household of Finn. No men were they of coward race. I saw by my side a vision Of the hero’s household yesterday. I’ve seen the household[42] of Art,[43] He with the brown-haired son of gentle speech; No better man I ever saw. I’ve seen the household of Finn. Who ever saw what I have seen? I’ve seen Finn armed with Luno’s son.[44] How sad the mournful memory. I’ve seen the household of Finn. Never can I recount the ills Which now do crown my head. Do thou free us for ever from pain. I’ve seen the household of Finn. I’ve seen, etc.
The author of this is Ossian: [45]
Long are the clouds this night above me; The last was a long night to me. This day, although I find it long, Yesterday was longer still. Each day that comes is long to me, Such indeed was not my wont. Now is no fight, or battle-field, No learning noble feats of arms Without maiden, song, or harp; No crushing bones or warlike deeds, No studious learning any more, No hospitable heart or board, No soft wooing, and no chase, In both of which I took delight. Without the battle-march or fight, Alas! how sorrowful life’s close; No hunting of the hind or stag, How different from my heart’s desire! No trappings for our hounds, no hounds. Long are the clouds this night above me. No rising up to noble feats, No mirthful sport as we would wish, No swimming heroes in our lakes. Long are the clouds this night above me; In this great world none is like me, So sad, how sad my case! A poor old man now dragging stones. Long are the clouds this night above me, The last man of the Feine am I, The great Ossian, the son of Finn, Listening to the sound of bells.[46] Long are the clouds this night above me.
Find, O Patrick, from thy God What our eternal state shall be. Freed may we ever be from ill. Long are the clouds this night above me. Long are the clouds, etc.
The Author of this is Ossian:
Once on a time when Finn my loved Went to hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill,”[47] With three thousand nobles of the Feine, Their shields aloft o’er their heads. Ossian! thy words are sweet to me, My blessing on the soul of Finn.[48] Tell us the number of the deer That fell on the “Fair maids’ hill.”
How vigorously we shook our spears, For never hast thou sung the deer Slain on the “Fair maids’ hill,” By the hand of Finn of the feasts. Tell them the tale in full, My blessing on thy guileless lips. Had you your dress and your armour When you went forth to the chase?
We had our dress and our armour When we went forth to the chase; There was no Fian amongst us all Without his fine soft flaxen shirt, Without his under coat of substance soft, Without a coat of mail of brightest steel, The covering for his head adorned with gems, And in his hand he bore two spears, Besides a fierce and conquering shield, And sword that never failed to cleave the skull. Wert thou to search the universe Thou would’st not find a braver man than Finn; Of noblest race and fairest form, No arm from him could carry victory. As he went forth to try his snow-white hound Who ’mongst us all was like to Finn? Westward we went, an ordered band, To hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill.” O Patrick, pupil of the church’s head, Bright was the sun above us, As in the midst of us sat Finn. Eastward and westward sweetly rung, From hill to hill the voice of hounds, Arousing boars and harts. Then Finn and Bran[49] did sit alone A little while upon the mountain side, Each of them panting for the chase, Their fierceness and their wrath aroused. Then did we unloose three thousand hounds Of matchless vigour and unequalled strength. Each of the hounds brought down two deer, Long ere ’twas time to bind them in their thongs. That day there fell six thousand deer, Down in the vale that lies beneath the hill; There never fell so many deer and roe In any hunt that e’er till this took place. But sad was the chase down to the east, Thou cleric of the church and bells, Ten hundred of our hounds, with golden chains, Fell wounded by ten hundred boars: Then by our hands there fell the boars, Which wrought the ill upon the plain. And were it not for blades and vigorous arms, That chase had been a slaughter.
O Patrick of the holy crosier, Eastward or westward, hast thou ever seen, Another chase, in all thy days, Greater than that of Finn and of the Feine? This then was the hunt of Finn, Thou son of Alpin[50] of the holy relics, More than thy howling in the church Do I love to tell the day. Once on a time, etc.
The author of this is Ossian: [51]
Once on a time as Patrick of the holy crook Betook him to his cell, He sought as his companion Ossian of gentle mien.
Now let me hear, he said, Ossian, whose courage has made foes retreat, Who of all those whom thou ne’er sang’st, Most vexed the Feine of Finn?
Priest of the spotted crook,[52] Thy lifetime it would take To tell in human speech The glory of the Feine of Finn.
Since without guile thou art, And now that they are dead, dost live, Watch thou for ever on, And tell the deeds done by the Feine.
Should I be spared for fifty years, Hearing thy music in thy cell Till my death’s day, I could not tell The noble deeds of the Feine of Finn. The kingdoms of the earth in all its breadth Belonged to us on every side. Tribute we raised from all of them for Finn,[53] Else filled them with the shout of war. In this wide earth there was not one That dared refuse us, Not ev’n in Alve[54] of the spotted spears, With all its power and its untold renown.
Would’st thou but tell them now, Ossian, of the fierce assaults, Which was the stoutest arm Among the men that followed Finn.
Thou sett’st me to a painful task, O Priest, thou pupil of the heavenly king, I could not till the judgment day, Tell of the Feine, the men and deeds.
Yet since it so fell out that thou outliv’st them Ossian of sweet and pleasing songs, Which would’st thou chuse of all the Feinn, To stand in battle by thy shield?
Oscar and Caoilte and Gaul, And Luthy’s son, of sharpest swords; Round Cumhal’s son,[55] they well might stand, No nobler band in battle fought; Bloody Fargon, son to the king, And Carroll with the murderous spear; Dermin, brave and fair, who nothing feared, And bore his pointed shield aloft, Coll Caoilte’s son, so gentle at the feast; Corc, a warrior of no tender blows; Ryno, son to the king;— A band than which no braver fought. The fair-haired Fillan, who was son to Finn, And Garry, than whom no bloodier foe; The guileless Dyrin, Doveran’s son, Hugh, son of Garry of the powerful arm, I, myself, and Gaul the son of Smail, And Daire of oaken frame, brave Ronan’s son; The armourer’s three sons, men without guile, Whose ruddy armour gleamed, adorned with gold. Now that I tell my tale to thee, Cleric that dwell’st at Port-na-minna, No man of all the Feine was known to me But one, to whom all other men must yield. But, now, do thou be seated in thy chair, Take up thy pen, we’ll number all the host, The host of brave and noble men Who came, well-ordered bands, unto the Feine. Across the sea the King of Lochlin came, The brown-haired[56] Daire of famous shield, From Conn to wrest the tribute paid by Erin, A mournful tale for us and all our host. Our Feinn had friends who came to give them aid, Men from the sides of every hill, Led on by Cairbar of the sinewy arm. Of these four bands came safe to land. Of the Feinn themselves came seven bands, Three from the east, the half of Erin called from Conn.[57] The greater number in the battle fell, But few escaped the bands of Daire donn. Down with his fleet lay Daire donn Himself and all his host. Of these were thirty score[58] Who ne’er again did see their native land. There watched them near the shore Conn Crithear of the well-aimed strokes. He seized the men of India there, And raised the king’s head on the mountain side. This famous Conn, the son of Ulster’s king, And Dollir, no less famed for warlike deeds, We left upon the strand, Drowned in mutual clasp beneath the waves. Dathach’s three sons, no braver men, Ascending from the place where lay the ships, Feartan and Kerkal, he with the large round head, We left their bodies naked on the strand. Owar,[59] the armed daughter of the King of Greece, And Forna of the heavy sturdy blows We left, a vacant grin upon their faces. We knew no sorrow as we left them there. Four of the King of Lochlin’s sons we left, Slain by our fierce, resistless arms. The three Balas from Borrin in the east, Hardly escaped our murderous blows. Great as was the king of the world, Daire donn, with shield of purest white, We left his body, too, upon the strand, Slain by the blows of the victorious Feine. Of all the world’s hosts, brave though they were, None did escape the slaughter Except the King of France alone, Who, like a swallow as it grasps the air, Fled from fear of noble Oscar, And even once his sole ne’er touched the earth Until he got to Glenabaltan, as men relate; Then and there only did he find him rest. It was on Fintray’s strand, down at the sea, Our people made this slaughter, Of these, the kings of all the world, And drank our full of vengeance. Our fierce and conquering arms Laid many a noble warrior low; Many a sword and shield Lay shattered on the strand, The strand of Fintray of the port; Many dead bodies lay upon the earth, Many a hero with a vacant grin. Much was the spoil we gathered in the fight. Patrick, son of noble Alpin, Even of the Feine themselves, none did escape The fierce and murderous fight Except two ordered bands, Nor were their bodies whole. The sons of Boisgne[60] made one band of those, A race, with hands that knew no tender grasp, Then came the sons of Morn,[61] who with the sons of Smail Made up the second band. By thy hand, O noble Priest In that sore fight, there perished of our Feine Five well-trained bands Who left us for the strand. Thirty luckless bands, A thousand score in each, We numbered of the men of Daire donn, That never reached the waves. Were I to answer thee, O Priest, As thou desir’st to hear my every tale, Down to the time we[62] Gawra’s battle fought, We never lost our power. Then did we seize the ships; We took the heavy silver of the king, The gold, the garments, and the other spoil; Each half of Erin had its share. Holy Patrick of the relics, Shall I meet death within thy house of prayer? Cover thou my form with earth, Since thou knowest well my tale.
Ossian, since thou art wearied now, Make thy peace, that thou may’st die, Take up thy prayer and ask for mercy, Early each day call on thy God, And when, on the judgment day, thou reachest Sion, Where all men shall be gathered, May Michael, Mary, and the Son of God Take thee kindly by the hand.
May the Twelve Apostles, with their song of praise, Each holy cleric, and each prophet, Me save from hell, For I’ve been very sinful in my day. Once on a time.[63]
The author of this is Ossian:
Feeble this night is the power of my arm, My strength is no more as it was; No wonder though I should mourn, Poor old relic that I am; Sad that such should be my lot, Beyond all men who tread the earth, Wearily dragging stones along To the church on the hill of the priest. I have a tale which I would tell Regarding our people, O Patrick: Listen to Finn’s prediction. Shortly ere thou cam’st, O Priest, The hero was to build a fort, On Cuailgne’s[64] bare and rounded hill. He laid it on the Feine of Fail[65] Materials for the work to get. Two-thirds of all his famous fort He laid upon the sons of Morn; The other third he laid on me, And on the other sons of Boisgne. I answered, but not aright, The son of Cumhal, son of Trenmor. I said I would cast off his rule, And would submit to him no more. Then for long Finn held his peace, The hero hard to vanquish, He who knew no guile nor fear, When my answer he had heard, His words to me were these, The words of Finn, prince of the Feine:
Thou shalt be dragging stones awhile Ere to thy mournful home thou goest. Then did I rise up in wrath, From Cumhal’s son of bloody sword. There followed me of all the Feine, The fourth battalion, hardy and brave. Then was I long with the Feine, On all things I my judgment gave. Many were there with me then, But now, alas, I’m feeble, feeble; I was counsellor to the Feine, In all emergencies, how feeble. How many men that do not know That on this earth I’m feeble, feeble. This night my body’s frame is feeble, Patrick, I believe thy words. My hands, my feet, and head, All of them are feeble, feeble. Feeble, etc.
The author of this is Ossian:
Here have I seen the Feine, I have seen Conan and Gaul, Finn, and Oscar my son, Ryno, Art, and brown-haired Diarmad,[66] Brave M’Luy,[67] he of noble mien, The red-haired Garry,[68] also Hugh the less, Hugh Garry’s son, who never quailed, The three Finns, and with them Fead, Glass and Gow and Garry, The long-haired Galve, and the impetuous Conan;[69] Gaul and Crooin, Gaul’s son, Socach, the son of Finn, and Bran;[70] Caoilte, the son of warlike Ronan,[71] Who swiftest ran, and leaped o’er valleys, The readiest to scatter gold, One of them of sweetest voice; Bayne, son of Brassil of the swords, The son of Cromchin, son of Smail, And Oscar, son of powerful Garry,[72] The three Balas, and the three Skails, Three battalions from Glenstroil, Three bands from Monaree; Caoilte’s seven sons best trained to fight; The three named Glass from Glassrananseir; The three Beths from Cnokandurd, Three of unfailing excellence; Deach Fichid’s son from Borruinn mor, Of them who always conquered. Here have I seen the Feine Whose liberal hand did music buy,[73] Ranged around Ossian and Finn, Traversing valleys to dispense their gold. Fearton and brave Carroll were there, Who never fought but where they won. I sing them, and generous Felan, All of whom here have I seen. Here have I seen.
The author of this is Ossian, the son of Finn.[74]
Tell us, O Patrick, what honour is ours, Do the Feine of Ireland in heaven now dwell?
In truth I can tell thee, thou Ossian of fame, That no heaven has thy father, Oscar, or Gaul.
Sad is the tale thou tellest me, Priest, I worshipping God while the Feine have no heaven.
Shalt thou not fare well thyself in that city, Though ne’er should thy father, Caoilte, and Oscar be there?
Little joy would it bring to me to sit in that city, Without Caoilte, and Oscar, as well as my father.
Better see the face of heaven’s son each day, Than all the gold on earth, were it thine to possess.
Tell us, thou Priest of the Holy city, the tale; In return I’ll recount thee the battle of Gaura.
If the tale of that city thou desir’st, old man, No thirst, no hunger, want, reproach are there.
Who are heaven’s sons? more noble are the Feinn: Are they hard of heart? have thou mercy, Cleric;
Unlike them are the Feine, unlike them altogether, Never on the green plain did they seek the chase.
For thy love’s sake, Patrick, forsake not the heroes, Unknown to heaven’s King, bring thou in the Feinn.
Though little room you’d take, not one of your race, Unknown to heaven’s King, shall get beneath his roof.
How different Mac Cumhail, the Feinn’s noble king, All men, uninvited, might enter his great house.
Sad is that, old man, and thy life’s close so near, That thou should’st so unjustly judge of my great king.
Better the fierce conflict of Finn and his Feinn, Than thy holy master, and thyself together.
Mournful, poor old man, that thou should’st folly speak, Better God for a day than all of Erin’s Feinn.
Though few be my days, and my life’s close near, Patrick defame not the nobles of clan Boisgne.
Thou can’st never tell, Ossian, son to the Queen, How different your nobles from those of my Lord.
Were even Conan living, the least of the Feinn, He would not suffer thy insolence, Cleric.
Speak not thus, Ossian, savage are thy words, Take thee now thy rest, and guide thee by my rule.
Did’st thou see the fight, and the noble banners, Never would’st thou think but of the glory of the Feinn.
Ossian, Prince’s son, ’twill be thy soul’s great loss That thou now think’st only of the battles of the Feinn.
Did’st thou hear the hounds, and the sounds of the hunt, Thou would’st rather be there than in the holy city.
That is sad, old man, if the glory of the chase Be greater than all which Heaven above can yield.
Say not so, Patrick, empty are thy words, Indeed and in truth, better Finn and the Feinn.
By thy hand, Boisgne’s son, not empty are my words, Better is one angel than Finn and the Feinn.
Were I only now as I was at Gaura’s fight, I would punish thy reproach of Erin’s noble Feinn.
Thy pride is all gone, for all thy future days, None are now left of thy band but thyself.
Were my men in life I’d not hear thy howling, And I’d make thee to suffer in return for thy talk.
Though all of these yet lived, and were now joined together, I’d still not speak only of the Feinn’s seven bands.
Seven times the number that thou hast of priests, Fell all in battle by Oscar alone.
Thou’rt now in thy last days, old and senseless man, Cease now thy speaking, and come away with me; Did’st thou see the men of cowls, Finn’s son, in Alve, Thou would’st not as thou dost reproach the men of heaven.
No less was our great band, when we were met in Taura, Reproachful are the words thou speak’st of the great king, I will forgive thee, Cleric, although thou dost not tell. Tell.
The author of this is Ossian. [75]
I know a little tale of Finn, A tale that we should not despise, Of Cumhal’s son, the valorous, Which our memory still preserves. Once we were a little band, At Essaroy,[76] of gentle streams, Near the coast was under sail, A currach, in which sat a maid; Fifty men stood by the King, Brave in any fight or field, Sad for them who faced their right arm, For we ruled in every land. All of us rose up in haste, Save Finn of the Feine and Gaul, To welcome the boat as it sped, Cleaving the waves in its course. It never ceased its onward way Until it reached the wonted port. Then when it had touched the land, The maid did from her seat arise, Fairer than a sunbeam’s sheen, Of finest mould and gentlest mien. Then before this stranger maid, We stood and showed courtesy; “Come to the tent of Finn with us.” With grace she all of us salutes; ’Twas Cumhal’s son himself replied, And salutes her in return. Then did the King of noblest mien Ask of the maid of fairest face, “Whence is it thou hast come, fair maid? Give us now in brief thy tale.” “The King of the land beneath the waves,[77] My father is, such is my fate, Through all lands where the sun revolves, Thee and thy men I long have sought.” “Princess, who hast searched each land, Youthful maid of beauteous form, The reason why thou cam’st so far, Tell us now, and tell us all.” “If thou be Finn, I ask defence,”[78] So now did speak the youthful maid, “Thou of soft speech, and purest race, Grant me protection, grant it now.” Then spoke the wise and knowing King, “Tell us now from whom thou flee’st; Protection I thee grant, fair maid, ’Gainst every man that dares thee hurt.” “There comes in wrath across the sea, Swift in pursuit, a warrior brave, The well-armed son of Sorcha’s King, He whose name is Daire the fierce.[79] I laid me under heavy bonds[80] That Finn should from the sea me have, But that his wife I ne’er should be, Though famed his beauty and his deeds.” Then Oscar spoke, of hasty speech, The warlike conqueror of Kings, “Though Finn should not thy pledge sustain, Never shalt thou with him wed.” Then do we see borne by his steed[81] A hero of unequalled size, Travelling with speed across the sea, Following the maiden in her course; His helmet close about the head Of this brave and dauntless man; His right arm bore a round black shield, The surface of its back engraved; A heavy, large, broad-bladed sword, Tightly bound, hung by his side; He comes in attitudes of fence, As where we stood he swift approached; Two javelins, with victory rich, Rest on the shoulder of his shield; For strength, for skill, for bravery, Nowhere could his match be found. A hero’s look,—the eye of a king Shone in that head of noblest mould, Ruddy his face, his teeth pearl-white, No stream ran swifter than his steed. Then did his steed bound on the shore, And he in whom we saw no fear. Of us did fifty warriors then Approach him as he came to us; Fear of the hero as he neared us Filled the bravest of them all. Now as he landed from the waves, Our famous King the question put, “Can’st thou tell me now, fair maid, Is that the man of whom thou spak’st?” “I know him well, Finn Cumhal’s son, Nor does his coming bode you good; Me he will rudely strive to seize, Despite thy strength, O noble Finn.” Then Oscar and Gaul arose, The fiercest of all in the fight, Near to the men they firmly stood, Between the giant and our chief. The well-formed warrior then approached, In rage sustained by his great strength, The maid he rudely bears away, Though by Finn’s shoulder she had stood. The Son of Morne then hurled his spear, With wonted force, as he bore off; No gentle cast was that, in truth, The hero’s shield was split in twain. The wrathful Oscar then did shake The red-dyed belt from his left arm,[82] And killed the hero’s prancing steed, A deed most worthy of great fame. Then, when the steed fell on the plain, He on us turned in fiercest wrath, And battle does, the onset mad, With all our fifty warriors brave. On the same side with me and Finn, The fifty stood in front of him: Yet though they oft stood firm in fight, His arm did now them force to yield. Two blows, and only two he gave, With vigour to each sep’rate man, When we were stretched upon the earth, Each man of us with whom he fought. Three vanquished nines he tightly bound, Ere from the furious fight he ceased. Firmly the three smalls’[83] usual tie On each of these he firmly placed. Then did the manly Gaul advance, The conquering hero to assail. Whoe’er he was could see them then, The struggle and the fight were fierce. Then did Mac Morne slay with his arm The King of Sorcha’s son, most strange! Sad was the coming of the maid, Now that the brave in fight had fallen. And now that he had fallen thus, Beside the sea, a sad event, She of the land beneath the waves, With Finn and his Feine remained a year. Flann, son of Morne, in battle brave, Was killed, it is a piteous tale; None of all our men escaped, Whose body was not full of wounds, Except my noble Father, Finn, The generous friend of all distressed. And now at last the deed is done. Of Finn this little tale I know. I know a little tale of Finn.
As our fifty warriors brave[84] Were now subject to his arms, Helpless were we in his hands, Our precious rights were all now lost. His sword without a single check, Did hack our bodies and our shields. Any fighting like to his, In my day never have I seen. We buried then close to the fall This noble, brave, and powerful man. And on each finger’s ruddy point A ring was placed in honour of the King. For ten long years his conquering arms, To the victor did the King forbid; For all that time the son of Morne Was healing with Finn of the Feine.
The author of this is Ossian, the son of Finn. [85]
’Twas yesterday week I last saw Finn; Ne’er did I see A braver man; Teige’s[86] daughter’s son, A powerful king; My fortune, my light, My mind’s whole might, Both poet and chief. Braver than kings, Firm chief of the Feinn. Lord of all lands, Leviathan at sea, As great on land, Hawk of the air, Foremost always. Generous, just, Despised a lie. Of vigorous deeds, First in song. A righteous judge, Firm his rule. Polished his mien, Who knew but victory. Who is like him In fight or song? Resists the foe, In house or field. Marble his skin, The rose his cheek, Blue was his eye, His hair like gold. All men’s trust, Of noble mind. Of ready deeds, To women mild, A giant he, The field’s delight. Best polished spears, No wood like their shafts. Rich was the King. His great green bottle, Full of sharp wine, Of substance rich. Excellent he.[87] Of noble form, His people’s head, His step so firm, Who often warred. In beauteous Banva, Three hundred battles He bravely fought. With miser’s mind From none withheld. Anything false His lips ne’er spoke. He never grudged, No, never Finn; The sun ne’er saw King Who him excelled. The monsters in lakes, The serpent by land, In Erin of saints,[88] The hero slew. Ne’er could I tell, Though always I lived, Ne’er could I tell The third of his praise. But sad am I now, After Finn of the Feinn! Away with the chief, My joy is all fled. No friends ’mong the great, No courtesy. No gold, no queen, No princes and chiefs. Sad am I now, Our head ta’en away! I’m a shaking tree, My leaves all gone. An empty nut, A reinless horse, Sad, sad am I, A feeble kern. Ossian I, the son of Finn, Strengthless in deed. When Finn did live All things were mine. Seven sides had the house Of Cumhal’s son. Seven score shields On every side. Fifty robes of wool Around the King. Fifty warriors Filled the robes. Ten bright cups For drink in his hall. Ten blue flagons, Ten horns of gold. A noble house Was that of Finn. No grudge nor lust, Babbling nor sham; No man despised Among the Feinn. The first himself, All else like him. Finn was our chief, Easy his praise, Noblest of Kings. Finn ne’er refused To any man, Howe’er unknown; Ne’er from his house Sent those who came.[89] Good man was Finn, Good man was he. No gifts e’er given Like his so free. ’Twas yesterday week.
The author of this is Allan M’Rorie. [90]
Glenshee,[91] the vale that close beside me lies, Where sweetest sounds are heard of deer and elk, And where the Feinn did oft pursue the chase, Following their hounds along the lengthening vale. Below the great Ben Gulbin’s[92] grassy height Of fairest knolls that lie beneath the sun, The valley winds. Its streams did oft run red, After a hunt by Finn and by the Feinn. Listen now while I detail the loss Of one, a hero in this gentle band: ’Tis of Ben Gulbin, and of generous Finn, And Mac O’Duine,[93] in truth a piteous tale. A mournful hunt indeed it was for Finn, When Mac O’Duine, he of the ruddiest hue, Up to Ben Gulbin went, resolved to hunt The boar,[94] whom arms had never yet subdued. Though Mac O’Duine, of brightest burnished arms, Did bravely slay the fierce and furious boar, Yet Finn’s deceit did him induce to yield; And this it was that did his grievous hurt. Who among men was so beloved as he? Brave Mac O’Duine, beloved of the schools;[95] Women all mourn this sad and piteous tale Of him who firmly grasped the murderous spear. Then bravely did the hero of the Feinn Rouse from his cover in the mountain side, The great old Boar, him so well known in Shee, The greatest in the wild boar’s haunt e’er seen. Glad now was Finn, the man of ruddiest hue, Beneath Ben Gulbin’s soft and grassy side; For swift the boar now coursed along the heath; Great was the ill came of that dreadful hunt. ’Twas when he heard the Feinn’s loud ringing shout, And saw approach the glittering of their arms, The monster waken’d from his heavy sleep, And stately moved before them down the vale. First, to distance them he makes attempt, The great old boar, his bristles stiff on end, These bristles sharper than a pointed spear, Their point more piercing than the quiver’s shaft. Then Mac O’Duine with arms well pointed too, Answers the horrid beast with ready hand: Away from his side there rushed the heavy spear, Hard following on the course the boar pursued. The javelin’s shaft fell shivered into three, The shaft recoiling from the boar’s tough hide. The spear hurled by his warm red-fingered hand Ne’er penetrated the body of the boar. Then from its sheath he drew his thin-leaved[96] sword, Of all the arms most crown’d with victory; Mac O’Duine did there the monster kill, While he himself escaped without a wound. Then on Finn of the Feinn did sadness fall, And on the mountain side he sat him down; It grieved his soul that generous Mac O’Duine Should have escaped unwounded by the boar. For long he sat, and never spake a word, Then thus he spake, although ’t be sad to tell, “Measure, Diarmad, the boar down from the snout, And tell how many feet ’s the brute in length.” What Finn did ask he never yet refused; Alas! that he should never see his home. Along the back he measures now the boar, Light-footed Mac O’Duine of active step. “Measure it the other way against the hair, And measure, Diarmad, carefully the boar.” It was indeed for thee a mournful deed, Youth of the sharply-pointed piercing arms. He went, the errand grievous was and sad, And measured for them once again the boar. Th’ envenomed pointed bristle sharply pierced The sole of him,[97] the bravest in the field. Then fell and lay upon the grassy plain The noble Mac O’Duine, whose look spoke truth; He fell and lay along beside the boar, And there you have my mournful, saddening tale. There does he lie now wounded to the death, Brave Mac O’Duine, so skilful in the fight; The most enduring ev’n among the Feinn, He lies upon the knoll I see on high, The blue-eyed hawk that dwelt at Essaroy,[98] The conqueror in every sore-fought field, Slain by the poisoned bristle of the boar. Now does he lie full stretched upon the hill, Brave, noble Diarmad Mac O’Duine! Slain, it is shame! victim of jealousy.[99] Whiter his body than the sun’s bright light, Redder his lips than blossoms tinged with red; Long yellow locks did rest upon his head, His eye was clear beneath the covering brow, Its colour mingled was of blue and grey; Waving and graceful were his locks behind,[100] His speech was elegant and sweetly soft; His hands the whitest, fingers tipped with red; Elegance and power were in his form, His fair soft skin covering a faultless shape, No woman saw him but he won her love. Mac O’Duine crowned with his countless victories, Ne’er shall he raise his eye in courtship more, Or warriors’ wrath give colour to his cheek; The following of the chase, the prancing steed, Will never move him, nor the search for spoil. He who could bear him well in every fight, Has now us sadly left in that wild vale. Glenshee.
The author of this is Allan M’Rory. [101]
To-night my mourning is great, Thou tonsured priest whom I love, While I reflect on the fight, With red-tree[102] Cairbar we fought, Son to great Cormaig O’Cuinn, Woe to the Feinn whom he seized; A king who ne’er shunned the fight, And feared not the face of man. The Feinn to a man did serve, Finn and the good race of Conn, Till the day of Cairbar Roy; Nor evil nor weakness fear’d. Brave Cairbar his people addressed, Deceitful indeed was the speech. In battle would he choose to fall, The Feinn and he together, Ere even as a King he’d live With Erin beneath the Feinn. Barrin then spoke boldly out,
Remember Muckrey[103] and Art; How your great ancestors fell, Resisting the Feinn’s deceit; Remember their cruel bonds, Remember their pride and guile; And that we ne’er knew of war, But such as was stirr’d by Mac Cùil.
Then did the race of Conn resolve, In counsel with Cairbar Roy, That they’d at once assail us, And the whole of us destroy. They’d have days of joy and feasting, Great Alvin cleared of the Feinn. Then would all grief be dead, Nor could they a tax demand. Fiercely and bravely we fought, That fight the fight of Gaura; There did fall our noble Feinn, Sole to sole with Ireland’s kings. From India far in the east, To Fodla[104] here in the west, The kings did all own our sway, Till the battle of Gaura was fought. But since that horrid slaughter, No tribute nor tax we’ve raised. Nor to us was tribute due, Save by part of Erin’s soil. Many were there on the earth Of the folk who felt no grief. To both sides how great the loss, When we each other did destroy, Should strangers fierce come over, And seize on beauteous Erin.
Ossian, what would Finn have done Were burdens laid on Erin?
By thy hand, most holy Priest, There were none in all fair Banva,[105] Save a few aged heroes, And some younger untried men; What king might there plant his foot, Could Fodla have for taking. No fight, no conflict he’d need, No stratagem nor struggle.
Eastward we sent ambassadors, To Fatha of Con’s great son; That he might lead us on, To seize on Erin’s kingdom.
Great grief had now come on you, From Tara’s loud-spoken King: New reason had ye given Why all of you should perish.
Ossian, tell us now the tale, When ye fought that sturdy fight. Did thy son in battle die, Or had he speech when you him found?
I bent me over valiant Oscar, Soon as was the slaughter o’er; Caoilte too did bend him o’er His seven valiant sons; Each living man among the Feinn Bent him o’er his own dear friends. Some of them had still their speech, From others life had parted. Priest of the crosier white, Whoever saw that slaughter, ’Tis an everlasting grief, Erin’s nobles thus to die. Many were the hard round shields, Many precious coats of mail, And lifeless warriors on the field. Nor would our people grieve for this Were they not a vanquished race. Little from that field was left us, Save a king’s or chieftain’s spoil. There found I my own dear son Laid, on his left arm resting, His shattered shield beside him, While his hand still grasped his sword; His precious blood on every side, Flowed swiftly through his harness. My spear I rested on the earth, And o’er him stood as he lay; Then thought I, O tonsured Priest, What, now lonely, I could do. Oscar towards me now turns, ’Twas for me a grievous scene; Forth to me he stretched his hand, Wishing I should him approach. Then my dear son’s hand I seized, And cried out with a bitter cry. Forward from that time till now, In this world I’ve useless been. Thus to me my own son said, As life was fast departing,
Thanks to the powers above, That thou’st escaped, dear father.
Nothing do I tell but truth, A word I could not answer. Then approached the noble Caoilte, Who to visit Oscar came. Gently did Mac Ronain[106] say,
How find’st thou thyself, dear friend?
Just as thou would’st have me be, Going to a better world.
Cairbar Roy’s spear had pierced, ’Neath the navel, red-armed Oscar; The arm of Caoilte up to its bend, Followed in its course the spear. Caoilte did deeply search the wound, And well saw how all stood there. The wound was through to the back, Torn by the murderous spear. Mac Ronain gave a loud shriek, And, fainting, fell to the earth. Then spake Caoilte, the warrior brave, Recovering from his faint,
Dear Oscar, no more art thou ours; Thou and the Feinn must part, So part must the Feinn with war, Conn’s race the tribute shall raise.
We had been thus a brief space, Thou priest, the son of Alpin, When leaving the slaughter we saw, All of Fail’s Feinn now living, There were but two thousand men, The old and the young together, And none unwounded returned, Even of these hundred score. Nine wounds them grievously pierced, There were few of them with less. Then raised we the noble Oscar, Aloft on the shafts of our spears; To a fair green knoll we bore him, That we his dress might remove. Of his body one hand’s breadth Was not whole, down from his hair, Till you reached the sole of his foot, Save his face, and that alone. The entrails, the liver, the spleen, Each draining the body till day. The sons of the Feinn did then To a fair knoll them betake; His own son did no man mourn, Nor did he mourn his brother: As they saw how lay my son, All, all did mourn for Oscar. Thus was it with us a while, Watching the fair-skinned hero, When we saw approach at noon Finn Mac Cumhail, mac Treinvor. From the fierce slaughter escaped, A third of the Feinn still lived, When they laid the sons of Boisgne Upon their biers, the fight being o’er. With gashed limbs the men were halt, The chiefs a dreadful sight. We saw the standard of Finn Raised on the shaft of a spear, Which from the slaughter they bore; Gladly to meet it we went. All of us saluted Finn, But no salute was returned, As he climbed the warrior’s hill, Where deadly-armed Oscar lay. When by Oscar Finn was seen, As o’er him sadly he bent, He turned to him his face, His grandfather saluting. Then did my Oscar thus speak To him who was first of us all:
In death I have my desire, Noble Finn of pointed arms.
Sad it is, my brave Oscar, Thou good son of my own son; After thee I’m but feeble, And after Erin’s brave Feinn. The heavy curse of Art aenir Is on us to our great grief, From the east it me pursued, Following me along the field. Farewell to battle and fame, Farewell to the victor’s spoils, Farewell to the many joys, Which in this body I’ve had.
When Oscar had heard Finn’s wail, Convulsive pangs did him seize. Both of his hands he stretched forth, And his soft fair eyelid fell. From us then Finn turned away, And shed many bitter tears. But for Oscar and for Bran, Never did he shed a tear. There was none but Finn and I, Greater than him of the Feinn. Then did the men give three shrieks, Which rung through fair Erin all. Five score hundred, ten hundred and ten, There were who belonged to us, Of the Feinn dead on the field, The number was nothing less. No lie it is that double, With Erin’s king, great tale, Perished on the other side, Of Erin’s well-armed men. Finn cheerful or peaceful never Was from that down to his death; Since that fight it touched him sore That our kings should want their land. Ever since Gaura’s battle My speech has lost all its power. No night or day has e’er passed Without a sigh for each hour.[107] To-night.
The author of this here is Fergus the Bard. [108]
High-minded Gaul,[109] Who combats Finn, A hero brave, Bold in assault, His bounty free, Fierce to destroy. Beloved of all, Gaul, gentle, brave, Son of great Morn; Hardy in war, His praise of old, A comely man, King, soldierly, free, Of no soft speech, No lack of sense, Cheerful as great: In battle’s day He moved a prince; Though soft his skin, Not soft his deed, Of portly mould, A fruitful branch, His heart so pure, He trains the young. ’Bove mountains high Rises in victory, We ever fear When he assails. I tell you Finn, Avoid the man, Terror of Gaul Should make you quail; Soothe him rather, Better than fight. Skilful and just, He rules his men, His bounty wide, A bloody man, First in the schools, Of gentle blood, And noble race, Liberal, kind, Untired in fight, No prince so wise, Brown are his locks, Marble his skin, Perfect his form, All full of grace, Fierce to exact, When aught is due, In vigour great, Of fairest face, No king like Gaul. I tell thee Finn, His strength as waves In battle’s crash, Princely his gait, Comely his form, Gaul’s skill’d fence No play when roused. Ready to give, Dreadful his strength, Manly his mould, Soldierly, great, Ne’er could I tell His grace and power; A fearful foe, Ready his hands, Conceal’d his wrath, A cheerful face. Like murmuring seas, Rushed to the fight, A lion bold, As great in deed, Powerful his arm, Choice amidst kings. Joyful his way, His teeth so white. ’Tis he that wounds, The greatest foe. His purpose firm, A victor sure, Desires the fight, In history learn’d, Warrior bold, Sharp is his sword, Contemptuous Gaul, Plunders at will. A fearless man, Wrathful he is, Dreadful in look, Leopard in fight, Fierce as a hound, Of women loved. A circle true E’er by him stood. He hurls his dart, No gentle cast. Soft are his cheeks, In blossom rich, Of beauteous form, Unchanged success; No stream so swift As his assault, Mac Morn more brave, Than any told, Of powerful speech, It far resounds, He’s truly great, Liberal, just, Does not despise, Yet firm resolves, Gentle, yet brisk, Forsakes no friend, In fight of kings, No powerless arm. There, fierce his mien, And strong his blow. When roused his wrath, He’s third of the chase. Noble Mac Cumhail, Soothe and promise, Give peace to Gaul, Check wrath and guile.
During my day, Whate’er it be, I’d give without guile, A third of the chase.[110]
Let’s hear no more, Soft dost thou speak, Finn’s love to Gaul, And third of the hounds.
Gaul, leave thy wrath, With us have peace, Now without grudge, Thou’st of Finn’s forest third.
That will I take, Fergus, dear friend, My wrath is gone, No more I ask.
Friend without guile, Lips thin and red, Bounty and strength, Shall win thee praise. High-minded Gaul.
The author of this is Fergus the Bard. [111]
Tell us now, Fergus, Bard of Erin’s Feinn, How did fare the day In Gawra’s furious fight.
Not good, son of Cumhail, The tidings from Gawra’s fight. Dear Oscar lives no more, He who bravely fought; Caoilte’s seven sons are gone, With the commons of Alvin’s Feinn. The youth of the Feinn have fallen, All in their warlike robes. Mac Luy too is dead, With six of thy father’s sons. Fallen are the youth of Alvin, Dead are the Feinn of Britain.[112] Lochlin’s king’s son is dead, Who came to give us aid, He of the manly heart, And arm at all times strong. Tell them now, O Bard, My son’s son, my delight, How it was that Oscar Hewed the helmets through. It would be hard to tell, ’Twould be a heavy task, To number all that fell, Slain by the arms of Oscar. No swifter is a cataract, Or hawk in sweeping stoop, Or rapids rushing fast, Than in that fight was Oscar. You saw him, last of all, Like leaves in windy weather, Or like a noble aspen, When hewers strike its stem. When Erin’s King he saw, Still living ’midst the fight, Oscar swift approached him, As waves break on the strand. When Cairbar this observed, He shook his hungry spear, And through him drove its point. Chiefest of all our griefs! Yet Oscar did not quail, But made for Erin’s King; With force he aimed a blow, And smote him with his sword. Then Art mac Cairbar fell, Struck with the second blow. So ’twas that Oscar perished, With glory, as a King. Fergus the bard am I, I’ve travelled every land, I grieve after the Feinn, To have my tale to tell. Tell.
This tale is by Gilliecallum M’ an Olave. [113]
I have heard a tale of old, A tale that should make us weep; ’Tis time to relate it sadly, Although it should fill us with grief. Rury’s[114] race of no soft grasp, Children of Connor and Connal; Bravely their youth did take the field, In Ulster’s noble province. None with joy returned home Of Banva’s proudest heroes. For as they once more tried the fight, Rury’s race did win the day. There came to us, fierce his mien, The dauntless warrior, Conlach, To learn of our beauteous land, From Dunscaich[115] to Erin. Connor spoke thus to his men, “Who’s prepared to meet the youth, And of him to take account; Who will take no refusal?” Then the strong-armed Connal went, Of the youth to take account; The end of their fight was this, Conlach had bound Connal. Yet the hero did not halt, Conlach, brave and vigorous, He bound a hundred of our men, It is a strange and mournful tale. To the hounds’ great chief[116] a message Was sent by Ulster’s wise king, To sunny, fair Dundalgin,[117] The old, wise fort of the Gael, That stronghold of which we read, And the prudent daughter of Forgan.[118] From thence came he of great deeds To see our generous king; To know of Ulster’s great race, There came to us the red branch[119] Cu, His teeth like pearl, cheeks like berries. “Long,” said Connor to the Cu, “Has been thine aid in coming, While Connal, who loves bold steeds, Is bound and a hundred more.” “Sad for me to be thus bound, Friend, who could’st soon unloose me.” “I couldn’t encounter his sword, And that he has bound brave Connal.” “Refuse not to attack him, Prince of the sharp, blue sword, Whose arm ne’er quailed in conflict, Think of thy patron now in bonds.” When Cuchullin of the thin-leaved sword Heard the lament of Connal, He moved in his arm’s great might To take of the youth account. “Tell us now that I have come, Youth who fearest not the fight, Tell us now, and tell at once, Thy name, and where’s thy country?” “Ere I left home I had to pledge That I should never that relate; Were I to tell to living man, For thy love’s sake I’d tell it thee.” “Then must thou with me battle do, Or tell thy tale as a friend. Choose for thyself, dear youth, But mind, to fight me is a risk. Let us not fight, I pray thee, Brave leopard, pride of Erin, Boldest in the battle field, My name I would tell unbought.” Then did they commence the fight, Nor was it the fight of women. The youth received a deadly wound, He of the vigorous arm. Yet did Cuchullin of battles, The victory on that day lose. His only son had fallen, slain, That fair, soft branch, so gentle, brave. “Tell us now,” said skilful Cu, “Since thou art at our mercy, Thy name and race, tell us in full, Think not to refuse thy tale.” “Conlach I, Cuchullin’s son, Lawful heir of great Dundalgin, It was I thou left’st unborn, When in Skiath[120] thou wast learning. Seven years in the east I spent, Gaining knowledge from my mother; The pass by which I have been slain Was all I needed still to learn.” Then does the great Cuchullin see[121] His dear son’s colour change; As of his generous heart he thinks, His memory and mind forsake him; His body’s excellency departs, His grief it was destroyed it; Seeing as he lay on the earth The rightful heir of Dundalgin; Where shall we find his like, Or how detail our grief? I have.
The author of this is the Blind O’Cloan. [122]
’Tis the sigh of a friend from Fraoch’s green mound, ’Tis the warrior’s sigh from his lonely bier,[123] ’Tis a sigh might grieve the manly heart, And might make a maid to weep. Here to the east the cairn, where lies Fraoch Fitheach’s son of softest locks, Who nobly strove to favour Mai, And from whom Cairn[124] Fraoch is named. In Cruachan east a woman weeps, A mournful tale ’tis she laments; Heavy, heavy sighs she gives For Fraoch mac Fithich of ancient fame. She ’tis, in truth, who sorely weeps, As Fraoch’s green mound she visits oft; Maid of the locks that wave so fair, Mai’s daughter so beloved of men. This night Orla’s soft-haired daughter, Lies side by side with Fraoch mac Fithich. Many were the men who loved her, She, of them all, loved Fraoch alone. Mai is filled with bitter hate, As the love of Fraoch she learns. His body got its grievous wounds, Because with her he’d do no wrong; She doomed him to a bitter death: Judge not of women by her deed, Grief ’twas that he should fall by Mai, Yet I’ll relate it without guile. A sigh.[125]
A rowan tree stood in Loch Mai, We see its shore there to the south; Every quarter every month, It bore its fair, well-ripened fruit; There stood the tree alone, erect, Its fruit than honey sweeter far; That precious fruit so richly red, Did suffice for a man’s nine meals; A year it added to man’s life,— The tale I tell is very truth. Health to the wounded it could bring, Such virtue had its red-skinned fruit. One thing alone was to be feared By him who sought men’s ills to soothe: A monster[126] fierce lay at its root, Which they who sought its fruit must fight. A heavy, heavy sickness fell On Athach’s daughter, of liberal horn; Her messenger she sent for Fraoch, Who asked her what ’twas ailed her now. Mai said her health would ne’er return, Unless her fair soft palm was filled With berries from the deep cold lake, Gleaned by the hand of none but Fraoch. “Ne’er have I yet request refused,” Said Fithich’s son of ruddy hue; “Whate’er the lot of Fraoch may be, The berries I will pull for Mai.” The fair-formed Fraoch then moved away Down to the lake, prepared to swim. He found the monster in deep sleep, With head up-pointed to the tree. A sigh.
Fraoch Fithich’s son of pointed arms, Unheard by the monster, then approached. He plucked a bunch of red-skinned fruit, And brought it to where Mai did lie. “Though what thou did’st thou hast done well,” Said Mai, she of form so fair, “My purpose nought, brave man, wilt serve, But that from the root thou’dst tear the tree.” No bolder heart there was than Fraoch’s, Again the slimy lake he swam; Yet great as was his strength, he couldn’t Escape the death for him ordained. Firm by its top he seized the tree, And from the root did tear it up: With speed again he makes for land, But not before the beast awakes. Fast he pursues, and, as he swam, Seized in his horrid maw his arm. Fraoch by the jaw then grasped the brute, ’Twas sad for him to want his knife: The maid of softest waving hair, In haste brought him a knife of gold. The monster tore his soft white skin, And hacked most grievously his arm. Then fell they, sole to sole opposed, Down on the southern stony strand, Fraoch mac Fithich, he and the beast, ’Twere well that they had never fought.[127] Fierce was the conflict, yet ’twas long,— The monster’s head at length he took. When the maid what happened saw, Upon the strand she fainting fell. Then from her trance when she awoke, In her soft hand she seized his hand: “Although for wild birds thou art food, Thy last exploit was nobly done.” ’Tis from that death which he met then, The name is given to Loch Mai; That name it will for ever bear, Men have called it so till now. A sigh.
They bear along to Fraoch’s green mound The hero’s body to its grave. By his name they call the glen, Sad for those he left behind. Cairn Laive is the hill beside me, Close by it many a happy day The hero lived, of matchless strength, The bravest heart in battle’s day. Lovely those lips with welcomes rich, Which woman liked so well to kiss; Lovely the chief whom men obeyed, Lovely those cheeks like roses red, Than raven’s hue more dark his hair, Redder than hero’s blood his cheeks; Softer than froth of streams his skin, Whiter it was than whitest snow; His hair in curling locks fell down, His eye more blue than bluest ice; Than rowans red more red his lips, Whiter than blossoms were his teeth; Tall was his spear like any mast, Sweeter his voice than sounding chord; None could better swim than Fraoch, Who ever breasted running stream. Broader than any gate his shield, Joyous he swung it o’er his back; His arm and sword of equal length, In size he like a ship did look. Would it had been in warrior’s fight That Fraoch, who spared not gold, had died; ’Twas sad to perish by a Beast, ’Tis just as sad he lives not now. ’Tis the sigh.
The author of this is Connal Cearnach M’Edirskeol. [128]
These heads, O Connal, are worthless; Though thou must have blooded thine arms. These heads thou bear’st upon that withe, Can’st tell their owners, now thy spoil?
Daughter of Orgill of the steeds, Youthful Evir, so sweet of speech, ’Twas to avenge Cuchullin’s death, That I took these numerous heads.
Whose is that hairy, black, great head, With cheeks than any rose more red, That which hangs nighest thy left arm, The head whose colour has not changed?
That head the king of swift steeds own’d, Said Cairbar’s son of vigorous lance; In vengeance for my foster son, I took that head and bore it far.
What head is that I see beyond, Covered with smooth, soft, flowing hair, His eye like grass, his teeth like bloom, His beauty such as none is like?
Manadh, the man that own’d the steeds, Aoife’s son, who plunder’d every sea; I left his trunk ’reft of its head, I slew his people, every man.
What head is that I see thee grasp, Great Connal of the gentle streams; Since that Cuchullin[129] now is dead, Whom to avenge him did’st thou take?
’Tis the head of Mac Fergus of steeds, He in extremity so bold, My sister’s son from the tall tower, His head I from his body wrenched.
What fair-haired head is that to the east, Whose hand might well have seized the heads; Well did I know his voice of old, For he and I were friends awhile?
Down there it was the Cu did fall, His body cast in fairest mould; Cu, son of Con, of poets’ king, Among the last I took his head.
What two heads are those farthest out, Great Connal of the sweetest voice; Of thy great love hide not from me The names of them so dark in arms?
’Tis Laoghar’s head and that of Cuilt, The two who fell pierced by my arms; One of them had Cuchullin struck, Hence his red blood my weapons dyes.
What two heads are those to the east, Great Connal of the famous deeds; Alike the colour of their hair, Than hero’s blood more red their cheeks?
Cullin the handsome, and Cunlad brave, Two who e’er triumphed in their wrath; Evir, their heads are to the east, I left their bodies streaming red.
What are those six hideous heads I see in front facing the north; Blue in the face, their hair so black, From which thou turn’st thy look, brave Connal?
These are six of Cuchullin’s foes, Calliden’s sons, who triumphed oft; These are now the senseless six Who all, full armed, fell by my hand.
Great Connal, father to a king, What is that head, noblest of all; How bushy the golden yellow locks, Covering it with so much grace?
The head of M’Finn, M’Ross the red, The son of Cruith, slain by my stroke; Evir, he was king, chief of them all, In Leinster of the spotted swords.
Great Connal, now please change thy tale, Tell us the number slain by thine arm, Of all the noble famous men, In vengeance for the head of Con?
Ten and seven score hundred men, I tell the truth, the number is, That fell by me, all back o’er back, Fruit of my bravery and power.
Connal, tell how the women feel In Innisfail, the Cu being dead; Do they sadly, sorely mourn, Now that like me themselves have grief?
O Evir, what am I to do, Now that my Cu is ta’en away; My foster-son of fairest form, Now that he’s left me desolate?
O Connal, lay me in my grave, And raise my stone o’er that of Cu; In grief I’ll soon from this depart, Let my lips touch Cu’s lips in death.
Evir am I, of fairest form, No vengeance can me satisfy; In tears no pleasure I can find, ’Tis sad that I am left behind.[130] Connal.
The author of this is Caoilte Mac Ronan. [131]
I set me off to rescue Finn, To Taura of the joyful streams; With arms sure of victory, To Cormac, son of Art Aonir.[132] I will not put forth my strength, Though bloody and light of foot, Until that with the Feinn of Fail, We have reached the shore of Loch Foyle. Then did we slay the mighty hero, When we had slain Cuireach.[133] We killed a mighty warrior When we had killed their leader. We bore his head up to the hill, Which lies above Buadhamair.[134] Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. For the hero’s sake I slew A man in every town[135] in Erin. Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. For the hero’s sake I brought Grief into every house in Erin. Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. The calves I slew with the cows, Whom I found in all fair Erin. Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. The doors on which the red wind[136] blew, I threw them each one widely open. Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. The fields all ripe throughout the land, I set them then a blazing brightly. Then indeed I had my triumph, For I made a total havoc. In my day there won’t be seen Either mill or kiln in Erin. Then it was they loosed against me The horse of Albin and of Erin. My fleetness gave me victory, Until I reached Ros illirglass. Then I westward took my way To Taura, although great the distance; Not one horse of all the troop Had Taura reached so soon as I did. In Taura then I gave that day The wife of him who cared not for her. I gave the wife of him who cared not, To him who cared for his as little; In noble Taura then I gave The wife of Cairbar to Cormac. The wife of Cormac also gave, Just as I had done, to Cairbar. The king’s sword then I firmly seized, A sword of matchless power and virtue; My own sword, fit for little now, I left it in the sheath of Cormac. Then I passed me quickly over, And from the door-keeper got his garment. From whence it happened, it is true, I became candlestick to Cormac. Then did I many strange things do, In presence of the King of Erin. “Though ye may wonder at my speech, Caoilte’s two eyes are in my candlestick.” “Say thou not so,” said noble Finn, The fair-haired prince of all the Feinn; “Though I may now thy prisoner be, Cast not reproach upon my people, Such is not Caoilte’s noble nature, Nought he does but what is generous. He would not hold a servile candle For any gold that earth may yield.” Then did I draw forth his drink For the excellent, manly king. Four steps, one after the other, I went along with him to serve him. Then I betook myself to his right, ’Twas one source of my sharp sorrow; I gave him of my own free will A dirge so grating, loud, and mournful. “Strange that he should give me this,” Said the clever, well-formed king. “The music smells of Caoilte’s own skin, This mournful, unharmonious dirge.” “Do not thou say so, O King,” Said I, in his servant’s garb; “These are boastful words thou speak’st. ’Tis worthy of one loving music.” “By my hand, most noble Caoilte, As Finn has been the Feinn’s great chief, Though, as I am, no pledge I’ll give To the men of Alb’ or Erin.” As I plainly saw he knew me, I now did boldly ask of Cormac, “Thou wilt tell me how I may Freedom purchase for my patron.” “Thou shalt not have Finn made free, I say, on any one condition, Save this condition, noble Caoilte, One thou never can’st fulfil; That thou should’st obtain for me Of all wild animals a pair, Then to thee I’d give thy patron, So soon as thou such pledge redeem’st.” I seized upon the pleasing words Of Cormac Mac Airt Inir, That he would freedom give the king So soon as I fulfilled such promise. When I had thus by promise bound Erin’s noble fair-haired king, Though I had a trying task, I set off to keep th’ agreement. From Taura I a journey took, A journey over all the land. I gathered in the flocks of birds, Though they were so very scattered. Two fierce geilts I brought along, And two fine tall and long-clawed ospreys, And ravens from Fee ya von; Two wild ducks from Loch a Sellin, Two crows down from Slieve Cullin, Two wild oxen brought from Borrin, Two swans I brought from Dobhran gorm, Two owls from the wood of Faradrum, Two polecats from Coiltie creive, On the side of Druma Dabhran. Two otters also I took with them, From the rock of Donavan doivin, Two gulls from the strand of Loch Lee, Two rualls from Port Lairge, Four woodpeckers from Brosna ban, Two plovers from Carrig dunan, Two eachts from Eachta ard, Two thrushes from Letter Lomard, Two wrens from Dun Aoife, Two geingeachs from Corrie dhu, Two herons from Corrin Cleith, Two gledes from Magh a Foyle, Two eagles from Carrig nan clach, Two hawks from Ceindeach forest, Two sows from Loch Meilghe, Two water-hens from Loch Earn, Two moor-fowls from Monadh maith, Two sparrow-hawks from Dulocha, Two stone-chats from Magh Cullin, Two tomtits from Magh Fualainn, Two caschans from Glen Gaibhle, Two swallows from the Old Abhla, Two cormorants from Dublin, Two wolves from Crotta cliath, Two blackbirds from Traigh dha bhan, Two roe from Luachair Ir, Two pigeons from Ceis Charran, Two nightingales from Letter Fin chul, Two plovers from Letter roy, Two starlings from Taura the green, Two rabbits from Sith dubh donn, Two wild boars from Cluaidh chur, Two cuckoos from Drum a daive, Two grey birds from Laigheande, Two lapwings from Lanan Furrich, Two woodcocks from Craobh maidh, Two hawks besides from Sliabh glé, Two grey mice from Limerick, Two otters from the Boyne, Two larks from Monadh mòr, Two bats from the cave of Cno, Two badgers from the lands of Ullanach, Two cornrails from Shannon valley, Two water-wagtails from Bruach Bire, Two curlews from the sea of Galway, Two hares from Muirtheimhne, Two eagles from the wood of Luaraidh, Two hinds from Sith Buy, Two geiseadachs (peacocks) from Magh Mall, Two cith cenceachs from Cnamh choille, Two yellow-hammers from Bruach Bru, Two eels from the Black Water, Two goldfinches from Sliabh da eun, Two cathails from Bray an Turla, Two birds of prey from Magh builg, Two coloured swallows from Granard, Two fierce ospreys from Gruing, Two redbreasts from the Great wood, Two bliorachs from Dun nam barc, Two rock cod from Cala cairge, Two whales from the great sea, Two eels from Loch M’Lennan, Two gearrgarts from Magh nan Eilean, Two little birds (wrens) from Mias a chuil, Two fish (salmon) from Eas M’Moirn, Two fine roe from Glen Smoil, Two cows from Achadh Maigh Moir, Two swift otters from Loch Con, Two wild cats from the cave of Cruachain, Two sheep from Sith Doolan gil, Two sows of the sows of Mac Lir; A ram and a red nimble sheep I brought with me from Ennis. I brought with me a horse and mare Of the fine stud of Mananan; A bull and cow in calf from Drumcan, These I had from Muirn Munchain. Ten hounds of the hounds of the Feinn Did Cormaig insolently require. Whatever thing he asked of me, I brought it with me as I came. When I had them all collected, And brought them to one plain, And sought to have them in control, They all of them did scatter widely. The raven flew away to the south, A cause to me of much vexation; I caught it in Glen da bhan, By the side of deep Loch Lurgan. The duck did also me forsake, Nor was it easier to take it; Over swift and swollen streams, I chased it to Achin dughlas. Then I seized it by the neck, Although it was not very willing. I took this duck along with me That I might liberate Finn from Cormaig. Of all the ills that I have met, During all my life on earth, Never shall my heart forget This, till my body is in the grave: With small birds, and with other birds, How I strove along to drive them, Travelling over hills and ditches, That with them I soon might reach him; While he still held Finn in bonds, And thought that I could never find them; And if I could but find him these, Then was he bound to give him freedom. This race that I had swiftly run, Was such as no man ran before me. Then I brought them all to Taura, To the chief who ruled the palace; Then had I further much to suffer, That night was to me very grievous. Within the town there was a stronghold, To which by nine doors there was entrance. Cormaig ’twas gave me the house, As I now was very wearied. Where I saw that they were placed In the narrow, horrid dungeon; Then came a loud and vigorous scream From the throats of all the gathering. There was a little ray of light Reached them in through fifty openings. Every door was closely shut, Nor was the case an easy one; They mournfully shut closely up, While I as sadly was excluded. My heart did now pour out its grief, Watching by the doors till morning. Though great the evil I had suffered, As before they flew so swiftly, Not one I suffered to escape Till the day rose in the morning. The name men gave to this great rabble Was “Caoilte’s rabble,” and no wonder. To see them standing side by side, Was all the profit got by Cormag. For when Finn did get his freedom, All of them did scatter widely; No two nor three of all did go From Taura in the same direction. My own swiftness and Finn’s escape Was a miracle from heaven; The three great things to me which happened Were these and gathering that host. It is security for my fame, I believe in Christ, and in this, Though great my gathering for Finn, I have nought of which to boast. Though long my leap to the east, In Taura of the Fenian heroes, Long was my leap to the west, In Taura, twenty hundred feet, Agile then was my leap, Which amongst strangers I did take, While the point of my foot alone yielded, Slow is now any expedition I make. I set me off.
No author’s name given. [137]
There lies beneath that mound to the north Mac Cumhal’s son, in battle firm. Of Dearg’s daughter the white-tooth’d son, In wrath who never harshly spoke. There lies beneath that mound to the south Mac Conn’s son, his skin like bloom, The man who never met his match, Whose arm in fight dealt no soft blows. There lies beneath that mound to the east Oscar, so brave, famous in deeds. Though the Clan Morn were famous men, He counted them of little weight. There lies beneath that mound to the west The man by women thought so fair, M’Ronan for his beauty famed, Beneath the mound to the west he lies. Beneath the mound that is below me Lies he so famed for ugly pate; Conan, in every virtue rich, Beneath the mound below me lies. There lies.
Gorry, let us go to Finn, A service which we do not like, To ask of him the head of Gaul, That we may lay it down to rest. I am unwilling to go, Since I hear not aught of the head, And that we cannot have revenge, For the head of the great Mac Morn. Whether thou willest or not, I will, Said the great but foolish Conan; I will slay all the men I can In vengeance for the yellow-haired Gaul. Let us kill the three princes of the Feinn, As we can’t slay Finn himself. Speak, Gorry, speak quickly out, Let us be found at once on their hands. Thou shalt kill great Ossian M’Finn, I will kill the valorous Oscar, Dyre shall kill the dauntless Caoilte, Let them have us all assault. I shall show no foolish softness, Gentleness doesn’t suit with Finn; Though in our arms we all should fall, We will have no help from Gaul; If Finn is there his strength will be there, Let us send Finn down to his grave. True and guileless are the words Which to thee I speak, Gorry. Gorry.
The author of this is——. [138]
’Twas on a day Finn went to drink In Alve, with his people few; Six women and six men were there, The women fair, with whitest skin. Finn was there and guileless Diarmad, Caoilte and Ossian too, and Oscar, Conan the bald, slow in the field, With the wives of these six men; Maighinis the wife of dauntless Finn, The fair-bosomed maid, my own dear wife, Fair skin Gormlay, of blackest eye, Naoif, and the daughter of Angus. When drunkenness had the women seized, They had a talk among themselves: They said that throughout all the earth No six women were so chaste. Then said the maiden without guile, “The world is a many-sided heap; Though pure are ye, they are not few Women quite as chaste as you.” They had been a short time thus, When they saw a maid approach, Her covering a single seamless robe, Of spotless white from end to end; The maiden of the pure white robe Drew near to where M’Cumhal sat. She blessed the king of guileless heart, And close beside him there sat down. Finn asks her to give them her tale, The handsome maid of whitest hand: “Maid of the seamless robe, I ask, What virtue’s in thy spotless veil?” “My seamless robe has this strange power That women, such as are not chaste, Can in its folds no shelter find,— None but the spotless wife it shields.” “Give my wife the robe at once,” Said the bulky, senseless Conan, “That we may learn what is the truth Of what the women just have said.” Then Conan’s wife does take the robe, And in vexation pulls it on; ’Twas truly pity it was done, Her fair-skinned breast was all exposed. Then when the bald-pate Conan saw How that the robe shrunk into folds, He seized in passion his sharp spear, And with it did the woman slay. Then the loved Diarmad’s wife The robe from Conan’s wife did take; No better did she fare than she, About her locks it clung in folds. Then Oscar’s wife seized on the robe, Which looked so long and softly smooth; But wide and large as were its wings, The robe her middle did not reach. Then fair Maighinis took the robe, And put it also o’er her head; The robe there creased and folded up, And gathered fast about her ears. “Give my wife the robe,” said Mac Rea, “For the result I have no fear, That we may see, without deceit, Of her merit further proof.” “I would pass my word for it, Though I claim not to be learned, That never have I once transgressed, I’ve been faithful aye to thee.” Mac Rea’s wife now showed her side, The robe was then put o’er her head; Her body was covered, feet and hands, None of it all was left exposed. Her bosom then one kiss received From Mac O’Duine, from Diarmad; The robe from her he then unfolds, From her who thus did stand alone. “Women, give me now my robe, I am the daughter of Deirg the fierce, I have done nought to cause me shame, I only erred with sharp-armed Finn.” “Bear thou my curse, and quick away,” These were then the words of Mac Cumhail. On women he denounced a curse, Because of her who came that day. ’Twas on a day.
The author of this is Duncan Mor from Lennox. [155]
Pity the man who lost his voice, When he is called on to recite, Who cannot speak so fast as needs be, And yet’s unwilling to give up. Who cannot sing an air or tune, And cannot well recite a lay. Who cannot put aside his harp, Yet cannot sing as he would wish. Pity him ever with his “dring, drang,” Trying his verses to recite, When men can neither hear his harp, Nor understand the songs he sings. Pity the man neglects his health, And strives not his vigour to retain. Pity the man who ever strives To have the fruit he cannot reach. Were I to wish to have such fruit, Fruit which I could not reach on high, I’d cut the tree down at the root, Let men be angry if they will. Pity.
The author of this is Gilchrist Taylor. [156]
Bless, O Trinity, thy household, King of heaven, place of jewels; Black thy family was not formed, All by thyself in wisdom made. By thee ’twas Adam’s race was shaped The cheek like berries richly red; Thou who blessest place and people Curse them that ’gainst thee fierce contend. There is a pack of cruel hounds, Who the king’s children sorely grieve; I hear the baying of these dogs, Every glen is full of it. Such as war on Adam’s race, Since that they cannot silence keep, Joined together in their evil, Powers of the king of light them smite; Such as war on Adam’s race, Of crafty Lucifer the slaves, Give them no rest, to them give none, King of lights do thou them burn. Mounted on two ugly steeds, When vicious packs abound the most, They furiously commence the hunt, Belching out death on every side. Curse thou their hunt and devastation, Their two steeds so black in hue; Lay them, their backs stretched on the turf, Scatter the heads of this black band. There is a band of cruel hounds Harbouring at Inch Ald Art, They’re horrid brutes, Thou God forsake them, Let bags out of their skins be made. Though many be the skins of wolves, Covering our harps, both small and great, The cold and empty skulls are many, Given us by these fierce hounds. Father of Christ, with speed them strike From Lochaber to Raon Fraoich, Soon let the plague their bodies waste; ’Tis sad that thus I have to speak. Though no reparation for a true hound, For Robert’s son[157] of clustering locks. From Loch Venachar of rich glens, Many’s the ugly head laid low. Though from Ben Gulbin’s sunny side, Many the dogs to Tummel’s stream, Who know to hunt along its side, The eye of Christ is on them all. ’Twas told me when at Inverness, That greyhounds were scattering the pack. Pity the man who’s seized with fear, ’Tis like the falling sickness, sore. Pleasing to witness hounds pursue, Them who would slay the fine grey steeds. May God’s Son with His holy power, Destroy all surly cruel hounds. Smoke every den in Schiehallion, John Stewart of the bounding steeds, Ere I must call a sweet-voiced pack This litter of ugly, snarling curs. By Garry of John Stewart of the white steed, No antlers are seen without the head, While ’mongst the rocky rugged woods, Are seen the grey-skinned pack of hounds. Bless.
The author of this is Gilliecallum Mac an Olla. [158]
There is no joy without the clan Donald, No battle when they are awanting; First of the clans in all the earth, Each man of them is a hundred. The noblest clan which you can find, A race as brave as they are peaceful; The clan whose praise does fill the lands, Famed for their faith and godliness. The clan so faithful, bold, and brave, The clan so swift amidst the fight, The clan so gentle among men, And yet in battle none so fierce; The clan most numerous of all Whose number has been ever known. The clan which never vexed the Church, And ever dreaded its reproach. Of all that dwell in Albin green, This is the bravest e’er baptized. The third of every land is theirs, Their bravery is like the falcon’s. The clan most numerous and famous, Of finest form and fairest mould; The clan that has the largest hearts, Most patient and most liberal. They, sons of kings, deserved no gibe When asked in trouble to give help. Noble were they since the time When there was giving and poor ones. The clan for wine and shelter best, The first in prowess and in strength. ’Tis sad how short the length extends Given by him who spins your thread. They were not wicked and rough, Nor were they gentle and weak. In midst of trial and hardships, Not harder than them was the rock. The clan without pride or misdeeds, When the spoil of battle is theirs. ’Mongst them you’d find gentlemen, And common people with them. Pity him who has lost their defence, Pity him who forsakes their protection. There is no clan like the clan Donald, The noble clan of firmest mind. Who is there can number their gifts? Who is there can count their nobles? Without limit, commencement or close, Of excellencies among their gentry. First of all with the clan Donald, There is knowledge which they learn; Last of all, there is among them Polish, generosity, and modesty. ’Tis in sorrow and in grief Understanding and learning are got, By him who them would have. No joy without the clan Donald. Loud was the sound of their thunder, This race so wise and faithful, Though now they be reproached, There is no joy without the clan Donald. This people so great in fame, In courtesy, mind, and firmness, There is no right without them, There is no joy without the clan Donald. The son of his virgin mother, Who hath earned for us freedom from pain, Though he be faithful and true, There is no joy without the clan Donald. There is no joy.
Alas! alas! this is the head[159] Which belonged to the blue-armed Conull; The head where understanding was found, Noble it was and most lovely. Alas! alas! this is the eye That dwelt in generous Conull’s head; Round which the eyelid wound, Benevolent it was and manful. Alas! alas! this is the mouth In which no bard did folly find; Its lips so thin, like apples red, Sweet as honey the mouth of Conull. Alas! alas! this is the hand That Conull Mac Scanlan owned; The hand of him so brave in battle, The hand of Conull my first beloved. Alas! alas! this is the side By which our noble side we laid; It was a hound from Mull that came, John did lie upon his side. Alas! alas! this is the foot Which ne’er before a warrior fled; The foot of him in fight most brave, The foot of the shielded son of Scanlan. Alas! success e’er followed Conull, Where’er it was he battle fought; But now that my tale is done, This place is the dwelling of tears. Alas!
The author of this is John of Knoydart. [160]
Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre,[161] Though great be thy trouble and pain, I grudge thee not all thou hast suffered, Although it be painful to tell. I grudge not though thy ragged locks Be searched by the winds from the glens. I grudge thee not that thou art bound, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Pity the thought e’er filled men’s breasts, That thy friendship was not hatred; Pity, alas! thou turn’dst not back, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Thou hast the King of Isla slain, Who freely gave his wine and money, Him of the soft and flowing locks, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Isla, king of well filled horns, Who with his friends so kindly dealt; Alas! who gashed his soft white skin, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre! Beloved was that liberal hand, Which never grudged his gold or silver, And which in feast or hunt was first, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. It is my prayer to th’ Apostles’ King, He who preserves by His great power, That He from pain may him e’er keep, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. Thou head.
The author of this is Gormlay, daughter of Flann. [162]
Melancholy earth upon the breast of Nial, Melancholy its depth upon his grave; Neither nobility nor fame can save, Since that the King of the North is dead. Whose back is turned upon this joyful world, Now that his death-wound he received. He from the noble race of Nial is traced, The men who proudly governed all this land. I, the gentle, kind, Mac Cuilenan,[163] did leave, With Muireagan mòr I also joyful lived. With Nial I spent a truly happy life; Bright was my honour as with him I drunk, Of feasts and wine I could abundance have; My gold I freely gave the church. If any there be who heaven reach, How could Nial be without heaven? Never have I seen one like Nial. Fair was he all except the knee, Great were his beauty and his fame, Soft were his locks, and grey his eye. Wrath grew upon the mighty deep, The wind in strength blew from the east,[164] Nial then bent him on his knee, Stronger it blew and without fail; It suffered no happiness nor peace. The wind never ceased its sound, Neither fort nor tree was spared, Since that the courteous king is dead. Since Nial[165] Aidh’s son died yesterday, Numbers on numbers sorely mourn; And though cups and horns are filled, Sore is the blow to Conn’s great race. Without him prosperity is joyless, His form my heart with sorrow fills, That I’m till judgment left behind, Is that which fills my heart with grief. Melancholy.
Gormlay, daughter of Flann. [166]
Monk, remove thy foot, Lift it off the grave of Nial. Too long dost thou heap the earth On him with whom I fain would lie; Too long dost thou, Monk, there Heap the earth on noble Nial. Thou brown-haired friend, though gentle, Press not with thy sole the earth. Do not firmly close the grave, O Priest, whose office is so sad. Raise off the fair, black-kneed Nial, Monk, remove thy foot. Mac O’Nial of finest gold, ’Tis not of my will thou’rt bound.[167] Leave his stone and his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. I am Gormlay, who order keeps, Daughter I of Flann the bold; Stand not thou upon his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. Monk.
The author of this is Phelim M’Dougall. [169]
’Tis not good to travel on Sunday, Whoever the Sabbath would keep; Not good to be of ill-famed race; Not good is a dirty woman; Not good to write without learning; Not good are grapes when sour; Not good is an Earl without English; Not good is a sailor, if old; Not good is a bishop without warrant; Not good is a blemish on an elder; Not good a priest with but one eye; Not good a parson, if a beggar; Not good is a palace without play; Not good is a handmaid if she’s slow; Not good is a lord without a dwelling; Not good is a temple without a burying ground; Not good is a woman without shame; Not good is a harper without a string; Not good is fighting without courage; Not good is entering a port without a pilot; Not good is a maiden who backbites; Not good is the poverty of a debtor; Not good is a castle without an heir; Not good is neglecting the household dogs; Not good is disrespect to a father; Not good is the talk of the drunken; Not good is a knife without an edge; Not good is injustice in judging; Not good is the friendship of devils For thy son, oh Virgin most honoured; Though he has saved the seed of Adam, Not good for himself was the cross. Not good is a reader without understanding; Not good for a man to want a friend; Not good is a poet without a subject; Not good is a tower without a hall; Not good is a web without fulling; Not good is sport without laughter; Not good are misdeeds when prosperous; Not good is marriage without consent; Not good is a crown without supremacy; Not good is ploughing by night; Not good is learning without courtesy; Not good is religion without knowledge. Not good.
Earl Gerald.[172]
Pity the man who overleaps his horse; Let him that likes, my meaning understand, That from myself my means have taken flight; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. May my curse ’mongst women rest, Although for a time I mixed with them; As for men who still are single, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. That man who early is on foot, Cannot but many evils find; Were I to tell what I have seen, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The man who has got a useless wife, Cannot do much before the foe, The first milch cows that bellow loud; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The wife who listens to my speech, Who listens to my voice and cry, Just as if wax were in her ears; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Her husband she to wrath provokes, Different her manner with all else, For them she lightly steps about; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Were she to see a weeping eye, With any youth of handsome form, To him she would not run but leap; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Where is the young and sprightly maid, Who would not quietly give her kiss, To any lips that she might meet? ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Though married from th’ altar and the church, From the good priest’s worthy hand, Still are her way and temper bad; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. ’Tis best to have nought to do with women, Wrath and annoyance they provoke; He who does not this proclaim Is sure to find a woe himself. Pity.
The author of this is Andrew M’Intosh.
The coquetry of Duncan from Taid’s daughter, The most impudent coquetry men have seen, The coquetry of the wife of David, Coquetting like the wind in her red-tailed skirts, Men had thought that I was dumb, Whilst I’d three reasons not to speak.
The author of this is the Bard M’Intyre. [173]
What is this ship on Loch Inch,[174] Of which we now may speak? What brought this ship on the loch, Which songs cannot o’erlook? I would like much to ask, Who was it brought that ship, Afloat upon that angry loch, Where changes often come? The fierce wind from the hills, And bitter storms from the glens, Oft has the vessel from the shore, Stolen upon the dangerous sea. Stranger, who sawest the ship, On the rough and angry stream, What should hinder thee to tell About her and about her crew? An old ship without iron or stern, Never have we seen her like, The vessel all with leather patched, Not even beneath the waves is’t tight. Her boards are trifling bits of deals, Black patches down along her sides, Useless nails to fix them on Upon her scanty, stinted ribs. What woman cargo is in the black ship Pulling her on betwixt the waves, The cargo heartless and senseless too? Widows of a foolish mind, A boasting, talkative crew, A load vexatious and bad, Quarrelsome and covetous, Of evil minds and evil deeds. Their ways and conversation bad, A band of well-known fame, No substance in what they say, Drunken, singing, with levity, A band ill-shapen, mischievous, Who live by both sides of Loch Inch. In spite of thee and of their ship On the stormy sea’s dun face, No good woman could take that ship, However pressing the constraint. The worst of women go to sea, Others cannot give them help. Let this ship be driven from the loch, Down to the fierce and roaring deep, Let the wind pursue the ship, To the old point of Seananach. There will I leave upon the stream, The ill-favoured, ill-doing ship, Of wicked widows full on the sea, Without a psalm or creed e’er said, What.
The author of this is John M’Murrich. [176]
Sad to me’s my fate, Though men don’t understand, Suffer not, Son of God, Me to have pain to-day. Little thought the school That such should be my fate, The fate which me o’ertook, ’Tis it has me destroyed. The pain in it I have, Is threefold what I’ve felt, The trouble I have found Is weighted with a stone. For her who caused my grief, My wrath and rage are great. Her skin like froth of waves, Ruddy and soft her hand, Her lips like berries red, My soul she gently seized. Since I slept last night, Sad indeed my state. I thought she was beside me, That I saw her smile. She’s not been since the day, When began my grief. She of curling locks, And colour richly red, Five jewels in a knot, In the maiden’s name. Pity she’s not with me, And others have her not. That I myself might get For evermore that friend. Were I to suffer from, What other men have felt, The spear of great Cuchullin, The horse of white-steed Teague, The purple shield unbroken, Famous all in war; The speed of Mac Erc’s coursers, Though much it is to say, Alas, more sad for me The trouble I endure.
Duncan M’Pherson.[177]
Alexander, hast thou left thy sadness, Or is it so that thou canst not? Hast thou without God passed another year, Or dost thou mean to live thus ever? Hast thou not found thy God, Now that thou’rt aged and grey? If sadness be prosperity, Rich are the gifts thou’st got from God.
John M’Murrich said this.
The men of Albin, and not they alone, Unless that M’Gregor survived, How much wrath would them destroy! All excellence in Alexander.[179]
Finlay, the red-haired bard, said this. [180]
Gael-like is every leap of the dun horse, A Gael she is in truth. It is she who conquers and wins, In all that I’ll now sing. The praise of speed to her limbs, In every fierce assault. Marked, and famous her strength, While quiet at the house of prayer. The birds are they who could, Strive with her in the race. Not false is the fame of that horse, The steed both sturdy and swift, Liker she was to Duseivlin,[181] Than to the beast of Lamacha.[182] They who would view her size and triumphs, Can nowhere find her match. Just like the wheeling of the mountain winds, Is the action of the prancing steed. Hundreds admire her paces, Like one in frenzy passing. Like the point of an arrow this horse, Famous are all her doings. Bands of the great witness her course, As with speed she rushes. Though far before her stands the groom, No blunderer is her rider. Few are the words would tell her praise, Like birds on wing her movements. Her triumphs and paces the same, Whether ’mong rocks or bogs she moves. Before that horse all men do fear, When she comes in the trappings of war. In the troop, the hunt, or the conflict, That horse a noble horse is. That horse is all full of spirit, As fameworthy she follows the banner. That wave-like steed, hardy and keen, Will win for her rider the praise of men. Forth from her stall she takes the lead, That gentle, great, and active horse. She will triumph in speed and slaughter, Till that the day in evening sinks. Ready to treasure the girdle of gold,[183] The field with violence shakes. Startling, rounded, bright, well shod, Gentle, broad-backed, coloured well. A horse of such great fame as this, I long had heard that they possessed. Where was ever found her match, Not he, the beast of Lamacha. Mac Gregor ’s the master of that horse, Prince of the house to poets free. From Banva men do come to praise, To Albion they do come to seek, The man who robs from the Saxon, And e’er puts his trust in the Gael.
Finlay the red-haired bard.
I am a stranger long to success, ’Tis time that I should have it. ’Tis time now to desist, From satire justly due. The way that I shall take, To seek a noble branch, Is to the Prince of the Gael, Where are no worthless guests. To Mac Gregor the brave, Head of all the schools;[184] He’s neither cruel nor sparing, To praise him is our duty. To whom courage is a right; When summer time comes round, Peace he never knows, He’s in the throat of all his fellows. When men of him do speak, As Gregor of the blows, ’Tis his delight to drive, Flocks and herds before him. Of that flock John’s[185] the head, The king at lifting cattle, I myself will sing, Mouth with mouth at daybreak. When his sharp-armed men see, Mac Gregor at the Bealach,[186] His way so gently soft, No weight to them their burdens. Then when war arises, Proclaimed in enemies’ hearts, It is to him they’d gather, Clothed in martial dress. ’Tis of Mac Gregor’s fame, When fighting’s left behind. To men not to be cruel, His castle full of mirth; When victory I had left Upon the field of war, When of the fight I spoke, Nought loved my patron more. Though sad, on the stormy lake, To tell men of my grief, To have a crew of mariners, Is best in battle’s day. Remember I’ll be with thee, Mac Gregor without stain, In face of any foe, Long, long’s the time. Gentle Elizabeth, Change thou my state; Woman of softest locks, And of the loftiest brow. I am.
The author of this is Duncan Mac Cailein, the good knight. [187]
Who is now chief of the beggars, Since the famous man is dead? Tears flow fast for the man, For beggary has lost its strength. The orphan is in a piteous case, Beggary’s gone since Lachlan’s death. In every homestead this is sad, That beggary should want for knowledge. If he be dead, I’ve never heard, Of one that could compare with Lachlan, Since God created man at first; It is a source of bitter grief, That without mother or a father, Poor beggary should be so weak. Since that Bretin’s son is dead, Why should I not mourn his loss? There is no man now on earth Who can beg as he could do. Since Lachlan the importunate’s dead, Great’s the grief that is in Erin. Who will now beg a little purse? Who will even beg a needle? Who will beg a worthless coin? Since that rough-palmed Lachlan’s dead. Who will beg a pair of brogues, And then will beg a pair of buckles? Who will beg a shoulder plaid? Whose begging now will give us sport? Who will beg soles for his shoes? Who will ask a peacock’s feather? Who will beg an eye for his belt? Who will mix in any mischief? Who will beg an old felt hat? Who will beg a book to read? Who will beg an early meal? Who is it wears arms with his dress? Who will beg for boots and spurs? Who is it will beg for bristles? Who will beg for sids and meal? Who will beg a sheaf of rye? Who will ask a sporran spoon? Who will gather without shame? Since Lachlan the hero is dead. Who will now afford us sport? Who will beg for maidens’ shifts, Since old shoe’d Lachlan is dead? Sad the fate that he should die, Who will ask men for a rullion? Who will steal the servant’s feather, And who is it can’t tell the truth? Who likes to travel in a boat, And likes his old friends to visit? Who will beg the hen with her eggs? Who will beg a brood of chickens? Who will ask the hen’s overplus, After a handful of money? Who will beg a headless pin? Who can read as he can do? That Lachlan should leave no heir, Is that which mournful makes his death. Who will beg for a hook and line? Who will seek for open doors? Who will beg for unboiled rennet? Who will beg for anything? Who won’t give a penny to the poor, And yet e’en from the naked begs? Who would oppress the very child, And is cruel to the infant? Who would beg for wool and butter, That they may have it, after Lachlan? Who would beg a woman’s collar? Who is it likes a dirty heap? Who would beg from young women, From little dogs and weasels? Who would take the fire from an infant? Who would steal e’en the dead? Who is sick when he is well? Who on his gruel begs for butter? More sad for me than this man’s death, Is that he has left no heir. For fear that beggary should die, And none be found to keep it up. Do not ye forget the man, Men of the earth, do ye, Each of you for himself make rhymes, My malison on him that won’t. If Lachlan died on Monday last, Every man will joyful be. Sad it is that for his death, None there is who will lament. Who is now.
Gormlay, daughter of Flann, the good wife.
Alas! alas! my own great pain, Alas! that I’ve my beauty lost, To-night sore is my wound, Since that Mac O’Neill is dead. Alas! to want the son of Dervail, Alas! my fate now left behind, Guaire’s hospitality is nought, Erin’s a desert without him. Alas! for the good king of Banva, How fair thy form down to this night, Since he, my life, in battle died, Nought will I say but alas! alas! Alas!
The author of this is Duncan M’Cabe. [188]
M’Dougall of bright armour, A noble chief’s thy famous son, All that I think is true Of thy fair-formed, prudent child. ’T were better that thy fair head Were now exposed than mine, kind friend. Duncan Carrach[189] is his name, A name that triumphed ever. Duncan of bravest deeds, Remember thy first honoured name; Son of Allan,[190] do not merit, Reproach thy race did ne’er deserve. Since now that thou art so well known, With every reason to esteem thee, To thee is given the foremost place, Since thou the favourite art of all. True it is thou art indeed The man to take the richest spoil. Like a bull that’s fierce for fight, ’Tis thus thou goest to make war. ’Tis thou who traversest Cruachan,[191] Casting thy spear beneath its knolls. Thy fame is as that of the leopard, Thou art Duncan of Durinis. Thou quellest quick thy foe, Thou stainest both hands with blood. Thou cheerest us when we are weary, Thou art the source of all our joy. He is the man whom ’tis easiest In song like mine to praise, Which among heroes I compose,— The generous dragon of Connal.[192] Other fame belongs to him, The art that is in his gun. The bravery and skill of Erin Bound firmly up in all his blows. Whatever skill a king’s son has, That he has, with no defect. The purest speech has come to him, This will in thy son be found. Now I see thee raise the tax, Truly out of every homestead, Noble king of bravest deeds, Descendant of that martial race. Macdougall.
The author of this is John M’Ewen M’Eacharn. [193]
A mournful cry amongst Conn’s[194] race, Heavy indeed is now their loss; As every one now follows John, Silent they can’t be at his grave. What grief did ever them o’ertake, The race of Conn ne’er honour lost. For John each man does weep, Necessity leads us to his grave; Sad is the land because of thy death, Son of the noble race from Allan. Great is our grief as thee we mourn, Few are the men that shed not tears. Sorely has it touched us all, Grievous the tale that John is dead. Tidings from the Dun went through the land, The stranger now does o’er us rule. Changeful the world down till John’s death, Now they rise not to the fray; Since then indeed thy race is sad, This grief now has them sorely wounded. ’Tis grief to them that thou art thus, Clan Dougall mourn for their great chief; The conflict of their grief is long, The tale which now is told is grievous; Thou messenger who brought the news, God made thee messenger of evil; Ere men thy tidings did recite, Pity they had not lost their ears. The abundance of my racking grief Has almost my eyesight ta’en away; No feeble mourning is’t for John, Tears for him I cannot shed; Mourning for our buried prince, The death of Macdougall of Dunolly. His was the form of Conn’s great race, Like a nut kernel, fair and rounded; His death has been a grievous breach, The very waves sing his lament. Above the beach,[195] since John has died, No ceasing is there of men’s sorrow; Men speak not even now of joy, Since that this grief has on them seized; Bitter sorrow has them filled, No word of sport, of music none; That way is called the sacred way, That from the beach leads to the grave. So do men thus mourn their loss, And women too, who loved thee well. Shall I from thy soft locks have honour? In place of it I have but ruin. I mourn as on thy grave I stand, All I see makes me lament; Women will not leave thy grave, So truly heavy is their sorrow. Raise up a tomb for our fair prince, Let it be wide as Cruachan’s cell, That men may see by what they do, How heavily on them weighs their grief. The clan with weeping do thee mourn, Their soul is sad, they cannot sleep. Dougall’s race before thy death, Never did fear the face of foe. Chieftain, thy death has come on them, ’Twould be no boast to rule them now. Not few the women at John’s grave, Pouring their tears from day to day; Of women bands even by night, With bare heads gathering on the plain; No wonder is’t that they should mourn, Because of John of brightest fame. No day can pass but hearts are full Of this sad tale, that wakes our mourning. I care not though’t be thus with them, Though they should feel what I don’t like; Thy death for us is ill to bear, Sore the state to which it brings us; I stand amidst the gloom of death, No word is there of wonted song; My heart is truly rent in twain, As we speak of his departure; Never were we thus before, That it is grief to ask, how fares he; ’Tis cause of sorrow that he is absent, I mourn that he is no more with us; Now that he sleeps in his cold grave, ’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell; They cannot cease from shedding tears, Castle and cottage both in sorrow; The rising tide has swept o’er hills, So for John do mourn his comrades; Yet there’s no heaving of the sea, Not of the boisterous sea at Connal;[196] For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn, In all the borders of clan Dougall; The land for thee does seem to weep, Loud is the cry, with much distress, From the musicians of Dougall’s race, The learned men, and leading bards. On John’s grave lies a heavy stone, ’Tis grief to me to tell the story; Far otherwise than Neil[197] would wish, Does every scandal now appear; Have they no care to see his grave, Since that John has overcome them? The race of Conn are now but few, Since death has ta’en away Macdougall; No pleasure in the violin’s sounds, Nor writing poetry without him; Poetry brings no honour now, Since death has seized the son of Mary; Few are the mouths that now can tell, How commanding is her privilege, Now that on their backs are laid, Both the heads of the clan Dougall; That John’s great power I do not find Soon after losing John his father; May God preserve thy noble nature, Who wisdom learned from thy Isla[198] teacher; Horses can’t insure a triumph, Men must leave them, and depart; After the three, our loss is great, My heart, in truth, can find no comfort; Mournful in youth to see such loss, Death has seized two Johns and Alexander;[199] Alexander, whom no restraint could bind, That I of him should also tell; Thy breast was stout to the rushing wave, Thy body now! alas my sorrow; Never do ye seek again That John’s young heir should go to battle; That he should stand ’midst battle’s storm, Lest soon he come to his long grave.
The author of this is Finlay M’Nab.
The sluggard’s Book of Poems,[200] If ’t were your wish to write in it, Among what they have left you’ll find Enough wherewith to fill it. Though many the men there be, Who cruelly the people oppress, Never will these be found, Honoured in famous songs. Of all the fruits of sluggards, Though there be of them a thousand, The house in which these do meet, They ne’er can by any means reach. They are both gentle and simple, Dressed in their Sunday coats; And yet of all their productions, It happens we never can hear. I won’t their genealogy tell, Of their history nothing I know, But that they are out at evening, Followed close by their hounds. Dugall, thou art their fellow, John’s son of the polished blade, In whom flows the sluggard’s blood, Write thou in the Book of Poems. Write knowingly, intelligently, Write their history and their life; Don’t bring a poem on the earth, To have it read by Mac Cailein. Remember this my claim on thee, Gregor, as thou hast heard That I have as an obligation, All thine to put in the Book of Poems. Let there be nothing in this poem Of priests or of tenantry; But nothing of this band there is, Which is not in the Book of Poems. The sluggard’s.
The author of this is Eafric M’Corqudale. [201]
Jewel,[202] who has roused my grief, Beloved hast thou been of me, Beloved that joyous, generous heart, Which thou hadst until this night. Thy death has filled me with grief, The hand round which I lived so long, That I hear not of its strength, And that I saw it not depart; That joyful mouth of softest sounds, Well was it known in every land. Lion of Mull, with its white towers, Hawk of Isla, with its smooth plains, Shrewdest of all the men we knew, Whom guest ne’er left without a gift. Prince of good men, gentle, kind, Whose mien was that of a king’s son, Guests came to thee from Dunanoir,[203] Guests from the Boyne[204] for lordly gifts. Truth it is they often came, Not oftener than gave thee joy. Shapely falcon of Sliabh Gael,[205] Protection to the bards thou gav’st, Dragon of Lewis of sandy slopes, Glad as the whisper of a stream; The loss of but a single man Has left me lonely, now he’s gone. No sport, no pleasing song, No joy, nor pleasure in the feast; No man whom I can now love, Of Nial’s race down from Nial òg;[206] Among our women there’s no joy, Our men no pleasure have in sport, Just like the winds when it is calm, So without music is Dun Sween.[207] See the palace of a generous race, Vengeance is taken on clan Neil, The cause of many a boastful song, And will till they lay us in the grave; And now ’tis hard to bear, alas! That we should lose on every side. Didst thou, son of Adam, crush Any cluster of three nuts, It is to him thou lovest most The largest third of them thou’dst give. Thus of their husk the topmost nut, Does to clan Neil, ungrudged, belong. The bountiful have often poured Their gifts on the dwelling of clan Neil. The prince, who was the last of all, Is he who me with gloom has filled. In half my purpose I have failed, Jewel, who has roused my grief. Broken my heart is in my breast, And so ’t will be until I die; Left by that black and noble eyelid, Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Mary, mother, foster-mother of the king, Protect thou me from every shaft; And thou, her Son, who all things mad’st. Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Jewel.
The author of this is Dougall Mac Gille glas. [208]
Bold as a prince is John[209] in each gathering, ’Twere long to sing his race’s glory; Of this there is no doubt ’mong men, That he is the first of the race of kings. Mac Gregor of the bravest deeds, Is the boldest chief in any land; Between his gold and Saxons’ spoil, Well may he live in ease and peace. Choice for courage of the Grecian Gael, Whose meed of praise shall ne’er decay, Abounding in charity and love, Known in the lands of the race of kings.[210] White-toothed falcon of the three glens,[211] With whom we read the bravest deeds, The boldest arm ’midst fight of clans, Best of the chiefs from the race of kings. When on Mac Phadrick of ruddy cheeks, Wrath in battle’s hour awaked, The men who with him share the fight Are never safe amidst its blows. Grandson to Malcom of bright eyes, Whom none could leave but felt their loss, The generous, gentle, shapely youth, The readiest hand when aught’s to do. The race of Gregor stand round John, Not as a weak one is their blow; The famous race without a fault, Round him like a fence they stand. Clan Gregor who show no fear, Even when with the king they strive, Though brave Gael may be the foe, That they count of little weight. Gael or Saxon are the same, To these brave men of kingly race, Sons of Gregor bold in fight, Bend not before the fiercest foe. Prince[212] of the host of generous men, To Gregor of golden bridles, heir, Pity the men whom you may spoil, Worse for them who you pursue. Chief of Glen Lyon of the blades, Shield and benefactor of the Church, His arm like Oscar’s in the fight, To whom in all things he is like. Kindness mantles on his red cheek, Thy praise he justly wins, ungrudged; Benevolence when to men he shows, Horses and gold he freely gives. Mac Gregor of the noble race, No wonder though bards should fill thy court; To his white breast there is no match, But he so famous ’mong the Feinn. Three fair watches him surround, Never as captives were his men; His arm in battle’s struggle strong, Well did he love to hunt the deer. In mien and manners he was like The king who ruled amongst the Feinn. Mac Gregor of the spoils, his fortune such That choicest men do covet it. Good and gentle is his blue eye, He’s like Mac Cumhail of liberal horn, Like when giving us his gold, Like when bestowing gifts on bards, Like in wooing or in hunt, To the Cu Caird[213] among the Feinn. Fortune attends the race of kings, Their fame and wisdom both are great, Their bounty, prudence, charity, Are knit to them, the race of kings, Wine and wax and honey, These, with the stag-hunt, their delight. Famous the actions of John’s clan, Like to the sons of the Fenian king; John himself was like to Finn, First and chief ’mongst all his men. Though many sought to have Finn’s power, ’Mongst those who fought against the Feinn, On Patrick’s son fortune attends, His enemies he has overcome. Mac Gregor who destroys is he, Bountiful friend of Church and bards. Of handsome form, of women loved, He of Glenstray of generous men. Easy ’tis to speak of John, His praise to raise loud in the song, Giving his horses and his gold, Just as a king should freely give. King of Heaven, Mary virgin, Keep me as I should be kept; To the great city fearless me bring Where dwells the Father of the king. Bold.
The author of this is the Baron Ewen M’Omie. [216]
Long do I feel my lying here, My health to me is a stranger; Fain would I pay my health’s full price, Were mine the numerous spoils. A spoil of white-haired, heavy cows, A spoil of cows for drink or feasting, I’d give besides the heavy bull, If for my cure I had the price. The herds and flocks of Mannanan,[217] The sword and horn of Mac Cumhail, The trumpet of Manallan[218] I’d give, And the quiver of Cuchullin, Ir, Evir, and Eireamon,[219] And were I to possess them, The harp of Curcheoil,[220] which hid men’s grief, The shield of the King of Golnor.[221] Lomond’s[222] ship of greatest fame, Had I it upon the strand, All I’ve seen I’d freely give, Ere as now I’d long remain. Long to me appears the coming Of Alexander Mac Intosh, That my disease he might drive away, And thus I might no longer lie. Long.
No Author. [223]
For the race of Gael, from the land of Greece There is no place where they can rest; Doubtless thou would’st much prefer To raise the Gaelic race on high. Now that thou risest ’gainst the Saxon, Let not thy rising be a soft one; Have your swords with sharpened blades, Let your spears stand by your sides, Let us not forsake our country, Let us fiercely, bravely fight. It is said by the Gael of Banva,[224] Our fathers did the tale repeat, And I have heard there was a time, Long ago, that Innis Aingin[225] Was ruled by the Fomorian[226] race, Who raised from it a heavy tax. Thus for a while the Saxons have Our country burdened heavily; And now each clan is full of fear, And we are plunged in grievous doubt. But now that a gathering’s begun, There’s need that chiefs should rouse them up; For with them, ’tis my opinion, We will share a common fate. Who is the man, whom we can tell, Will from the Saxon save the Gael? Who in our day has won much fame, And whose house is truly noble? Know a man, were he but willing, Of whom we readily might tell, His power in Banva widely known, Men all bound with him to gather. Archibald of the pointed head, Of thee it is that men now speak. Earl of Argyle,[227] I thee beseech, Be as a hero in the conflict; A hero who shall reign supreme O’er Gael from the famous land; Noble, high-born prince of the Gael, Thou’lt in apportioned Albin reign. Hero, who’ll desert no fight, With sword, so long as right remains, Who for the Gael from Greece, subjection Ne’er suffer would at Saxon’s hand. The very roots from whence they grow, Pluck them that thou may’st us deliver; Suffer not a Saxon hence to live, After that thou overcom’st them. Burn all their women, ugly in form; Burn their children, every one; Burn their black huts, burn them all; And crush their enmity to us. Drown their warriors in their streams, When their accoutrements are burnt. Cease not, while a Saxon lives, To drown them weakened in their streams. Remember thou, of ruddy cheeks, The claims we on the Saxon have; Oppression and beggary all thy days, When that their oppression throve. Remember thy own father Colin;[228] Remember Archibald,[229] father to him; Remember Duncan,[230] the prosperous, He who was liberal and friendly; Remember thou that other Colin;[231] Remember Archibald[232] as well; Remember Colin[233] first of all, He who was brave amongst the Gael. Remember that they never gave Their tax from terror of the Saxon; Much more it now belongs to thee To see that thou bear’st not this tax. Now that there is but thy sire’s blood, Of Gael from the famous land, Let the men together come, Let them fill with fear their foes. Let them attack the Saxon now, Wake thee up then, son of Colin, Golden-haired one, war is begun, ’Tis not good to sleep too much. Great.
The author of this is Duncan Mac Dougall Maoil. [234]
The history of the secret origin of John Mac Patrick,[235] Why should I conceal it? What belongs to his race is not feeble, The bearing of that race we love. Seldom of a feeble race it is, Among the Gael of purest fame, That inquiry of their origin is made, By the men who read in books. Firm the belief to them and me, During the evening time so dark, That in the blood of noble kings Were the rights of true clan Gregor. Now that I’m by thy green dwelling, Listen, John, to thy family story: A root of the very root we are, Of famous kings of noble story. Know that Patrick was thy father, Malcom father was to Patrick. Son of black John, not black his breast, Him who feasts and chariots owned. Another John was black John’s father, Son of Gregor, son of John the lucky. Three they were of liberal heart, Three beneficent to the Church. The father to that learned John, Was Malcom, who his wealth ne’er hid, Son of Duncan, surly and small, Whose standard never took reproach. His father was another Duncan, Son of Gillelan of the ambush, Noble he was, giving to friends, Son of the famous Hugh from Urquhay. Kennan[236] of the pointed spear, Of Hugh from Urquhay was the father. From Alpin,[237] of stately mien and fierce, Mighty king of weighty blows. This is the fourth account that’s given Of thee, who art the heir of Patrick. Remember well thy back-bone line, Down from Alpin, heir of Dougal. Twenty and one, besides thyself, John the black, not black in heart. Thy genealogy leads us truly To the prosperous Fergus M’Erc. Of thy race, which wastes not like froth, Six generations wore the crown. Forty kings there were and three, Their blood and origin are known. Three there were north and three to the south,[238] After the time of Malcom Kenmore. Ten of the race did wear the crown, From the time of Malcom up to Alpin. From Alpin upwards we do find Fourteen kings till we reach Fergus. Such is thy genealogy To Fergus,[239] son of Erc the prosperous. How many are there of thy race, Must have been from thee to Fergus! Noble the races mix with thy blood, Such as now we cannot number. The schools[240] would weary with our tale, Numbering the kings from whom thou’rt sprung. The blood of Arthur[241] is in thy bosom, Precious is that which fills thy veins; The blood of Cuan, the blood of Conn,[242] Two wise men, glory of the race. The blood of Grant in thy apple-red cheek, The blood of Neil, the fierce and mighty. Fierce and gentle, at all times, Is the story of the royal race. The history.
The author of this is Mac Eachag. [243]
Displeased am I with the south wind, Which hinders the coming of John,[244] And that he is kept away out, On his way from the north to M’Leod. Janet’s son, of whitest sails, Well would he like to cross the sea; But the south wind will not listen To John, William’s son of swift steeds. By night or by day as I sleep, From the beach I see to the north, The rushing bark of whitest sails, The bark of him who stays defeat. This is the fame which every man Awards to M’William from Clar Sgith,[245] An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth, One who for aught he did ne’er mourned. This is the eighth day without John, Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye; Like he is in mien and strength To the great house of liberal heart. Cheerful he is, does nought conceal, Such is the fame of sharp-armed John. In battle’s day he takes the lead, Ever ready fame to win. William’s son, my foster child, Son to Janet, royal her race, Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north, All my gloom would disappear.
The author of this is Mac Gillindak, [246] the man of songs.
Lords have precedence of chiefs, It has been so from the beginning; It is commendable in young men, That each should have knowledge of this. The first who was lord of this land Was Duncan beg (little) of the great soul, He who as a legacy has left Their bravery to clan Gregor. Duncan, great by many spoils, Was the blessed father of Malcom; Grandfather he was to princely John, Him who never broke his pledge. Gregor, excellent son of Duncan, Was son to John, and was his heir; Famous man he was of the country, From the bright shore of Loch Tullich,[247] Swarthy John, so pure in speech, Princely son of John M’Gregor, Hunter of the well-formed deer, He like a king aye led the fight. Malcom of unbending truth, Know thou John, succeeds his father, Southwards in fair Glenurchay, Handsome he was amongst its valleys. The first place ’mong their ancestors Is given by the Saxon to clan Gregor, Of whom were three chiefs loved the hunt, And were most active in the fight. In the days of Conn of hundred battles, I heard of something like this, Of Finn of spears and sharp sword, Cumhal’s son of famous deeds: That of Erin the hunting and lordship Belonged to Mac Cumhal of long locks, Patrimony and lordship he hadn’t Over the lands of the race of Gaul. Forest right they had all his life, From Kerry north to Carn Valair. But he possessed the old rights Which previously were his. From Hallowmas on to Beltin, His Feinn had all the rights. The hunting without molestation, Was theirs in all the forests. Many the tributes I cannot tell, Belonged to Finn and his men. Tribute in Erin possessed By Mac Cumhail from the forests. A noble’s forest right to the Feinn, On the banks of every stream. But Malcom’s large tributes Did not belong to Mac Muirn;[248] Finn himself would never hunt Without first asking leave. The hunting of Scotland, without leave, Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom. Constant in the hunt together Are M’Gregor and his fierce men; No oftener did the blood-red hounds Enter the fort of clan Boisgne. A fighting band of chieftains Arose with him in battle’s day, Men whose dress sparkled with gold, Men who conquered in the fight. The head of clans and of huntsmen Is the common fame of his race. No trial of bravery or skill Will show weakness in M’Gregor. Many in his halls are found together, Men who carried well-sharped swords, Red gold glittered on their hilts, The arms of the lion of Loch Awe. Harmonious music among harps, Men with dice-boxes in their hands, Those who leave the game of tables, Go and lead forth the hounds. Mac Gregor of red-pointed palms, Son of Dervail, the Saxon’s terror, No hand like his amidst the fight, He ’tis that ever victory won. Liberal he ever was to bards, Gifts which Mac Lamond[249] knows to earn. Famous for managing his hounds, A hand so ready with its gifts. Mary, who stands by his side, Of noble mind and handsome form, Poets unite to give her praise, Her with cheeks as berries red. Lords.
The author of this is Finlay, the red-haired bard. [250]
The one demon of the Gael is dead, A tale ’tis well to remember, Fierce ravager of Church and cross, The bald-head, heavy, worthless boar. First of all from hell he came, The tale’s an easy one to tell, Armed with the devil’s venomous spear. But he was surely, firmly bound, Ere quitting the black house of hell, To the same stronghold to return, And leave the Star of Paradise. Then, when came the black skinned boar, Many the devils in his train, Each of them with horrid sound, Their voices all in one loud strain. Lest that he should nothing have, It was apportioned by Mac Ruarie,[251] As a covenant firmly fixed, That in hell he’d live a dog. Righteous and just is now the claim Which Allan has against the devils. Whatever share may be their own, He, I think, should have much glory. ’Tis time to cease now from that band, Of horrid sounds, and cruel heart. Mac Ruarie from the ocean far, Wealth thou’st got without an effort. ’Tis a report we can’t neglect, For with Columba I must meet, ’Tis a report that fills the land, Bald-head Allan, thou so faithless, That thou hast, not thine only crime, Ravaged I[252] and Relig[253] Oran. Fiercely didst thou then destroy Priests’ vestments and vessels for the mass. Thou art Inche Gall’s[254] great curse, Her revenue and stronghold spoil’st; Thou art the man whose heart is worst Of all who followed have thy chief, Save one who stands at his left hand, And he, Mac Ruarie, is thy brother. Now thy fight we never hear, But from the cross we hear thee cursed; The two are good who are about thee, Black indeed they are in form. At the time thou first mad’st war, There was the Abbot’s horrid corpse, Besides that other lawless raid Against Finan[255] in Glengarry. Thine own cruel, hateful deeds, Have cursed thy bald-head body, Allan, Just as crime will always do, Revenge itself on who commits it. The country side, with its protest, Has stamped mad rage on Allan’s face. Thine own country and thy friends, Thou hast cruelly oppressed. The last of thy goodness was lost Between the Sheil and the Hourn, ’Tis no wonder thou didst keep Far away, Allan, from the gallows. The fame which men had given thee, Extends to thy mother and thy sister. Time it is to cease from satire, Worthless, cruel son of Ruarie. Though learning which helps not manners, The sound of thy wailing is pleasant. The one demon.
The son has been found like his father,[256] Above all chiefs whom we have known, His bearing, countenance, and mind, And with me he dwells in Lewis. The knowledge and mind of a chief, With which he’ll make prosperous times. I say of this young son we’ve got, That he is just another Roderick;[257] How like each other are their locks, His father’s honour to his ringlets. In battle, too, how like the praise Of Torquil[258] and his famous father. Of all that in Torquil’s time may come, None of his friends shall suffer loss, Great deeds and victories will be, Such as Mac Calman[259] may relate. Many his gifts which we might praise, Torquil of the famous race; His are a hero’s strength and vigour, Which he brings into the fight. I say of him, and say in truth, Since I have come so well to know him, That never was there of his age Better king who ruled in Lewis. To him belonged the “Cairge mhordha,”[260] The richest jewel sailed the sea, Given it was to Mac Vic Torquil, With which to reach his people’s land. Mac Ruarie of cheerful music, Had also the old cleaving sword, Another jewel of sure effect, ’Twas given him by the King of Aineach.[261] Since he so many presents had, ’Twas needless for him to go and seek. A shield he had cleft in the head, Another jewel, sounding loud. Without he had a noble herd Of horses, with their trappings red; ’Twouldn’t suit a man like him Not to have many swift-paced steeds. His was the Du Seivlin, M’Leod’s, whom the bards would sing. ’Twas hard for those to take that horse, Whoe’er they were that might him seek. Torquil had many youths Who never trembled in battle, Who for his race seized on all lands, A race that aye the conflict loved. Not braver of his age was Cuchullin, Not hardier was he than Torquil, Him of the ready, vigorous arm, Who boldly breaks through any breach. Beloved though Mac Vic Torquil is, I can’t enough his beauty praise; He who is fair as he is the brave, The key to every woman’s heart. There is no son of king or chief Of whose fame we’ve ever heard, Though we’ve had much to do with such, That better are to us than Torquil. Catherine,[262] daughter of Mac Cailen, Whose soft hand’s worthy of thy race, Daughter of the Earl of Argyle, Best of the women we have found. To our isle we’ve got a woman, Branch of a great and famous tree. Daughter of Mac Cailen, young and gentle, Whose locks in flowing ringlets fall. The son.
The author of this is Gilliecalum Mac an ollave. [263]
The cause of my sorrow is come, This year has not prospered with me; Foolish who cannot understand How my grief has on me come; He who cannot understand How my grief has come at once; Since these wounds my body got, Such wounds I’ve got I mourn. Pleasant now, though bitter too, To mourn my sad distress; Sorrow fills my inmost heart, Great was my love for him who’s gone; My heart is broken in twain, No wonder it should be so; My body has neither flesh nor blood, Like a strengthless sufferer. ’Tis no wonder if I so grieve For Margaret’s[264] son who now is gone, Remembering all his virtues, And that chiefless we are left. Sore is the loss that he is gone, Now that in the world we’re weak, My grief now that thy days are ended, Is the injury done by Angus.[265] Though it be hard for me to part With John’s[266] son of sweetest speech, What is worst of all is this, That ne’er to his place he’ll return. Though I were from happiness far, Pursued by my foes’ reproach, Whatever good might me o’ertake, From them never would I buy. No wonder though heavy my heart, As another lord’s seen in thy place, That my whole man should be feeble, Now that my king is dead. Bitter is my pain since he left, ’Tis easy the tale to relate, ’Tis hard my great sorrow to bear, For the hero so famous who’s gone. Great is my grief, and no wonder, My mourning is true, sincere; That which sorely has me pained, Is that in Albin we’ve no race.[267] Now since that I must leave, As others with reproach me load, Since he is dead, I fain would go, Away from the rough isles of Albin. Yet ’tis sore for me to leave, Although I feel that go I must, Now that my beloved is dead, My country I must leave behind. Last of all, what grieves me is, And truly the cause is enough, That my beloved will not return, To Islay on this side of Innis.[268] And then, besides, it is so sad, That this during his time should come, Wringing hearts, and bodies rending, Without revenge being in our power. No men on earth could think How ready he was foes to crush, ’Twas nothing both for us and thee That champions should come against us. But thy foes now have pierced thee, Pity we had not with thee died, Fair-handed, sweet-voiced son of Mary, That we should have none to help. He of the fairest countenance, Our loss is not to follow him. All the fame thou didst enjoy, Was such as to thy race belonged, They who had the long curled locks, Whose company men loved much. Now their hearts are sore depressed, Every comfort poor without thee. ’Twould be hard to find one like me, And that from my lord I had, The fellowship of priests and poets; These are plenty, but his hand absent. When others to the banquet go, Of the honour my share is this, Ever to mourn in grief unchanged, And of sorrow drink my fill. ’Tis sad for me I do not follow, Much his absence do we grieve; And then o’er that which makes me mourn, Many the other men who weep. Many the men before our time, Who by sorrow were brought low; And what I’ve said does find its proof, In a tale I’ve told before. “I’ve heard a tale of old,” etc.[269] As follows in another place. The fellow of this noble man, Foster-son of Caoimh and Conull.
Blind Arthur Mac Gurkich. [270]
The assembled fleet at Castle Sween, Pleasant tidings in Innisfail, Of all the riders of the waves, A finer ship no man e’er owned. Tall men did manage the ship, Men, I think, to urge their way; No hand without a champion, A slashing, vigorous, noble band. With coats of black all were supplied, In this bark, noble their race, Bands with their brown, broad belts, Danes and nobles were they all. Chieftains with ivory and gold, The crew on board this brown-sailed ship, Each with a sheaf of warriors’ spears, Shields on their hooks hung round the sides. Wide-spread wings, speckled sails, Bearing purple, all of gems; A long, handsome, gentle band, Stood along the stout-made spars. The blue sea at the swift ship’s prow, The ship laden when the tide is full; Wattled baskets full of swords, With shields all brought on board the bark. Fair women, too, were in the ship, Modest, their beds were placed on high, Spotted cushions were provided, Couches for the nobles’ wives. Spotted coverings of fine linen, This was the covering of the ship; Handsome, easy, as she rocked, Purple linen round each mast. No hardened hands, no tightened belt, Nor roughened by their usual toil; Heroes were there, nor did they labour, Bands of men of sweetest lips. We heard not of so many nobles, Of our isle from labour free; From Erin princely champions, A troop with soft and ruddy hair. Not ship of all did she count swifter, None has there been nor will be, No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief, Nor is there any end of all. No ship of ships she counted swift, Full of princely men she is, Scattering gold among the bards, While round the ship resounds the sea. Many the men of sword and spear, Many men quick in fight to mix; Down by the sea the fighting men, Above, the gentle women were. Who is he provides this fleet, At Castle Sween[271] of many hills? A vigorous man who fears no blast, His masts upraised, seeking his right. John M’Sween,[272] sail thou the ship, On the ocean’s fierce-topped back; Raise aloft the vessel’s masts, Let thy bark now test the sea. A leading wind then for them rose, At Kyle Aca[273] as rose the tide; The speckled sails were roundly bellied, As John ran swiftly for the land. We entered the cheerful anchorage In the bay of fruitful Knapdale;[274] The noble hero, lordly, shapely, Comely, masted, swift, victorious, He was then near Albin’s walls, Helpful, welcoming his men. Fair was then the youthful hero, Abundant dew distilling round, Favourable at Slieve Mun’s[275] streams, To Mac Sween, him of Slieve Mis. Speakers then come near to ask, They deal as with him of sharpest eye. Branches are laid beneath their knees, To welcome those of valour great. Their safety in each harbour nook Suffers from the welcome they give John. The men of Albin’s isles then come With welcome from the narrow sea. The men who sweetest are that sing, Tenfold welcomes to him bring. For a while there was a conflict, Between them and our men of song; They come at last to know full well, How fair the hill from whence came John. Then did we fight at Castle Sween, Just as a slender, furious hawk, We set us down around that rock, Every limb endowed with strength. We pierced the bodies of our foes, Just as a serpent fiercely wounds; Our thin-bladed, well-edged swords, The foreigners’ bodies fiercely hacked. We raised the cry of great Mac Sween, Amidst the rolling of the sea; True it is that roll won’t help, Broad-backed, long although it be, Their javelins have no power to pierce The shields which our brown coats protect. Rathlin of the sharp rocks, hears The music of our ringing swords. The thin-bladed sword, in Europe best, A spear that swift obeys the wish, What shield on earth can it resist? Fierce and fearless Erin’s sons. John Mac Sween of stratagems, With his thin, powerful, cutting sword, He whose shield is spotted brown, A blind man found him brave and wise. The assembled fleet.
Isabella Ni vic Cailein. [276]
Pity whose complaint is love, Whate’er my reason thus to speak, ’Tis hard to separate from its object, Sad’s the condition I am in. The love which I in secret gave, Of which I’d better never speak, Unless I quickly get relief, Withered and thin I’ll soon become. The man whom I have so loved, A love I never must confess; Has me put in lasting bonds, For me a hundred times ’tis pity. Pity.
The author of this is Duncan Og. [277]
Seven arrows me assail, Each of the arrows does me wound; Between me and my God they come, Such of my body is the desire. The first one of these is Pride, Which wounds me under my belt, Often of a triumph it has me spoiled, Which otherwise I might obtain. The second arrow is Lust, To whose power I’m such a slave; Since this shaft trait’rously has me pierced, I cannot live beyond its reach. The third of these arrows is one Which pierces ’midst my very joints; Laziness, which suffers not That I the right way e’er should chuse. The fourth arrow is Covetousness, O God, ’tis mournful where it wounds; Deliverance I can never have From this load of earth upon my back. The fifth of these shafts is Gluttony, Which has brought me much reproach; Besides that it pains my self-respect, From it my body is not free. The sixth sore arrow of them all Is Anger, which me from men divides; May Mary stay them when they’re shot, Otherwise I have no help. The seventh shaft does pierce the eye, Envy, which grudges others’ good; A shaft which, however we may feel, Is one which never does us good. When these in his hand the enemy takes, Many they are by’s arms destroyed; He never shoots but what he strikes, And never strikes but what he kills. Son of God, I’ll place a pater, And the apostles’ creed as well, Between me and these wounding arms, With five psalms, or six or seven. Seven.
The author is Murdoch Albanach. [278]
’Tis time for me to go to the house of Paradise, While this wound’s not easily borne, Let me win this house, famous, faultless, While others can tell of us nought else. Confess thyself now to the priest, Remember clearly all thy sins; Carry not to the house of the spotless King, Aught that may thee expose to charge. Conceal not any of thy sins, However hateful its evil to tell; Confess what has been done in secret, Lest thou expose thyself to wrath. Make thy peace now with the clergy, That thou may’st be safe as to thy state; Give up thy sin, deeply repent, Lest its guilt be found in thee. Woe to him forsook the Great King’s house, For love of sin, sad is the deed; The sin a man commits in secret, Much is the debt his sin incurs. This is a sermon for Adam’s race, I think I’ve nothing said that’s false, Though men may death for a time avoid, ’Tis true they can’t at length escape. Thou who hast purchased Adam’s race, Their blood, their body, and their heart, The things we cherish may’st thou assail, However we may them pursue. ’Tis time.
The above Murdoch.
That there should be in God’s Son’s heart A sinner like me, how great the tale, And that there should to me be given, On my lips to have the cross of Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, sanctify as thou art wont, My two feet, and my two hands, Sanctify me of thy good will, Even my blood, and flesh, and bones. I never cease committing sin, Because that my body loves it well; May consecration come from afar, Upon my head and on my heart. Glorious great One, save thou me From every grief which me has seized, Ere I’m laid beneath the turf, May my way be plain and smooth. That.
The author of this is Murdoch Albanach.
Thou Trinity, do thou me teach, Thou Lord, whose praise all men must sing, Thou Trinity, come on my tongue, Bless it in thy judgment great. Holy Trinity in the heavens, Strengthen thou my spiritual arms; Come to, and dwell in my heart, Thou head of all thy holy race. Guide thou my hand, and teach my heart, Teach my eye, thou King of truth; Come to my voice, move on my tongue, Quicken my ear, and bless my lips. This is the mouth which ye have torn, Which checks men’s conflicts, nought forgets; This is the tongue that ne’er spared speech, Bless it, Beloved of my soul. From thee, O Trinity, alas! O Trinity, Let healing come, speak thou to me; There is, as in the white-wood oak, In me a sinful, corrupt heart. Though sinful, I never man destroyed, Ne’er did I steal, O Son of God; Never did my hand slay man, For Mary’s love, answer thou me. ’Tis true, I’ve made lying refuges, Deceived by lies of men of fame, Building on others’ lie my lie, O King, shall I in this succeed? Thou who in me prayer begett’st, ’Tis no sin to follow thee; ’Twas neither righteous men nor great, But God a refuge found for me. No man in this world can me teach, But only thou, O Lord, alone, None keepeth truth but heaven’s King, To His wisdom none is like, If I am in the way of truth, My tonsure vow requires it all; If, O Trinity, on a lie I rest, Lead me to the way of truth. Earth or clay shall not me cover, But waves of judgment, little the wrath, Nothing else shall be to hide me, But, O King, burning red-flamed fire. Trinity, thou mad’st this world, Both of fire and of earth; Of earth and fire all men are made, So at the end it will be found.
GENEALOGY OF THE MACGREGORS.
John son of Patrick, son of Malcom, son of John the black, son of John, son of Gregor, son of John, son of Malcom, son of Duncan the little, son of Duncan from Srulee, son of Gilelan, son of Hugh of Urchy, son of Kenneth, son of Alpin; and this Kenneth was head king of Scotland, in truth, at that time; and this John is the eleventh man from Kenneth, of whom I spoke.—And Duncan the servitor, son of Dougal, son of John the grizzled, wrote this from the books of the genealogists of the kings; and it was done in the year of our Lord One thousand five hundred and twelve.