The Highland bagpipe

by W. L. Manson

“DUNTROON’S SALUTE.”

Another tune—“Duntroon’s Salute”—is mixed up with A Cholla mo run in a rather peculiar way, a way that suggests that the origin of the one is somehow being attributed to the other. Sir Alexander Mac Donald, Alister Mac Cholla Chiotaich, so this story goes, made a raid on Argyllshire in 1644 (the dates are irreconcilable with the accepted facts of the two stories), and surrounded Duntroon Castle, with the object of cutting off every person inside in revenge for the murder of his father’s piper. He himself, with a fleet of galleys, besieged the castle from the seaward side, and he ordered his piper to play the “Mac Donalds’ March.” Instead, however, the piper, on the spur of the moment, composed and played a war cry to alarm Duntroon. After saluting Duntroon and wishing him good health, he warned him of his danger, pointed out that the enemy were ready to attack him by sea and land, from right and left and front. The tune was understood on shore and also on board Mac Donald’s boat, and the poor piper was instantly hung from the yard-arm. Mac Donald finding he could not reduce Duntroon, moved northward, following out his work of destruction. The tune composed and played on this occasion is still known as “Duntroon’s Salute,” and that there is some truth in the story is shown by the way in which it seems to represent the sound of waves breaking against rocks. The exact relations between its origin and that of A Cholla mo run would, however, do with a little clearing up. It may be mentioned as a fact that some years ago a body was found buried within Duntroon, which was evidently that of the piper referred to in the tradition. At anyrate his finger bones were awanting, a fact which goes to prove the second Dunivaig story. But how, then, did the piper come to be buried in Duntroon?

“THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING”

dates so far back in the centuries that we fail to trace its origin. It has been the march of the clan for hundreds of years. There is an old Gaelic song sung to the air, which tradition says was the composition of a piper. This piper, in the course of his vocation, was at a wedding in Inveraray, where he was inhospitably treated. Smarting under a sense of injury, he composed the song:—

“I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,

I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,

I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,

Most wretched of weddings, with nothing but shell-fish,”

thus mercilessly lashing his churlish host. The wedding evidently was so poor that all the company got was limpets, and the song is another hit at the poverty of Inveraray. Burns echoed it when he wrote:—

“There’s naething here but Highland pride,

And Highland scab and hunger;

If Providence has sent me here

’Twas surely in his anger.”

The tradition, by the way, was so implicitly believed in, that the playing of the tune at a wedding, up to a comparatively recent date, was regarded as a premeditated insult.

One curious story is told of the tune. Not very many years ago the steamer Cygnet was sailing in a Highland loch when a sailor’s wife gave birth to twins. The fact was noticed more particularly because a few years before, in the same steamer, under the same captain, and at the same place, a similar event had taken place. On the first occasion the mother was a Mrs. Campbell, and, strangely enough, just when the twins were born, a piper on board happened to be playing vigorously “The Campbells are Coming,” quite ignorant of the additions that had just been made to the passenger list.

The tune was played by the 78th Highlanders when coming to the relief of Lucknow, and was that heard by Jessie of Lucknow—if there was such a person—as she lay half asleep on the ground.

CHAPTER XXII.
Some World-Famous Pibrochs.

“Oh, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail,

’Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear,

And her sire and her people are called to the bier.”

—Campbell.

Mac Crimmon’s Lament—Best known of all pipe tunes—Its story—Blackie’s poetry—Scott’s—The war tune of Glengarry—A tragic story—The pibroch o’ Donuil Dhu—Too long in this condition—Pipers and inhospitality—Oh, that I had three hands—Lochaber no more—Allan Ramsay’s verses—An elated Mac Crimmon—Rory Mòr’s Lament—Clan Farlane pibroch—Pipers, poetry, and superstition.

There are several reasons why “Mac Crimmon’s Lament” should be the best known of all pipe tunes, but the most important is the fact that it is, and must ever continue to be, inseparably associated with the famous pipers of Dunvegan. The tune was composed by a piper who was leaving home, and had a presentiment that he would never return, but it has often been used in other circumstances. In the evicting days, when Highlanders were compelled to emigrate from their native shores, the favourite air when they were embarking was

“CHA TILL MI TUILLE”

(I’ll return no more), and on many other mournful occasions the lament of the Mac Crimmons was made the means of expressing the feelings of Highlanders. It was composed in 1746 by Donald Bàn Mac Crimmon, then piper to Mac Leod of Dunvegan. Donald Bàn was considered the best piper of his day, and when the clan left Dunvegan to join the Royalists in 1746, he was deeply impressed with the idea that he himself would never again see the old castle. The parting of the clansmen with their wives and children was sad, and Donald Bàn, thinking of his own sweetheart, poured forth his soul in the sad wail of the Lament, as the Mac Leods were marching away from the castle. The clan afterwards took part in a skirmish, which, from the peculiar circumstances, is known to history as the “Rout of Moy,” and Mac Crimmon was shot close by the side of his chief.

The Gaelic words usually associated with the lament are supposed to have been sung by Donald Bàn’s sweetheart, but they are in all likelihood of much later date. The chorus, however, is probably as old as the tune, but the complete verses first appeared in print in 1835, in a collection of Popular Gaelic Songs by John Mac Kenzie, of the Beauties of Gaelic Poetry, where the words are said to have been taken from an old Skye manuscript. Translated into English they lose much of their plaintive melody, and make but a poor means of conveying an idea of the tune to the non-Gaelic reader:—

“The mountain mist flows deep on Cullin,

The fay sings her elegy sorrowful;

Mild blue eyes in the Duin are in tears,

Since he departed and refused to return.

He returns not, returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon,

From war and conflict the warrior refuses to return.

He returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon would not return,

He will return no more until the day of the last gathering.

The winds of the wold among the boughs are wailing,

Each streamlet and burn is sad on the hills;

The minstrels of the boughs are singing mournfully,

Since he departed and will never return.

He returns not, etc.

The night is clouded, sorrowful and sad,

The birlin under sail, but reluctant to depart,

The waves of the sea have a sound not happy,

Lamenting that he departed and will never return.

He returns not, etc.

Gather will not the tuneful race of Duin in the evening,

While echo with alacrity and joy answers them;

The youths and maidens are without music lamenting

That he departed from us and will never return.

He returns not, etc.”

This is perhaps too literal a rendering. Let us try Professor Blackie’s version. Blackie was an enthusiast for everything Celtic, and beautified everything in Celtic literature that his pen touched. A comparison of the two translations shows this:—

“Round Cullin’s peak the mist is sailing,

The banshee croons her note of wailing,

Mild blue eyes with sorrow are streaming,

For him that shall never return, Mac Crimmon!

No more, no more, no more for ever,

In war or peace, shall return Mac Crimmon;

No more, no more, no more for ever,

Shall love or gold bring back Mac Crimmon.

The breeze on the hills is mournfully blowing,

The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing,

The warblers, the soul of the grove, are mourning

For Mac Crimmon that’s gone with no hope of returning.

No more, etc.

The tearful clouds the stars are veiling,

The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing,

The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning

For Mac Crimmon that’s gone to find no returning.

No more, etc.

No more on the hill at the festal meeting

The pipe shall sound with the festal greeting,

And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning,

For him that’s gone to know no returning.

No more, etc.”

The story of the origin of the tune which I have given is that generally accepted as historically accurate. There is, however, a tradition that after the passing of the Heritable Jurisdiction Bill in 1747 practically abolished the office of hereditary piper, Donald Dubh Mac Crimmon, the last of the race, who died in 1822 at the age of ninety-one, composed the lament on his departure for Canada. The sentiment is hardly that which one might expect from a departing emigrant, but rather what a piper might give expression to on leaving for the wars, a fact which tells against the tradition. Nevertheless, the tune has been turned into an emigrant’s farewell on many occasions, and the last verse of Sir Walter Scott’s composition connected with the tune, shows that the poet accepted the air as such, to some extent at least:—

Mac Leod’s wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,

The rowers are seated, unmoor’d are the galleys;

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,

As Mac Crimmon sings ‘Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!

Farewell to each cliff on which breakers are foaming;

Farewell each dark glen in which red deer are roaming,

Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,

Mac Leod may return, but Mac Crimmon shall never!

‘Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;

Farewell the bright eyes in the dun that are weeping;

To each minstrel delusion farewell—and for ever—

Mac Crimmon departs to return to you never!

The banshee’s wild voice sings the death dirge before me,

The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o’er me;

But my heart shall not flag and my nerve shall not shiver,

Though devoted I go—to return again never!

‘Too oft shall the note of Mac Crimmon’s bewailing

Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;

Dear land! to the shores whence unwilling we sever;

Return—return—return we shall never!

‘Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille!

Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille,

Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille,

Ged thilleas Mac Leod, bheò Mac Criomain.’

Some stories, by the way, state that Mac Crimmon himself composed the words to suit the air, and others that they were composed by his sweetheart at Dunvegan on hearing him playing the new lament when the clan was leaving the castle. Still others would have it that the sweetheart’s song was another, composed in response to that of Mac Crimmon.

The phrase, Cha till mi tuille, is also associated with the story of the piper who tried to explore a cave in Mull, which was given in a previous chapter. The people of Skye claim the story, and say this piper was a Mac Crimmon, but the legend is not supposed to give the origin of the phrase. Cha till mi tuille was used on many occasions as an extempore expression of feeling on the part of a piper without any reference to the particular tune, “Mac Crimmon’s Lament.”

If “Mac Crimmon’s Lament” is associated with a departure for the wars, there is another tune associated very closely with war itself—so closely, indeed, that, according to the accepted story of its origin, it was composed while one of the most cruel deeds ever done in the name of warfare was being perpetrated.

“GILLIECHROIST” or “KILLYCHRIST”

is the war tune of Glengarry, and its origin—mythical according to some writers—is as follows:—

About the beginning of the seventeenth century there lived in Glengarry a famous character named Allan Mac Ranald, of Lundie. He was a man of great strength, activity, and courage, and, living as he did at a time when the feuds between the Mac Kenzies and the Mac Donalds were at their height, he invariably led any expedition that set out from Glengarry. In these fighting days young Angus Mac Donald, of Glengarry, anxious to distinguish himself, determined—though against the advice of his father—to lead a raid into the country of the Mac Kenzies. He surprised and defeated the Mac Kenzies, but on their way home by sea the Mac Donalds were in their turn attacked by the Mac Kenzies, and defeated with great slaughter. Angus Mac Donald was among the slain, and Allan of Lundie only escaped with his life by leaping into the sea at Loch Hourn, where the battle took place, and swimming ashore at another place. Allan was determined to be avenged, and not long after he led a strong party of Mac Donalds to the lands of Killychrist, near Beauly. He found the Mac Kenzies totally unprepared, burned their lands, destroyed their crops, and finally mercilessly set fire to a church in which a large congregation were worshipping, driving back at the point of the sword all who attempted to escape. Meantime he ordered Alister Dubh, his piper, to play so as to drown the cries of the perishing people. Alister thereupon blew up loud and shrill, and, after making his instrument give utterance to a long succession of wild and unconnected notes without any apparent meaning, he began his march round the church, playing extemporaneously the pibroch which, under the name of “Killychrist,” has since been used as the war tune of the Mac Donells of Glengarry. For a short time the terrible sounds from the inside of the church mingled with the music of the pipes, but they gradually became fainter, and at last ceased altogether.

Allan and his comrades had little time to enjoy their victory, for the Mac Kenzies soon gathered in overwhelming numbers, and, finding the Mac Donells resting on a flat near Mealfourvonie, known as “the marsh of blood,” they attacked them with great fury, and pursued them to Loch Ness. Allan was again one of the few who escaped.

The story of the burning in the church has been altogether discredited, but it is admitted that there was a raid, and that a large number of cottages, as well as the manse of Killychrist, were burnt. None of the earlier writers, however, mention the burning of the congregation. The music itself also contradicts somewhat the traditional origin of the tune, for when it is properly played the listener can fancy he hears the flames rustling and blazing through the timbers, mingled with the angry remonstrances and half-smothered shouts of the warriors, but there is no representation of the more feeble plaints of women and children, as there would surely have been had these been among the victims. However, I give the story for what it is worth.

“PIOBAIREACHD DHOMHNUILL DUIBH”

is one of the oldest and best known of pipe tunes. It is said to have been played at the Battle of Inverlochy in 1431, and it is first found on paper in Oswald’s Caledonian Pocket Companion, published in 1764, where it is entitled Piobaireachd Mhic Dhonuill. Afterward it appeared in the book compiled by Captain Mac Leod of Gesto, from which it was translated in 1815 into ordinary notation by the editor of Albyn’s Anthology. Its first printed heading strengthens the title of the Mac Donalds, who claim the tune for their clan, but the words Donull Dubh are accepted as referring to Cameron of Lochiel, and the tune is known as “Lochiel’s March.” The chief of the Camerons bears the name Mac Dhomhnuill Duibh, or son of Black Donald. The air, which is the march of the 79th or Cameron Highlanders, is a call to arms, and is inseparably associated with Inverlochy, but whether composed and played on the field or only in commemoration of the battle cannot now be determined. The English words are by Sir Walter Scott, and first appeared in 1816:—

“Pibroch o’ Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch o’ Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil;

Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons,

Come in your war array,

Gentles and Commons.

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky,

The war pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy;

Come every hill plaid, and

True heart that wears one;

Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one;

Leave untended the herd, and

The flock without shelter,

The corpse uninterr’d,

The bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges;

Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded;

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster!

Chief, vassal, page, and groom!

Tenant and master!

Fast they come, fast they come;

See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch o’ Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!”

“IS FADA MAR SO THA SINN,”

which may be translated “Too Long in this Condition,” is an old pibroch, dating from about 1712. It was composed either by Donald Mòr Mac Crimmon or by Patrick, his son. Donald was compelled at one time, because of some depredations of his own, to flee for his life into Sutherlandshire. There he put up unrecognised at the house of a relative named Mac Kay, who was getting married that day. Mac Crimmon sat down in a corner almost unnoticed, but when the piper began to play he unconsciously fingered his stick as if it were the chanter. The piper of the evening noticed this, and asked him to play for them. Donald said he could not, and the whole company asked him, and he again refused. At last the piper said: “I am getting seven shillings and sixpence for playing at this marriage. I’ll give you one-third if you will play.” Donald then took up the pipe and began:—

“Too long are we thus, too long are we thus,

Too long in this condition,

Too long lacking meat or drink,

At Mac Kay’s marriage am I.”

These lines he repeated three times, and concluded by adding—

“At the house of Mac Kay am I.”

He played so well that all present knew him to be the great Donald Mòr Mac Crimmon, and as he made his pipes speak to them they understood his complaint, and he was then royally entertained.

The pibroch is also said to have been composed by Patrick Mòr Mac Crimmon on his being taken prisoner, along with many others, at the battle of Worcester, and being left in a pitiable state. It is also associated with the same piper and the battle of Sheriffmuir, where he was left stripped of all his clothing, but it is impossible to say which, if either, is right.

Want of hospitality towards a piper gave rise to another tune. It is called

“THE MISERLY, MISERABLE ONE’S HOUSE,”

and its origin, as told to the late “Nether Lochaber” by an old Loch Awe-side piper, was as follows:—

Some two or three hundred years ago, when the great Clan Campbell was at the height of its power, the estate of Barbreck was owned by a Campbell, who was brother or cousin or something of another Campbell, the neighbouring laird of Craignish. Craignish kept a piper, but Barbreck did not. Barbreck could afford to keep one, but he grudged the expense, and his stinginess in this respect is commemorated in an Argyllshire saying—“What I cannot afford I must do without, as Barbreck did without a piper.”

Barbreck one day was on a visit to Craignish, and as he was leaving he met the piper, and said to him—“The New Year is approaching. On New-Year’s Day morning, when you have played the proper salute to my cousin, your master, I wish you would come over to Barbreck and play a New-Year’s salute to me, for, as you know, I have no piper of my own to do it. Come and spend the day with us.” This the piper promised to do, and on New Year’s Day morning, after first playing his master into good humour, he went to Barbreck. He played and played until the laird was in raptures, but the piper became hungry and thirsty, and hinted as much to Barbreck. He got some food, but it was not satisfactory, either in quantity or quality. The drinkables were no better, and long before the sun set the piper was anxious to go home. “Give us one more tune before you go,” said Barbreck. “That I will,” said the piper, and there and then he struck up impromptu Tigh Bhroinein—the House of the Miserly One. The following are some of the lines attached to the tune from the very first, whether by the piper himself or by another is not known:—

“I was in the house of the miserly one to-day,

In the house of the miserly one was I;

I went by invitation thither,

But I got no sufficiency (of meat or drink).

I got a drink of meal gruel there,

And got bad barley scones;

I got the leg of a hen there,

And, by my troth, she was a poor and tough one.

This is an invitation that has annoyed me,

I will leave this to-night

Without (I may say) food or drink

I will leave thee, Barbreck;

Nor will I return any more

To play thee a piobaireachd salute.”

The translation is too literal to be poetry, but one can imagine how Barbreck must have felt. He had better have done without that last tune.

“OH, THAT I HAD THREE HANDS!”

is associated with at least two incidents in Highland history. Towards the end of the thirteenth century a dispute arose between Mac Cailein Mòr, chief of the Clan Campbell, and Mac Dougall of Lorne, chief of the Mac Dougalls, with reference to the boundaries of their estates. The parties met at a spot where two streams unite, and fell to recrimination and ultimately to fighting like tigers. The slaughter was terrible, and the streams ran with blood and were crowded with the bodies of the slain. Ultimately Mac Cailein Mòr was killed, and his followers ceased the fighting to carry off his body. Close to the battlefield there was a small conical hillock—called in the Gaelic Tom-a-Phiobair, the Piper’s Hillock—on the top of which the piper of the Campbells stood and played while the battle raged. Sympathising with the Mac Dougalls, and regretting the havoc made among them, he composed on the spot a pipe tune, the purport of which was:—

“My loss! my loss! that I have not three hands,

Two engaged with the pipe and one with the sword,

My loss! my loss! that I have not three hands,

Two engaged with the pipe and one with the sword;

My loss! my loss! low lies yonder

Mac Dougall, with his pipe, whose sound was soft and sweet to me.”

This hardly indicates whether the piper would, had he three hands, have fought with the Mac Dougalls against his own clan, but, at anyrate, the Campbells, seeing that this was not one of their own tunes, were so enraged that one of them ran to the piper and chopped off his head. It is said that the piper’s fingers played three or four notes on the chanter while his head was toppling to the ground.

This story belongs to the same class as those relating to the battles of Philiphaugh and Bothwell Bridge, given in a previous chapter. The resemblance, indeed, is too striking to be a coincidence, and the three have probably at some time or other been one story. The other incident connected by tradition with the tune is that already related of a cave in either Skye or Mull, into which a venturesome piper entered. He never returned, but the last wailing notes of his pipes told that he was being hard beset with wolves, who threatened to tear him to pieces should he stop playing. So he played mournfully:—

“Oh, that I had three hands!

Two for the pipes and one for the sword,”

the inference being that in that case he could have kept on playing and fought the wolves at the same time.

The tune nearly always played at Highland funerals is

“LOCHABER NO MORE.”

It was composed to Jane, daughter of Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel, by a young English officer on his being ordered back from the Highlands to join his regiment. Jane Cameron was afterwards married to Lachlan Mac Pherson of Cluny, thus bringing over the tune to the Mac Phersons. The traditional account is entirely different. According to it a party of marauders from Lochaber, consisting of forty to fifty men, reached, one autumn afternoon, the summit of a hill immediately above Glenesk, the most northerly parish of Forfarshire. They meant to make a raid on the valley, but lay down to rest until after dusk. They were, however, seen by some shepherds, who gave the alarm, and in the evening the inhabitants of the glen were all under arms for the protection of their property. After dusk the invaders descended, and in the battle that ensued five of the defenders were killed and ten taken prisoners. Prisoners and cattle were driven to the Highlands. The men returned next year after a ransom of fifteen merks had been paid for each, but the cattle were never seen again. A ballad giving these particulars was long popular in the glen, but nothing now remains of it except the last words of each verse—“Lochaber no more.” Allan Ramsay wrote lines for the air, but they contain nothing of the spirit of the traditional origin. They are obviously based on the historical account:—

“Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,

Where heartsome with thee I’ve mony day been;

For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,

We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more.

Those tears that I shed, they’re a’ for my dear,

And no for the dangers attending on weir,

Tho’ borne on rough seas to a far, bloody shore,

Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Tho’ hurricanes arise and rise every wind,

They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind;

Tho’ loudest of thunder on loudest waves roar,

That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore.

To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain’d,

By ease that’s inglorious no fame can be gained;

And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave,

And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;

Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?

Without it I ne’er can have merit for thee,

And without thy favour I’d better not be.

I gae, then, my lass, to win honour and fame,

And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,

I’ll bring thee a heart with love running o’er,

And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no more.”

It is only fair to add that the tune, under another name, is said to have been a favourite Irish air in London in the time of Queen Elizabeth. If this was so, the explanation probably is that the Irish who came to Scotland, and the Scots who went to Ireland, each carried their music with them, and that there are many tunes common to both peoples.

“I HAVE HAD A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND.”

Pipers of old times always had “a guid conceit o’ themsel’s,” and Patrick Mòr Mac Crimmon, who flourished in 1660, was no exception to the rule. His master, Roderick Mac Leod of Mac Leod, went to London after the Restoration to pay his homage to Charles II., and was very warmly received. He had taken his piper with him, and the King was so pleased with his fine appearance and his music that he allowed Mac Crimmon to kiss his hand. Patrick was highly elated over this, and commemorated the honour that had been paid him by composing the tune Fhŭair mi pòg o laimh an Righ, which, to those acquainted with the language and music, seems to speak forth the pride and gratitude of the performer, the words expressed by the opening measure being:—

“I have had a kiss, a kiss, a kiss,

I have had a kiss of the King’s hand;

No one who blew in a sheep’s skin

Has received such honour as I have.”

“RORY MOR’S LAMENT.”

Sir Roderick Mac Leod of Dunvegan, who died somewhere about 1630, was a man of noble spirit, celebrated for great military prowess and resource. His hospitality was unbounded, and he was in all respects entitled to be called Mòr or great, in all the qualities that went to constitute a great Highland chief and leader of men. The Gaelic bards were enthusiastic in his praises, and his piper, Patrick Mòr Mac Crimmon—the same Mac Crimmon presumably—taking his death very much to heart, could not live at Dunvegan afterwards. Shouldering his great pipe, he made for his own house at Boreraig, composing and playing as he went Cumha Ruaraidh Mhoir (Rory Mòr’s Lament), which is considered the most melodious, feeling, and melancholy lament known. The following are some of the words, translated by “Fionn”:—

“Give me my pipes, I’ll home them carry,

In these sad halls I dare not tarry,

My pipes hand o’er, my heart is sore,

For Rory Mor, my Rory Mor.

Fetch me my pipes, my heart is breaking,

For Rory Mor his rest is taking,

He walks no more, and to its core

My heart is sore for Rory Mor.

Give me my pipes, I’m sad and weary,

These halls are silent, dark, and eerie,

The pipe no more cheers as of yore,

Thy race is o’er, brave Rory Mor.”

“THE CLAN FARLANE PIBROCH.”

A Faust-like story is told of Andrew, chief of the Clan Mac Farlane, and the supposed composer of the “Clan Farlane Pibroch.” Andrew and Alastair, chiefs of the Mac Donells of Keppoch, were credited with having “the black art.” They were said to have sold their souls to the devil in exchange for their supernatural powers. They seem to have driven a rather peculiar bargain, for the understanding was that the devil should get only one of their souls, the chiefs to decide between themselves which it would be. The appointed day and hour came on which the debt was to be paid, and still the chiefs, though they had come to the trysting place, had not decided which soul was to be given up. When the devil came he was in a desperate hurry, and at once exclaimed, “Well, and whose soul do I get?” On the spur of the moment Mac Donell pointed to Mac Farlane’s shadow, saying, “That’s he,” whereupon the devil snatched up the shadow and ran off with it. From that day Mac Farlane was never known to cast a shadow.

As to the tune itself, Sir Walter Scott supposes it had a close connection with the predatory excursions of the clan into the low country near the fastnesses on the western side of Loch Lomond. The pibroch, Thogail nam bo, seems to indicate such practices, the sense of the music being:—

“We are bound to drive the bullocks,

All by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks,

Through the sleet and through the rain;

When the moon is beaming low

On frozen lake and hill of snow,

Boldly, heartily we go,

And all for little gain.”

The tune was almost lost, but about 1894 some enthusiasts gathered it from several who knew it, and committed it to paper, thus ensuring its preservation. The credit of this laudable effort, it should be added, is mainly due to Provost Mac Farlane of Dumbarton, who, with the help of Pipe-major J. Mac Dougall Gillies, Glasgow, had the complete tune taken down from the playing of John Leitch, an old man who lived in Glendaruel. The Faust-like story of its composer is also told of a Donald Mac Kay of Lord Reay’s country, but not in connection with a tune.

“JOHN GARBH OF RAASAY’S LAMENT.”

Connected with “John Garbh of Raasay’s Lament,” one of the most famous of pibrochs, and a favourite with most pipers to this day, there are stories of pipers, poetry, and superstition. John Garbh Mac Leod of Raasay met his death about 1650 at the early age of 21. He was a man of fine appearance and great strength. He had been to Lewis on a visit to a friend, and when he was returning home to Skye the day was so stormy that his crew were very unwilling to put to sea, being afraid they would lose their lives. Raasay thereupon exclaimed to the boatman in the Gaelic:—“Son of fair Muireil, are you afraid?” and the man at once threw his fears aside, and with the reply—“No, no, Raasay, we shall share the same fate to-day,” began to prepare for the voyage. All went well until off Trotternish, the people of which anxiously watched the boat. The wind increased still more, and a heavy shower hid the vessel from their sight. When it cleared off the boat was nowhere to be seen. Mac Leod’s untimely fate was deeply mourned, and Patrick Mòr Mac Crimmon commemorated the sad event by composing the famous and pathetic pibroch. A celebrated Skye poetess also composed a touching lament, and a sister of Mac Crimmon’s composed an elegy, the English of which goes as follows:—

“Sitting idly I sorrow,

Heavy hearted and ailing;

I am songless and cheerless,

I am weary and wailing.

Since the day of my sorrow

I am weary with wailing,

Since the loss of the boatie

Where the hero was sailing.

Since the loss of the boatie,

Where the hero was sailing;

Oh, strong was his shoulder,

Though the sea was prevailing.

Oh, strong was his shoulder,

Though the sea was prevailing;

Now he lies in the clachan

Whom I am bewailing.

Now he lies in the clachan

Whom I am bewailing,

And a green grassy curtain

His cold bed is veiling.

And a green grassy curtain

His cold bed is veiling.

His sword in its scabbard

The rust is assailing.

His sword in its scabbard

The rust is assailing;

His hounds on their leashes

Their speed unavailing.

His hounds on their leashes

Their speed unavailing;

No more shall my hero

His mountains be scaling.

No more shall my hero

His mountains be scaling;

Sitting sadly I sorrow,

Heavy hearted and ailing.”

Tradition says that John Garbh of Raasay was drowned through the machinations of a witch. She bore him a grudge, and while the boat was at sea she sat in her hut rocking a basin of milk in which there was a clam shell to represent the boat. When she sank the clam shell the boat sank, the story being that a crow alighted on the gunwale, and that Mac Leod, in trying to kill it with his sword, cut the boat to the waters’ edge. There are several improbable things about this tradition, not the least obvious of which is the impossibility of knowing how the boat sank when no one was left to tell the tale. However, it is a tradition—that much at least is true.

CHAPTER XXIII.
Some Well-Known Gatherings.

“Ye voices of Cona, of high swelling power,

Ye bards who can sing of her olden time,

On whose spirits arise the blue panoplied throng

Of her ancient hosts, who are mighty and strong,

My bards raise the song.”

—Ossian.

A Tune with four stories—The Carles wi’ the Breeks—The Mac Gregor’s Gathering—Scott’s verses—Caber Feidh—The Camerons’ Gathering—Well-matched chiefs—The Loch of the Sword.

The first tune to be noticed in this chapter is peculiar in this respect, that whereas to many are ascribed two origins, to this there are ascribed three or four. More than one cannot possibly be correct, unless we conclude that different pipers at different times in different places and without any co-operation, composed the same tune. That is rather too much, however, but we will give the stories as they are to be found in many books of Highland history and tradition.

In the first place, then, this tune has three names. It is known as

“THE BREADALBANE GATHERING”

(or March), “Wives of this Glen,” and Bodaich nam Briogais (“The Carles wi’ the Breeks”), and each name applies to the air as it is associated with a certain district of Scotland. As “Lord Breadalbane’s March” it is noticed in an old hymn-book by Iain Bàn Caimbeul, first published in 1786, and afterwards in 1834. This book associated it with Coll Kitto, mentioned in a previous chapter, and gives a long story of raiding and plundering in which this worthy was engaged about 1644. At one stage in the exploits, when his enemies were fleeing, the Baronet of Lochawe ordered his piper to compose a march tune suitable for the occasion, and to keep playing all night. This the piper did, and his tune was Bodaich nam Briogais. There is certainly an air of authenticity about the story, and the details bear the stamp of probability if not of truth.

As the “Breadalbane Gathering” it is a Perthshire tune, and well known. The story is that it was played in 1762 at a battle in Caithness, in which the first Earl of Breadalbane was victor, but the air belonged to an earlier period, for Seumas-an-Tuim, the reiver referred to in the melody flourished at the beginning of the century:—

“Ye women of the glen

Ye women of the glen

Ye women of the glen

Ye women of the glen

Is it not time for you to arise?

And Seumas-an-Tuim driving away your cattle.”

The tune, then, although Breadalbane’s raid into Caithness may have given it a new lease of life, under a new name, must have been in existence before that time. The raid itself, for that matter, is somewhat mythical, and the chances are that this is only a bowdlerised version of the next story, which is thoroughly authenticated.

It is as “The Carles with the Breeks” that the tune really hails from Caithness. Sir John Campbell of Glenorchy received in 1672 from George Earl of Caithness an assignment of all his lands and possessions on condition that he would take the name of Sinclair. Glenorchy agreed to this, and on the death of the Earl in 1676 he took the title. His right was, however, disputed by the heir male, George Sinclair of Kiess, and Sir John went to Caithness with a force of Campbells, and defeated the Sinclairs at Altimarlach, a spot on the banks of the Water of Wick, and a short distance from the county town. The Campbells, a Highland clan, of course wore the kilt, and like all true Highlanders—of that age—they despised those who did not. The Sinclairs, never a Highland clan, but only a county family at best, wore the trews, and when Findlay Mac Ivor, Glenorchy’s piper, saw them wavering, he poured forth the voluntary:—

“The carles with the breeks, the carles with the breeks,

The carles with the breeks are flying before us.”

And to experts in pipe music the tune does appear to articulate very plainly the sentiments of Bodaich nam Briogais. Another set of words, given in the Killin collection of Gaelic song, seems more like a defying challenge to the Sinclairs than a song of victory:—

“Your cattle lifted are, lifted are, lifted are,

Your cattle lifted are, your men sadly slain are.

I’m Black John the sharp-eyed one, sharp-eyed one, sharp-eyed one,

I’m Black John the sharp-eyed one, driving them safely.

Carles in trewses clad, trewses clad, trewses clad,

Carles in trewses clad, up and bestir you.

Carles in trewses clad, side dirk and mailed shirt,

Carles in trewses clad, flight we quick gave you.

Glenorchy’s bold Mac Intyres, true shots that will not miss,

Bullets sure hitting that fast slay the carles.

There where the river bends, arrows that pierced you quick;

Many’s the house-head that rests without waking.

Carles in trewses clad, etc.

We made that morning start, morning start, morning start,

We made that morning start, when watching failed you.

Wives, mothers, in this glen, in this glen, in this glen,

Wives, mothers, in this glen, it’s time you were waking.

Carles in trewses clad, etc.”

Glenorchy, however, did not obtain a very firm hold in the county, and the Sinclairs held the great bulk of the lands until within the lifetime of the present generation, when it seems to be drifting into other hands because of the want of heirs male in the direct line. Neither did the contempt expressed by the piper do much to make the trews unpopular, for the late Caithness Fencibles, raised and commanded by Sir John Sinclair, were dressed pretty much as were their ancestors at Altimarlach. Caithness, of course, was, and still is, not very Highland, except in the matter of latitude, and it is very noticeable that the only pipe tune associated with the county was played by a Perthshire piper on a warlike excursion, fighting against the natives. Caithness has no pipe music of its own.

Again, the tune is known in Argyllshire as “Wives of this Glen.” Tradition says it was played by Breadalbane’s piper just previous to the massacre of Glencoe, in 1692, in the hope of warning the Mac Ians of their danger, and that one Mac Ian wife heeded the warning and fled to the hills with her child, saving his life. Glencoe is one of the wildest places in the Highlands, gloomy and desolate, ten miles from any other inhabited district, and through it the Cona, a wild, rugged stream, on the banks of which Ossian is believed to have first seen the light, tumbles its way to the sea. Towards the north-west end the terrible tragedy, which left an ineradicable stain on Scottish history, took place, and there the piper is supposed to have stood when he played:—

“Wives of wild Cona glen, Cona glen, Cona glen,

Wives of wild Cona glen, wake from your slumbers,

Early I woke this morn, early I woke this morn,

Woke to alarm you with music’s wild numbers.

Slain is the cattle boy, cattle boy, cattle boy,

Slain is the cow-boy while you soundly slumbered;

Lifted your cattle are, lifted your cattle are,

Slain are your herdsmen, by foemen outnumbered.

Iain du Beeroch du, Beeroch du, Beeroch du,

Iain du Beeroch du is off with the plunder.

Wives of wild Cona glen, Cona glen, Cona glen,

Wives of wild Cona glen, wake from your slumbers.”

Iain du Beeroch du was a noted Highland cattle-lifter, and corresponds to Seumas-an-Tuim, of the Perthshire origin of the tune. Probably they were one and the same person under different names. The only theory on which the three stories can be reconciled is that the tune originally belonged to Perthshire, but was taken to Caithness and to Argyllshire by different pipers, accepted in each place as new, and given a new name. In those days, when communication between districts of Scotland which had nothing in common was very restricted, the tune could exist in one county as new for many years without the people knowing that it was familiar to those of another. And naturally they continued to associate with it the circumstances in which they themselves first heard it. It was this tune, by the way, that on the morning of Quatre Bras, was played through the streets of Brussels to wake the slumbering Highlanders.

“THE MAC GREGORS’ GATHERING.”

Although the Clan Mac Gregor was one of the most famous in Highland history, there is not very much even of reliable tradition concerning the music of the clan. There is—or, at least, was—enough of tradition; but as it does not seem to have been committed to paper, it is now probably lost. Of the origin of “The Mac Gregors’ Gathering” we know nothing beyond the fact that it was included in Captain Mac Leod of Gesto’s manuscript book of pibrochs as having been taken down in pipers’ language, that “syllabic jargon of illiterate pipers” referred to at length in a former article, from the performers, most likely from the Mac Crimmons. From the Gesto book it was translated in 1815 into ordinary notation by Alexander Campbell, editor of Albyn’s Anthology, and this gave it a place in published pipe music. The notation of Captain Mac Leod, says Mr. Campbell, he found, to his astonishment, to coincide exactly with regular notation, so it cannot have been such jargon after all. Scott thoroughly caught the spirit of his tune in the song:—

“The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,

And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day!

Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!

Gather, gather, gather, etc.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,

Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!

Then haloo, Gregalich! haloo, Gregalich!

Haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalich, etc.

Glen Orchy’s proud mountains, Caolchuirn and her towers,

Glen Strae and Glen Lyon no longer are ours;

We’re landless, landless, landless, Gregalich!

Landless, landless, landless, etc.

But doom’d and devoted by vassal and lord,

Mac Gregor has still both his heart and his sword!

Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalich;

Courage, courage, courage, etc.

If they rob us of name and pursue us with beagles,

Give their roofs to the flame and their flesh to the eagles!

Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalich!

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.

While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,

Mac Gregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!

Come then, Gregalich; come then, Gregalich;

Come then, come then, come then, etc.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,

O’er the peaks of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer,

And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt,

Ere our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance unfelt.

Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!

Gather, gather, gather, etc.”

“CABER FEIDH.”

One of the most stirring of pipe tunes is Caber Feidh, composed by Norman Mac Leod, a native of Assynt, Sutherlandshire. The Earl of Sutherland gave a commission to William Munroe, of Achany, who, with a large body of retainers, descended on Assynt and carried off much plunder. His excursion was in the latter end of summer, when the cattle were grazing in distant pastures, and Achany plundered the sheilings and stole a considerable amount of butter and cheese. Indignant at this, Mac Leod composed the tune and song which became the clan song of the Mac Kenzies. He made it the vehicle of invective and bitter sarcasm against the Sutherlands and Munroes. The “victims” were very sore about the production, and Munroe threatened the bard’s life if they should meet. They were personally unacquainted, but they did meet in Ardgay Inn. Mac Leod was enjoying bread and butter and cheese and ale, and he knew Munroe by the colour of his bonnet, which was always grey, though Munroe did not know him. Mac Leod drank to Munroe with great promptitude, and then offered him the horn, remarking in Gaelic:—

“Bread and butter and cheese to me

Ere death my mouth shall close,

And, traveller, there’s drink for thee

To please the black Munroes.”

Achany was pleased, drank the ale, and when he had discovered who the courteous stranger was he forgave him Caber Feidh, and ever after they were good friends. Years later the poet’s young son, Angus, then a licentiate, waited on Achany relative to the filling up of a vacancy in Rogart Parish Church. “And so you really think,” said Munroe, “I would use my influence to get a living for your father’s son. Caber Feidh’s not forgotten yet.” “No, and never will,” replied Mac Leod, “but if I get the parish of Rogart I promise you it will never be sung or recommended from the pulpit there.” “Thank you,” said Achany, “that is one important point gained. You are not so bad as your father after all, and we must try and get the place for you.” And he gave young Mac Leod a letter to Dunrobin which got him the living.

“THE CAMERONS’ GATHERING.”

There is a good story associated with “The Camerons’ Gathering:”—In the seventeenth century a dispute arose between Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel and the Earl of Atholl about their respective rights to grazing on lands on the borders of Rannoch. The two chiefs met at Perth, and it was agreed that the dispute should be settled amicably at a meeting on the ground in question. On the appointed day Lochiel started early, accompanied by a single henchman and his piper, Donald Breac of Muirshiorlaich. On the way, however, he met an old woman—Gorm’uil Mhor of Moy—who warned him emphatically not to proceed further without more attendants:—“Go back, Ewen of Lochiel, go back! Take along with thee three score and five of the best men of thy name and clan. If their aid is required it is well to have them to appeal to, if not, so much the better. It is Gorm’uil of Moy that advises it; it is Gorm’uil of Moy, if needs be, that commands it.” Lochiel went back and chose three score and five picked clansmen whom he took with him. Before meeting Atholl he concealed his men in a hollow within a few hundred yards of the trysting-place, and arranged with them that until they saw him turn his cloak, which was dark grey on one side and bright red on the other, they were to lie still. Whenever he turned his cloak it was a sign to them that Atholl was treacherous, and they were to come to their chiefs assistance.

At noon the chiefs met, and after discussion they found that neither was disposed to yield his claims. The Earl at last threatened Lochiel, and at a signal fifty Atholl men sprang from a copse near by and awaited orders.

“Who are these, my lord?” demanded Lochiel.

“These,” replied the Earl of Atholl, with a smile, “are only a few of the Atholl hoggets come across the hills with me to eat and grow fat on their own grazings.”

Lochiel in the meantime had turned his cloak scarlet side out, and at the signal his three-score-and-five men rushed into view.

“And who are these, Lochiel?” said Atholl, rather taken aback.

“These, my lord,” said Cameron, “are a few of my Lochaber hounds, sharp-toothed and hungry, and oh! so keen to taste the flesh of your Atholl hoggets.”

The Camerons were nearer than the Atholl men, and could have made the Earl a prisoner before his own men could prevent them. So he gave in as gracefully as possible, and, drawing his sword and kissing it, he renounced there and then all claim to the grazings; and, in proof of his faith in Lochiel, he tossed the sword into the loch near by. The loch since then has been called the “Loch of the Sword.”

Lochiel’s piper meanwhile had been deeply interested in the scene, and the idea of the Lochaber dogs tearing the Atholl sheep inspired him to a new melody. Accordingly, he struck up and played for the first time Cruinneachadh nan Camaronach, “The Camerons’ Gathering.”

“Ye sons of dogs, of dogs the breed,

Come quick, come here, on flesh to feed.”

The tune is considered one of the best pieces of pipe music extant; and, in corroboration of the story, it is said that in 1826 a herd-boy fished out of the loch, then almost empty, a basket-hilted sword, but the men of Lochaber coming to hear of it, asked that it should again be deposited in its place, as it was a token and pledge of a very solemn transaction. So with due formality the sword was again thrown into the loch, the bard of the party repeating a Gaelic rhyme, which has been translated:—

“The sword we’ve cast into the lake;

Bear witness all the knolls around,

Ours to the furthest stretch of time

Are hill and stream and pasture ground.”

This story, on almost similar lines, is told of two other Highland chiefs, but in that case there is no pipe tune connected with it, and it is as the origin of “The Camerons’ Gathering” that it is most generally accepted.

CHAPTER XXIV.
More Stories and a Moral.

“Pipe of the simple peasant—still

Through Caledonia’s proud domains,

Thou cheer’st the rustic cottage hearth

With thy enlivening strains.

“And in the far, far distant west,

Where deep and pathless forests lower,

Thou sooth’st the drooping exile’s breast

Through many a lonely hour.”

—J. T. Calder.

The Clan Stewart March—Mac Gregor of Ruaro—The Braes of the Mist—Episode at a Dunvegan competition—A Mac Crimmon surpassed—Mac Pherson’s Lament—Burns and the story—Rob Roy’s lament—The Mac Lachlans’ March—Gille Calum—The Reel o’ Tulloch—The Periwig Reel—Jenny Dang the Weaver—Mac Donald’s salute—Mac Leod’s Salute—Disappearing lore—Something to be done.

The Royal House of Stuart should perhaps have been mentioned earlier, but, like other names famous in history, they did not leave much to posterity in the way of music or poetry. Enough has been composed and written about them, but that is another matter.

“THE MARCH OF CLAN STEWART”

is known in Perthshire as the “Sherramuir March,” because it was played at that battle by the pipers of the clan. According to tradition this tune was played both when the clan were marching to battle and in honour of a victory. It was played at Pinkie, Inverlochy, Sheriffmuir, and Prestonpans, and it was all along recognised as a tune peculiarly pertaining to the Stewarts. In accordance with Highland custom, the clansmen were in the habit of marching in the intervals of pipe music to improvised singing, and when or how the present words emerged from all previous improvisations and became a song it is impossible to say. At the battle of Pinkie in September, 1547, the clan was commanded by Donald Stewart, of Invernayle, the real chief being an old man. On the march homeward in October, when passing through Menteith, the clan found prepared at the house of one of the tenants a marriage dinner, at which the Earl of Menteith was to be present. Being hungry, Donald and his followers ate up the feast, and when Menteith arrived he was very angry, and instantly pursued the Stewarts. On overtaking them one of his men taunted them thus:—

“Yellow-haired Stewarts of smartest deeds,

Who could grab at the kail in your sorest needs,”

to which Stewart replied:—

“If smartness in deeds is ours by descent,

Then I draw, and to pierce you this arrow is sent,”

and he shot the man who had taunted his clan. A conflict ensued, in which the Earl and many of his men were killed, and then the Stewarts went off in triumph, their pipers playing the Stewarts’ March. The words now in use are the composition of an Iain Breac Mac Eanric (Henderson), a celebrated piper of the time of Montrose, and a resident in the Glencoe district. There would probably be older words, but those here given are those now associated with the tune:—

“The heath-clad Ben we’ll soon ascend,

Through Glen Laoigh we’ll soon descend,

Our points of steel we’ll swiftly send

Thro’ every loon that bars us.

We will up and march away,

We will up and march away,

We will up and march away,

Daring let of all men.

“O’er the hills we’ll speed along,

Thro’ Glencoe the march prolong;

Our King the burden of our song,

Asking leave of no man.

We will up, etc.

“To Glengarry and Lochiel,

Ever with us true and leal,

Keppoch, too, who seeks our weal,

Is there in spite of all men.

We will up, etc.

“Mac Phersons come, in deeds not small;

Mac Kenzies also at our call;

Whose battle frenzy will appal

And fill our foes with awe then.

We will up, etc.

“Mac Gregors fierce when man to man,

Join with the Royal Stuart clan;

Blow up the pipes, march in the van,

Daring let of all men.

We will up, etc.”

The chorus is sung before the first verse, as well as after each. “Daring let of all men” means “Defying the hindrance of all men.”

One of the most tragic of stories is associated with another Clan Mac Gregor air—

“MAC GREGOR OF RUARO.”

The clan, as is well known, were terribly persecuted by the ruling powers. When, after the ’45, most of the other Highland chiefs accepted Crown charters for their lands, the Mac Gregors refused, their clansmen backing them vigorously in their attitude. For this independence of theirs they were hunted like wild beasts, pursued by bloodhounds, and executed whenever caught. Even so early as 1603 the clan found themselves so persecuted and hemmed in that their chief, Mac Gregor of Glenstrae, considered it necessary to deliver himself and a score of his principal men to the Government, under promise of being allowed to leave the country. This promise was given, but ruthlessly broken, for they were all hanged at Edinburgh. In the group was Gregor Mac Gregor of Ruaro, the subject of the lament and the song. The author of neither is known:—

“There is sorrow, deep sorrow,

Heavy sorrow down-weighs me;

Sorrow deep, dark, and lonesome,

Whence nothing can raise me.

Yes, my heart’s filled with sorrow,

Deep sorrow undying,

For Mac Gregor of Ruaro,

Whose home was Glenlyon.

For the bannered Mac Gregor,

So bravely who bore him,

With the roar of the war pipe

Loud thundering before him.

His emblem the pine tree

On mountain side swinging;

His trim-tapered arrows

The true bird was winging.”

And so on in very much the same strain for other nine verses.

There is another tune of the “Children of the Mist,” as the Clan Mac Gregor were known, that deserves mention. It is a wild and melancholy pibroch, called Cruachan a’ Cheathaich, or

“THE BRAES OF THE MIST.”

To it is sung a ballad, and connected with the air and song there is an interesting story. The singer, a Mac Gregor, concealed in her house her husband and two sons when some bitter enemies of the clan were approaching. There was no time for escape, and so she hid her friends in a bed, and, sitting down by the fire, proceeded to sing:—

“I sit here alone by the plain of the highway,

For my poor hunted kin, watching mist, watching byeway;

I’ve got no sign that they’re near to my dwelling;

At Loch Fyne they were last seen—if true be that telling.”

And so on, representing herself as waiting in solitude for her persecuted kindred, and saying that as they had not returned they must either be at Loch Fyne—as when she last heard of them—or far away in the glens of the mist, hunting and fishing, and compelled to pass the night in some poor hut, where she had previously left some things for them. After a prayer for their safety—

“May the King of the Universe save you for ever

From the flash of the bullet and the store of the quiver,

From the keen-pointed knife, with the life-blood oft streaming,

From the edge of the sharp claymore, terribly gleaming,”

she concluded with expressions of her own sadness on account of their dangers. The enemies stopped outside her cottage and listened to the song, and believing it to be from the singer’s heart—as it was, but not in the way they supposed—they passed on without disturbing her, and her husband and sons were saved.

The Gaelic proverb, “The apprentice surpasses his master,” or

“THE APPRENTICE SURPASSES THE MAC CRIMMON,”

is associated with two tunes. There was to be a piping competition at Dunvegan at which pipers from all parts of the country were to be present. The leading Mac Crimmon of the day, the head of the college—“Professor” he would now be called—and a nephew of his had “entered,”—if that formality was necessary in these days—and Mac Crimmon had taught his nephew all he himself knew, with the exception of one tune, which he hoped would give him the lead in the competition. The two of them, man and boy, on their way to Dunvegan, slept one night at a wayside inn, sharing a bed. When the old man slept he dreamed of the morrow, and in his dreams he seized the boy’s arm and fingered on it the notes of the special tune he had reserved for himself. The youth was smart enough to realise that this meant something, and also smart enough to commit the notes to memory as his uncle fingered them on his arm. When the competition began he stepped out first and immediately played his uncle’s tune, and carried off the principal honours of the day. Then, the story goes, the people began to speak of An gille ‘toirt bàrr air Mac Crimmon—the lad that surpasses the Mac Crimmon.

But it is the other version of the story that is connected with the origin of a pipe tune. One of the Mac Crimmons, well known as Padruig Caogach or “Winking Peter,” owing to his inveterate habit of winking while playing, once endeavoured to compose a new pipe tune. He managed two measures, which in time became very popular, but he could not for the life of him complete it. Two years elapsed, and still Padruig’s muse had failed to come to his assistance, and the fragment began to be called Am port leathach—the half-completed tune. Then a young piper—Iain Dall it was—inspired with the music of the tune, set himself to complete it, naming it Lasan Phadruig Chaogaich, and renouncing all share in the honours of authorship. But Padruig did not like being outstripped in this way by Mac Kay, who was but a beardless boy, and, in his anger, he persuaded the other students at the college to make away with his rival. He succeeded the better in his scheme that Mac Kay had previously given great offence to his classmates by his proficiency, of which they were jealous, and with which the master piper taunted them. So one day as they were all walking together at Dun Bhorraraig, they came to a rock twenty-four feet in height, over which they pushed the blind “apprentice.” But he alighted on his feet without sustaining much injury, and the spot over which he was thrown was known for a long time after as Leum an doill—the leap of the blind. Iain Dall ultimately returned to Gairloch and succeeded his father as family piper to the Mac Kenzies of Gairloch, dying at the age of ninety-eight.

“MAC PHERSON’S LAMENT”

will always be associated with Burns’s song and with the noted Highland freebooter who in 1700, after holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in fear for a long time, was captured, tried before the Sheriff of Banffshire, along with certain gipsies taken in his company, and executed on the Gallow Hill of Banff. But it is not generally known that Burns’s words can hardly be called original. As a matter of fact, Mac Pherson himself, tradition says, composed both the pibroch and a set of words wonderfully like those afterwards composed by Burns. The pibroch he composed long before his capture, and the words he gave to the world when he was executed, under the name of “Mac Pherson’s Farewell.” Here they are:—

“My father was a gentleman

Of fame and lineage high,

Oh! mother, would you ne’er had born

A wretch so doomed as I!

But dantonly and wantonly

And rantonly I’ll gae,

I’ll play a tune and dance it roun’

Below the gallows tree.

The Laird o’ Grant, with power aboon

The royal majesty,

He pled fu’ well for Peter Brown,

But let Mac Pherson die.

But dantonly, etc.

But Braco Duff, in rage enough,

He first laid hands on me;

If death did not arrest my course,

Avenged I should be.

But dantonly, etc.

I’ve led a life o’ meikle strife,

Sweet peace ne’er smiled on me,

It grieves me sair that I maun gae

An’ nae avenged be.

But dantonly, etc.”

Burns, on his tour through the Highlands, probably learned the air and the tradition of how Mac Pherson, when in prison under sentence of death, wrote the song, sang and played it on the scaffold, and concluded by breaking his violin to pieces because no one would accept it as a present, and promise to play the tune over his body after his execution. Neither the old version nor the words of Burns have much of the ring of a lament about them, but both are in accordance with the notorious character of the man. Burns, by the way, perpetrates a rather curious Irishism in first saying Mac Pherson

“Played a spring and danc’d it round

Below the gallows tree;”

and immediately afterwards making him say—

“Untie these bands from off my hands

And bring to me my sword.”

How a man could play a spring and dance it round while his hands were tied, he does not take the trouble to explain.

“ROB ROY’S LAMENT.”

Rob Roy himself, the most celebrated of all the clan who had “a name that was nameless by day,” had a lament specially composed by his wife, Helen Mac Gregor, on an occasion when the family were compelled by the law to leave their fastnesses and take refuge in Argyllshire. Helen was a woman of fierce and haughty disposition, and, feeling extreme anguish at being expelled from the banks of Loch Lomond, she gave vent to her feelings in a fine piece of music, still known as “Rob Roy’s Lament.” “I was once so hard put at,” Scott makes Rob say, “by my great enemy, as I may well ca’ him, that I was forced e’en to gie way to the tide and remove myself and my people and my family from our native land, and to withdraw for a time into Mac Cailein Mòr’s country—and Helen made a Lament on our departure, as well as Mac Crimmon himself could hae framed it—and so piteously sad and waesome that our hearts amaist broke as we sat and listened to her—it was like the wailing of one that mourns for the mother that bore him—the tears came down the rough faces of our gillies as they hearkened—and I would not have the same touch of heartbreak again, no, not for all the lands that ever were owned by Mac Gregor.”

“THE MAC LACHLANS’ MARCH.”

A touch of the romantic is found in the story of Moladh Mairi, a well-known Mac Lachlan tune. Angus Mac Kay, son of Iain Dall, the blind piper of Gairloch, attended a competition in Edinburgh on one occasion, and the other competitors were so jealous of him and afraid of his superior talents that they conspired together to destroy his chances, They obtained possession of his pipes and pierced the bag in several places. When Mac Kay began to practise on the day of the competition he discovered the injury, and was in despair. But he had a fair friend of the name of Mary who quickly procured for him a sheep’s skin, from which, undressed as it was, they between them formed a new bag. With this the piper carried off the first prize, and in gratitude to his helper Mac Kay composed Moladh Mairi. He afterwards married a Mary Fraser of Gairloch, but we have nothing to show that this was the same Mary. In a proper story it certainly would have been.

Another, and a more probable, story is associated with this tune. A daughter of Mac Lachlan of Strathlachlan, chief of the clan, made a present of a wether’s skin to the family piper to make a bag for his pipes. He was delighted with the present, and composed the tune in her honour. This story is the more likely, inasmuch as it is well known that pipers always had a high sense of honour, as they still have, and would never think of treating a competitor in the way the first story says Mac Kay was treated.

“GILLE CALUM,”

or “The Sword Dance,” is one of the best known of pipe tunes. There is the jocular story to the effect that it made its first appearance in the world after the Deluge, when the Ark had landed on Ararat, and Noah expressed his joy by dancing over two crossed twigs. That the tune, or at anyrate the dance, is an heirloom from the ancients, is highly probable, as the sword dance in a modified form was the special antic of the priests of Mars. The real Gille Calum, however, is said to have been Callum a’ chinn mhoir—Malcolm Canmore, who incurred the displeasure of the Highlanders by removing the ancient Court from Dunstaffnage Castle, in Argyllshire, to Dunfermline, by marrying the Saxon Princess Margaret, which led to the change of Court language from Gaelic to English, and also by having added to the coinage a very small coin, the bodle, equal in value to one-third of our halfpenny, and so small as to be contemptible in the eyes of his Highland subjects. The translation, by “Fionn,” of the Gaelic associated with the name shows considerable wit and a pretty strain of sarcasm:—

“Gillie-Callum, twa pennies,

Gillie-Callum, twa pennies,

Twa pennies, twa pennies,

Gillie Callum, ae bawbee.

I can get a lass for naething,

I can get a lass for naething,

Lass for naething, lass for naething,

My pick and wale for ae bawbee.

Gillie-Callum, etc.

I can get a wife for tuppence,

I can get a wife for tuppence,

Wife for tuppence, wife for tuppence,

A useless ane for ae bawbee.

Gillie-Callum, etc.”

“THE REEL O’ TULLOCH”

has two alleged origins, but one at least is discredited by the known character of the people concerned. It was on a wild Sunday in the parish of Tulloch, Aberdeenshire, that the minister, thinking his people would not venture out, stayed at home. His congregation, however, to whom the kirk was a trysting-place, turned up as usual. For a time they waited patiently enough, but by and bye, moved by the stormy weather and their minister’s absence, they proposed refreshments. The collection ladle was sent round, and the proceeds invested in “yill” at the neighbouring change-house. As the liquor took effect the fun grew more furious, and at last a dance was suggested. The enthusiasm rose even to this height, the village cobbler mounted the pulpit, the blacksmith from the precentor’s box roared out the ditty “John, come kiss me now,” and the floor rang with the flying feet of the dancing congregation. The fiddler, impressed for the occasion, allowed his bow to get more and more into the spirit of the gathering; it went madder and madder as the excitement increased, and at last, in a sudden burst of inspiration, he improvised the dance tune of all dance tunes—“Reel o’ Tulloch.” Tradition is silent as to what befel the revellers in so sacred a place, as well it may. It is hardly possible to imagine a company of Scottish Established Church people looking at a fiddler on the Sabbath, much less dancing in church to his music.

Strathspey also claims the tune, and in competition with Deeside, it has a fierce tradition on the subject. The district of Tulloch lies at the back of the Abernethy forest, and here is said to have occurred the incident that inspired the maddest of Highland reels. A certain John Mac Gregor, commonly known as Iain Dubh Gearr, was at Killin at a market held somewhere between 1550 and 1580. In the house of call there, known as “Streethouse,” he was set upon by eight men, but being powerful and a splendid swordsman, he discomfited all his adversaries, killing some and wounding others. Then he fled to Strathspey, where he married a woman named Isabel Anderson (one version of the story has it that Mac Gregor got into trouble with some Robertsons through having married this Isabel, who was sought by a Robertson, and that these and not market acquaintances were his enemies). His foes followed him, and one night thirteen of them arrived at his house, determined to take him dead or alive. John was sleeping in the barn when they came, and when he was wakened and told of his danger he determined to fight it out. Isabel and he had a gun and a pistol and plenty of ammunition, and they defended the barn against all comers. John fired the weapons one after the other alternately through crevices in the walls, and Isabel kept them loaded. The thirteen outside, handicapped as they were by the shelter from which the defenders worked, were very soon all wounded, whereupon John sallied out and cut off their heads. Then Isabel in her glee gave him a big draught of beer, which he drank, and seizing his spouse by the waist they improvised and danced those reel steps which have ever since been so popular. The music must have been old, but the words are of the date of this incident:—

“At Streethouse at Feill Fhaolan,

On him they made an onset dead;

And were he not most manly brave,

Eight sturdy men had mastered him.

From Tullechin to Ballechin,

From Ballechin to Tullechin;

If beer we don’t in Tullechin,

We’ll water get in Ballechin.”

The song then, at considerable length, tells the story until:—

“Says Black John, turning towards his bride,

‘Since I did what I meant to do,

Give me a drink of beer to quaff,

And we will dance the Tullechin.’

From Tullechin, etc.”

The story has two traditional endings. In the one John became a peaceable and prosperous man, and as his name appears in authoritative documents of date 1568, it is the more likely to be true. The other is tragic. Mac Gregor’s enemies, according to it, still hunted the couple, and Isabel was thrown into prison. Then Mac Gregor himself was shot, and his head brought to Isabel. At the sight she was so struck with sorrow that she suddenly expired.

It may not be inappropriate to conclude these stories of tunes with two which are associated with ministers.

“THE PERIWIG REEL”

can always be depended on to provoke laughter when well played. It is probably the composition of Mr. Fraser of Culduthal. This gentleman was at a baptismal “entertainment” at the house of Fraser of Knockie, where the presence of a very old and venerable minister could not restrain him from exciting mirth. He sat next but one to the minister, and found means over his neighbour’s shoulder to tickle below the parson’s large wig with a long feather or a blade of corn. As the glass went round the old man became uneasy, but suspected nobody. At last he got into a rage, dreading an earwig or spider, and shook out his wig over a blazing fire, which unfortunately got hold of it. It was too greasy to admit of its being saved. Amid great laughter, it simmered in the fire till it had almost suffocated the company. The minister’s bald head produced more laughter at his expense, in which he himself joined, and he enjoyed the joke thoroughly when it was told to him. The real name of the air is “The Fried Periwig.”

The other tune is

“JENNY DANG THE WEAVER,”

and its story is somewhat interesting. Rev. Mr. Gardner, minister of the parish of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, was well known for his musical talents and his wit. One Saturday he was arranging his ideas for next day’s service in his study, which overlooked the courtyard of the manse. Outside his wife was beetling potatoes for supper. To unbend his mind a little, Mr. Gardner took up his fiddle and begun to run over the notes of an air he had previously jotted down, when suddenly an altercation arose between Mrs. Gardner and Jock, the minister’s man, an idle sort of weaver fellow from the neighbouring village of Marywell, who had lately been engaged as man of all work about the manse. “Here, Jock,” cried the mistress as Jock came in from the labours of the field, “gae wipe the minister’s shoon.” “Na,” said Jock, “I’ll dae nae sich thing. I came here to be yir ploo’man, but no yir flunkey, and I’ll nae wipe the minister’s shoon.” “Deil confound yir impudence,” said the enraged Mrs. Gardner, and she sprang at him with a heavy culinary implement, and giving him a hearty beating, compelled him to perform the menial duties required of him. The minister, who viewed the scene from his window, was hugely diverted, and gave the air he had just completed the title of “Jenny Dang the Weaver.” This is supposed to have occurred in 1746. There is a well-known Gaelic song entitled “Trousers for meagre shanks, and bonnets for the bald,” sung to the air.

OF OTHER CLAN TUNES

there are not many stories of general interest. The tunes are there, but whence they came, or when they came, must ever remain a mystery. “Mac Donald’s Salute” and “Mac Leod’s Salute” were composed by Donald Mòr Mac Crimmon on the reconciliation of the Mac Leods and the Mac Donalds after the battle of Bencuillein in Skye, and played when the chiefs met at Dunvegan. There had been a feud between the clans, in the course of which much blood was spilt. This feud at last became so notorious that in 1601 the Privy Council interfered and requested the chiefs concerned to disband their forces and leave Skye. It being known that both intended to “mass togider grit nowmeris and forceis of thair kin and freindschip,” and pursue each other “with fyre and sword and other hostilitie by say and land,” they were required to release peacefully all prisoners, and to observe the King’s peace. Ultimately a reconciliation was effected, on which the chief of the Mac Leods invited the chief of the Mac Donalds to a banquet at Dunvegan Castle. When Donald Gorm Mòr Mac Donald appeared in sight of the castle, he was met by Mac Leod’s famous piper, Donald Mòr Mac Crimmon, who welcomed him by playing “Mac Donald’s Salute,” which he had composed for the occasion. In connection with the same banquet he composed and played for the first time “Mac Leod’s Salute.”

The stories I have given are, after all, but the merest pickings from the wealth of lore which has now almost disappeared from the Highlands. It irritates one considerably to find here and there fragments of what were once fine tales, with perhaps important bearings on social life or current history, and to realise the impossibility of ever obtaining them complete. For this we have to thank the Sassenach over-running of the Highlands, which resulted in the extinction of clan bard and clan piper—who between them took the place of a literature—and did not even try to introduce in their stead the blessings of that wider education which preserves the life of a nation by better means, until after much of what was worth preserving had vanished into a misty past. We have, for instance, the “Lament for the Harp Tree,” connected either with some tree on which the bards were wont to hang their harps, like captives in Babylon of an even earlier age, or with the disappearance of the harp itself, or, as the tune is called Bean Sith in the North, with the fairies in some way or other; A mhic Iain mhic Sheumais, which celebrates some battle between the Mac Donalds and the Mac Leods; another on Blar léine, or the “Shirt Battle,” fought at Kinloch Lochy between the Frasers of Lovat and the Mac Donalds of Clan Ranald, and so called from the parties having stripped to their shirts; “The Sister’s Lament for her Brothers”; a lament expressive of the aged warrior’s regret that he is no longer able to wield his sword; “Grim Donald’s Sweetheart,” a salute of very ancient origin; A Ghlas Mheur, an ancient pibroch composed by Raonull Mac Ailean Oig, a Mac Donald of Morar, to which there is supposed to have been a wild story attached; Cogadh na Sith, “war or peace,” one of the best known of tunes, and one which, as its composition indicates a determination either to obtain an honourable peace or engage in immediate war, must have had a story; and any number of others, around which stories of love or adventure or war must at one time have clustered. Tunes of later generations have no stories to speak of. They have been composed on special occasions, or in honour of certain people, but that is all. It is the old tunes we would know more about, and the old stories. Several writers, notably Mr. J. F. Campbell, of Islay; Alexander Mac Kenzie, of Inverness; Angus Mac Kay, and Hector Mac Lean, of Ballygrant, Islay, did much good work by gathering at first hand Highland legends and traditions; and in our own day Henry Whyte, (“Fionn”), the Celtic Monthly, and others, are doing a great deal to preserve what is left to us of Highland life and story. But there is much yet to do, and to do quickly, for the generation that knows of these things is fast passing away. This volume makes no claim to originality. It is only a gathering together of material that is common to Highland tradition and Highland literature, but if it shows what an amount of such material, even on one side phase of Highland life, really exists, it will have served a good purpose. In every hamlet in the Highlands there is surely some individual patriotic enough to take an interest in its folk-lore, and intelligent enough to see the necessity for saving still more of it, and these people can do more to preserve it, if only by giving it a place in the columns of the weekly papers, than any one collector or writer. And why should there not be a Highland Publishing Society, which would sell every known book on the Highlands, take the financial risk of gathering material for new books, and publishing them, and do the educational and other work now being attempted by various societies? There are already enough of county societies and clan societies working only for their own county or clan. Such distinctions have been broken down by the march of civilisation, and with the intermixing of the clans and the free movement of the people all over the country, the societies have little more than the sentiment of the past, a sound enough reason, no doubt, to justify their existence. But there is the Highlands and the language and the music, the scattered literature and half-Anglicised people, and if Highlanders with a craze for organising will but think on these things and build up some organisation that will become the natural rallying point of everything Highland, it is not yet too late to let the world see that the Scottish Highlands has a history and a literature worthy of a far higher place among the nations of the earth than the earth has yet given them. As to its music:—

“Long may its lays be heard on Scotia’s hills,

Which call no more her clans in fray to meet,

And dye with kindred blood their native rills;

And, as blythe echoes the shrill notes repeat,

May Scottish hearts with kindling raptures beat;

For valour’s throb no more obeys the call,

Than laughs the eye with mirthful jollity

When the pipe sounds at village festival.

Such power, loved pibroch, has thy magic minstrelsy.

Thee from her hall let heartless fashion spurn,

For softer warblings of the Italian string;

Let luxury or wantoned dalliance burn,

Yet into hearts that round our Scotia cling,

With thy dear lays shall patriot raptures spring;

And he who can o’er faded glory sigh,

Who to oppression’s children gives the tear,

Will say, while awful transport lights his eye,

No generous soul is theirs, unmoved thy strains who hear.”