An address to Highlanders respecting their native Gaelic

by Archibald Farquharson

Although all the masons in the world were to go on hammering at the English for a century, they could not make it rhyme like the Gaelic in this verse. I have composed a considerable number of poems. I suppose, when published together, they will form the largest collection in the language. I attempted to translate two or three of them, but found it impossible to do so by strictly following the rules of English versification. I attempted to translate more, but found I could not translate one verse to my satisfaction, and I wish that scholars would understand this—that it is utterly impossible to give them anything like a correct idea of our poetry, unless we are allowed to follow the Gaelic rules of versification, and even with that licence we cannot come up to it. I saw in a periodical a review of the lyric poetry of Wales, which showed that it was impossible to give a proper expression of it in an English translation. The same is equally true of the Gaelic. The strict rules to which he is tied down who would attempt to compose English verse prevent him from soaring like the eagle, and his productions must be comparatively tame, and awanting in energy.

Singing has a mighty power over the human mind, which the church to a great extent has neglected, and a power which she never wields aright but when in a revived state. I once went into a house; but the moment I entered, the youngsters, some of them men and women, all fled. “See,” said the mother, (a pious woman), “how they have all gone.” “Yes,” I said, “but we’ll soon bring them back,” and so commenced to sing a poem, not to the tunes of Martyrdom or Oldham (these would not bring them back), but to the tune, “Whistle o’er the lave o’t,” and they all returned immediately.

How shrewd the remark, “Give me the songs of a nation, and I care not who gives them laws.” It has been stated that the poems of the great reformer, sung to the native melodies of Germany, had a greater effect in promoting the Reformation than all his writings. I have heard melodies, but any that come up to our native melodies, both Highland and Lowland, I have not heard. If the songs of our country, many of them, have such a bad effect, and the melodies so sweet and fascinating, why not regenerate the song? By so doing the instrument would be wrested from the hands of the enemy; the sword taken from the great Goliath to cut off his own head, and to destroy the Philistines. In this respect we are in advance of our neighbours; our songs to a considerable extent are regenerated already. Dugald Buchanan’s Poems I place first, being superior to any that has appeared yet, so far as poetry is concerned. Duncan M’Dougall, a native of Mull, but ultimately residing in Tiree, has a considerable number, I suppose, with the exception of Peter Grant, the largest collection we have. His poems are good, most of them sung to the airs most common in Tiree and Mull. Daniel Grant, a native of Strathspey, but residing in Athol, comes next to M’Dougall in point of number, and although he is not his superior either as a Gaelic scholar or as a poet, he is his superior for conveying real spiritual instruction to the mind. He has picked up some of the airs in Athol and Strathspey, and even some from the low country. Donald Henry, I believe, a native of Arran, has also left some very sweet poems, of which many are very fond. J. Morrison, Harris, was an extraordinary genius. His language is superior to Dugald Buchanan, and is not his inferior as a poet. He had more of the language of the Highland bards that puffs up. Dugald had nothing of that, but was powerful in his simplicity. The former resembles David clad in Saul’s armour, the latter David with the sling and the stones. In singing Morrison’s we cannot but think of the bard, but in singing Dugald’s he is not thought of at all, and almost every word tells. Dr M’Donald has left a considerable number of poems; some of them are elegies. He was certainly the most powerful preacher in the Highlands in his time, and anything said in his praise is superfluous, as it is all over the Highlands. Yet it strikes me that he did not shine so much as a poet as he did as a preacher. His poetry is certainly good, but there is nothing extraordinary about it, as there is about his preaching. “The Christian on the Banks of Jordan” is excellent, and very expressive; but there are some pieces of his containing his own views of disputed points of doctrine, with an evident intention to give a hit at those who differed from him, which are not suitable for being sung in the praises of God. Songs of praise should be for the whole church. No doubt he considered those opposed to him as holding error, but they consider that he holds error too, and how is the matter to be settled? Is it not possible to hold the doctrine of election, and at the same time to hold that, in a certain sense, Christ died for all men? Is it not possible to lay the blame at the sinner’s door, where it shall be left at the last day, without denying the necessity of Divine influence in his conversion?

I come now to my great favourite, M’Gregor. Buchanan was his superior as one of nature’s poets, and perhaps his superior in point of style. He did not show so much of the scholar. The scholar seen in lyric poetry, instead of adding to it, rather detracts from it. But, notwithstanding, M’Gregor was his superior by far as a theologian for bringing varied and important truths before the mind. I have seen many a book, but a book of its size which contains more important truth I have never seen. Every truth that is important for the Christian to know is systematically laid down; every poem is like a well-composed discourse, the subject experimentally handled in all its bearings; and all that in language excellent, in versification perfect, and suited to be sung to some of the most beautiful melodies of our country. I have never quarrelled with a single idea, a single word, a single line. There is not a book in existence, apart from the Bible, from which I have derived more benefit to my soul. Every one knows what a hold a truth sung takes of the mind. I am sorry for the tame manner in which these poems are recommended in their introduction, as if Dr M’Gregor was nothing but a mere imitator of the poets. How ridiculous! Did not these poets imitate those who went before them, taking the measure of their verses from them. I am also sorry to see some of his pieces sadly disfigured and maimed in the last edition, especially his poem on the judgment. He must indeed have had a very high opinion of himself, the man that would come after Dr M’Gregor and endeavour to improve his versification.

I come now to Grant’s Poems, which is the largest collection we have. His melodies are delicious; and no wonder, they are from the land of melody. The finest melodies in Scotland are called strathspeys. I believe that Grant’s Poems and the Pilgrim’s Progress have done as much good in the Highlands as any publications that have been circulated among them, apart from the Bible. They are extraordinary for their simplicity. There is not only milk for babes in abundance, but also strong meat for men. His “Glory of the Lamb” is splendid, and his “Love Song” is beautiful. Were these poems to pass through the hands of Archd. Sinclair, printer, 62 Argyle Street, Glasgow, they would be greatly improved. He is a good Gaelic scholar, and one of the best printers of that language in Scotland.

Let us now turn our attention to our neighbours. Is it to be credited that, in the year of our Lord, 1868, Christian Scotland, the land of creeds, bibles, ministers, churches, and Sabbath schools, has still nothing to play on their instruments of music but the old unregenerate songs of their country? They are so very orthodox, not only in their creeds, but also in their language and melodies, that they would look upon hymns composed in broad Scotch and sung to their native melodies as a kind of heresy not to be tolerated. Scotsmen have generally as much shrewdness, sagacity, and common sense as any people on the face of the earth. To call such blockheads would be considered the greatest falsehood that ever came from the lips of man. But consider what they have done. They have renounced their own language, which is a natural language, and the language of their nature, and their native melodies, which are the melodies of their nature. They have turned their backs on them. They have rejected their own; and what have they chosen in their place? An artificial language and artificial melodies quite foreign to their nature. Had Robert Burns as many hard consonants on his tongue as an Englishman has, he never would have set his country in a lowe with his sweet melodies as he hath done. It has been remarked that England has no national melodies. Is that to be wondered at? England has no language for melody. The crows have no melody; and before they can have any, they would require either to get another language, or to send up a Scotchwoman amongst them to add her affectionate ie to it, which would give it beautiful melody. Gira-ie, which would sound something like our ghraidh, the vocative of gradh (love).

Let any person say, “My wee bonnie lammie;” let him continue doing so, placing the accent upon one word after another, and while he continues doing so, a sweet melody proceeds from his lips, which is the melody of nature, as if he held a tinkling bell in his hand. But let him say, “My little pretty lamb,” and the melody ceases, as if he struck the bell flat upon the table, and held nothing but a piece of cork in his hand. It is true that the English may be covered over with a tinsel of artificial melody, but what will be its effect? Will it affect the Scottish mind like its native melodies? These have seized the Scottish heart; have ingratiated themselves with the very feelings and nature of Scotsmen, which makes them their own natural melodies as much as the melody of larks and nightingales is their own.

I heard two females, beautiful singers, singing some revival hymns, one of them a very tame piece of lyric poetry; while singing it, they were in raptures about it. Now, I am certain it was the bursts of artificial melody that put them in raptures. It was the sound of their own voices, and not what they were singing, that affected them. They were puffed up with a puff of empty air, so that, in listening to them, I was led to put the question, What is all that noise about?

Now, I am convinced that were that masterpiece of lyric poetry, “Scots wha hae,” with the child’s simplicity, but the giant’s grasp in seizing the Scotch heart, to be sung to a regiment of Scotch warriors, or even played on the Highland Bagpipe in approaching the front of battle’s lower; the question, “What is all that noise about?” would be answered by their daring feats in the field of strife. And I put it to the good sense, and to the enlightened mind of Scottish Christianity—were there a piece composed in broad Scotch, as much calculated to fire the soul of the Christian warrior, as the other is calculated to fire the soul of the Scottish warrior, and sung to the same tune, what would be its blessed effect? Would it not put all their Anthems, their Old Hundreds, their artificial, their drawling slow march melodies entirely into the shade?