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]