The author of this is the Bard M’Intyre. [173]
What is this ship on Loch Inch,[174] Of which we now may speak? What brought this ship on the loch, Which songs cannot o’erlook? I would like much to ask, Who was it brought that ship, Afloat upon that angry loch, Where changes often come? The fierce wind from the hills, And bitter storms from the glens, Oft has the vessel from the shore, Stolen upon the dangerous sea. Stranger, who sawest the ship, On the rough and angry stream, What should hinder thee to tell About her and about her crew? An old ship without iron or stern, Never have we seen her like, The vessel all with leather patched, Not even beneath the waves is’t tight. Her boards are trifling bits of deals, Black patches down along her sides, Useless nails to fix them on Upon her scanty, stinted ribs. What woman cargo is in the black ship Pulling her on betwixt the waves, The cargo heartless and senseless too? Widows of a foolish mind, A boasting, talkative crew, A load vexatious and bad, Quarrelsome and covetous, Of evil minds and evil deeds. Their ways and conversation bad, A band of well-known fame, No substance in what they say, Drunken, singing, with levity, A band ill-shapen, mischievous, Who live by both sides of Loch Inch. In spite of thee and of their ship On the stormy sea’s dun face, No good woman could take that ship, However pressing the constraint. The worst of women go to sea, Others cannot give them help. Let this ship be driven from the loch, Down to the fierce and roaring deep, Let the wind pursue the ship, To the old point of Seananach. There will I leave upon the stream, The ill-favoured, ill-doing ship, Of wicked widows full on the sea, Without a psalm or creed e’er said, What.
The author of this is John M’Murrich. [176]
Sad to me’s my fate, Though men don’t understand, Suffer not, Son of God, Me to have pain to-day. Little thought the school That such should be my fate, The fate which me o’ertook, ’Tis it has me destroyed. The pain in it I have, Is threefold what I’ve felt, The trouble I have found Is weighted with a stone. For her who caused my grief, My wrath and rage are great. Her skin like froth of waves, Ruddy and soft her hand, Her lips like berries red, My soul she gently seized. Since I slept last night, Sad indeed my state. I thought she was beside me, That I saw her smile. She’s not been since the day, When began my grief. She of curling locks, And colour richly red, Five jewels in a knot, In the maiden’s name. Pity she’s not with me, And others have her not. That I myself might get For evermore that friend. Were I to suffer from, What other men have felt, The spear of great Cuchullin, The horse of white-steed Teague, The purple shield unbroken, Famous all in war; The speed of Mac Erc’s coursers, Though much it is to say, Alas, more sad for me The trouble I endure.
Duncan M’Pherson.[177]
Alexander, hast thou left thy sadness, Or is it so that thou canst not? Hast thou without God passed another year, Or dost thou mean to live thus ever? Hast thou not found thy God, Now that thou’rt aged and grey? If sadness be prosperity, Rich are the gifts thou’st got from God.
John M’Murrich said this.
The men of Albin, and not they alone, Unless that M’Gregor survived, How much wrath would them destroy! All excellence in Alexander.[179]