Finlay, the red-haired bard, said this. [180]
Gael-like is every leap of the dun horse, A Gael she is in truth. It is she who conquers and wins, In all that I’ll now sing. The praise of speed to her limbs, In every fierce assault. Marked, and famous her strength, While quiet at the house of prayer. The birds are they who could, Strive with her in the race. Not false is the fame of that horse, The steed both sturdy and swift, Liker she was to Duseivlin,[181] Than to the beast of Lamacha.[182] They who would view her size and triumphs, Can nowhere find her match. Just like the wheeling of the mountain winds, Is the action of the prancing steed. Hundreds admire her paces, Like one in frenzy passing. Like the point of an arrow this horse, Famous are all her doings. Bands of the great witness her course, As with speed she rushes. Though far before her stands the groom, No blunderer is her rider. Few are the words would tell her praise, Like birds on wing her movements. Her triumphs and paces the same, Whether ’mong rocks or bogs she moves. Before that horse all men do fear, When she comes in the trappings of war. In the troop, the hunt, or the conflict, That horse a noble horse is. That horse is all full of spirit, As fameworthy she follows the banner. That wave-like steed, hardy and keen, Will win for her rider the praise of men. Forth from her stall she takes the lead, That gentle, great, and active horse. She will triumph in speed and slaughter, Till that the day in evening sinks. Ready to treasure the girdle of gold,[183] The field with violence shakes. Startling, rounded, bright, well shod, Gentle, broad-backed, coloured well. A horse of such great fame as this, I long had heard that they possessed. Where was ever found her match, Not he, the beast of Lamacha. Mac Gregor ’s the master of that horse, Prince of the house to poets free. From Banva men do come to praise, To Albion they do come to seek, The man who robs from the Saxon, And e’er puts his trust in the Gael.
Finlay the red-haired bard.
I am a stranger long to success, ’Tis time that I should have it. ’Tis time now to desist, From satire justly due. The way that I shall take, To seek a noble branch, Is to the Prince of the Gael, Where are no worthless guests. To Mac Gregor the brave, Head of all the schools;[184] He’s neither cruel nor sparing, To praise him is our duty. To whom courage is a right; When summer time comes round, Peace he never knows, He’s in the throat of all his fellows. When men of him do speak, As Gregor of the blows, ’Tis his delight to drive, Flocks and herds before him. Of that flock John’s[185] the head, The king at lifting cattle, I myself will sing, Mouth with mouth at daybreak. When his sharp-armed men see, Mac Gregor at the Bealach,[186] His way so gently soft, No weight to them their burdens. Then when war arises, Proclaimed in enemies’ hearts, It is to him they’d gather, Clothed in martial dress. ’Tis of Mac Gregor’s fame, When fighting’s left behind. To men not to be cruel, His castle full of mirth; When victory I had left Upon the field of war, When of the fight I spoke, Nought loved my patron more. Though sad, on the stormy lake, To tell men of my grief, To have a crew of mariners, Is best in battle’s day. Remember I’ll be with thee, Mac Gregor without stain, In face of any foe, Long, long’s the time. Gentle Elizabeth, Change thou my state; Woman of softest locks, And of the loftiest brow. I am.
The author of this is Duncan Mac Cailein, the good knight. [187]
Who is now chief of the beggars, Since the famous man is dead? Tears flow fast for the man, For beggary has lost its strength. The orphan is in a piteous case, Beggary’s gone since Lachlan’s death. In every homestead this is sad, That beggary should want for knowledge. If he be dead, I’ve never heard, Of one that could compare with Lachlan, Since God created man at first; It is a source of bitter grief, That without mother or a father, Poor beggary should be so weak. Since that Bretin’s son is dead, Why should I not mourn his loss? There is no man now on earth Who can beg as he could do. Since Lachlan the importunate’s dead, Great’s the grief that is in Erin. Who will now beg a little purse? Who will even beg a needle? Who will beg a worthless coin? Since that rough-palmed Lachlan’s dead. Who will beg a pair of brogues, And then will beg a pair of buckles? Who will beg a shoulder plaid? Whose begging now will give us sport? Who will beg soles for his shoes? Who will ask a peacock’s feather? Who will beg an eye for his belt? Who will mix in any mischief? Who will beg an old felt hat? Who will beg a book to read? Who will beg an early meal? Who is it wears arms with his dress? Who will beg for boots and spurs? Who is it will beg for bristles? Who will beg for sids and meal? Who will beg a sheaf of rye? Who will ask a sporran spoon? Who will gather without shame? Since Lachlan the hero is dead. Who will now afford us sport? Who will beg for maidens’ shifts, Since old shoe’d Lachlan is dead? Sad the fate that he should die, Who will ask men for a rullion? Who will steal the servant’s feather, And who is it can’t tell the truth? Who likes to travel in a boat, And likes his old friends to visit? Who will beg the hen with her eggs? Who will beg a brood of chickens? Who will ask the hen’s overplus, After a handful of money? Who will beg a headless pin? Who can read as he can do? That Lachlan should leave no heir, Is that which mournful makes his death. Who will beg for a hook and line? Who will seek for open doors? Who will beg for unboiled rennet? Who will beg for anything? Who won’t give a penny to the poor, And yet e’en from the naked begs? Who would oppress the very child, And is cruel to the infant? Who would beg for wool and butter, That they may have it, after Lachlan? Who would beg a woman’s collar? Who is it likes a dirty heap? Who would beg from young women, From little dogs and weasels? Who would take the fire from an infant? Who would steal e’en the dead? Who is sick when he is well? Who on his gruel begs for butter? More sad for me than this man’s death, Is that he has left no heir. For fear that beggary should die, And none be found to keep it up. Do not ye forget the man, Men of the earth, do ye, Each of you for himself make rhymes, My malison on him that won’t. If Lachlan died on Monday last, Every man will joyful be. Sad it is that for his death, None there is who will lament. Who is now.
Gormlay, daughter of Flann, the good wife.
Alas! alas! my own great pain, Alas! that I’ve my beauty lost, To-night sore is my wound, Since that Mac O’Neill is dead. Alas! to want the son of Dervail, Alas! my fate now left behind, Guaire’s hospitality is nought, Erin’s a desert without him. Alas! for the good king of Banva, How fair thy form down to this night, Since he, my life, in battle died, Nought will I say but alas! alas! Alas!
The author of this is Duncan M’Cabe. [188]
M’Dougall of bright armour, A noble chief’s thy famous son, All that I think is true Of thy fair-formed, prudent child. ’T were better that thy fair head Were now exposed than mine, kind friend. Duncan Carrach[189] is his name, A name that triumphed ever. Duncan of bravest deeds, Remember thy first honoured name; Son of Allan,[190] do not merit, Reproach thy race did ne’er deserve. Since now that thou art so well known, With every reason to esteem thee, To thee is given the foremost place, Since thou the favourite art of all. True it is thou art indeed The man to take the richest spoil. Like a bull that’s fierce for fight, ’Tis thus thou goest to make war. ’Tis thou who traversest Cruachan,[191] Casting thy spear beneath its knolls. Thy fame is as that of the leopard, Thou art Duncan of Durinis. Thou quellest quick thy foe, Thou stainest both hands with blood. Thou cheerest us when we are weary, Thou art the source of all our joy. He is the man whom ’tis easiest In song like mine to praise, Which among heroes I compose,— The generous dragon of Connal.[192] Other fame belongs to him, The art that is in his gun. The bravery and skill of Erin Bound firmly up in all his blows. Whatever skill a king’s son has, That he has, with no defect. The purest speech has come to him, This will in thy son be found. Now I see thee raise the tax, Truly out of every homestead, Noble king of bravest deeds, Descendant of that martial race. Macdougall.