The author of this is John M’Ewen M’Eacharn. [193]
A mournful cry amongst Conn’s[194] race, Heavy indeed is now their loss; As every one now follows John, Silent they can’t be at his grave. What grief did ever them o’ertake, The race of Conn ne’er honour lost. For John each man does weep, Necessity leads us to his grave; Sad is the land because of thy death, Son of the noble race from Allan. Great is our grief as thee we mourn, Few are the men that shed not tears. Sorely has it touched us all, Grievous the tale that John is dead. Tidings from the Dun went through the land, The stranger now does o’er us rule. Changeful the world down till John’s death, Now they rise not to the fray; Since then indeed thy race is sad, This grief now has them sorely wounded. ’Tis grief to them that thou art thus, Clan Dougall mourn for their great chief; The conflict of their grief is long, The tale which now is told is grievous; Thou messenger who brought the news, God made thee messenger of evil; Ere men thy tidings did recite, Pity they had not lost their ears. The abundance of my racking grief Has almost my eyesight ta’en away; No feeble mourning is’t for John, Tears for him I cannot shed; Mourning for our buried prince, The death of Macdougall of Dunolly. His was the form of Conn’s great race, Like a nut kernel, fair and rounded; His death has been a grievous breach, The very waves sing his lament. Above the beach,[195] since John has died, No ceasing is there of men’s sorrow; Men speak not even now of joy, Since that this grief has on them seized; Bitter sorrow has them filled, No word of sport, of music none; That way is called the sacred way, That from the beach leads to the grave. So do men thus mourn their loss, And women too, who loved thee well. Shall I from thy soft locks have honour? In place of it I have but ruin. I mourn as on thy grave I stand, All I see makes me lament; Women will not leave thy grave, So truly heavy is their sorrow. Raise up a tomb for our fair prince, Let it be wide as Cruachan’s cell, That men may see by what they do, How heavily on them weighs their grief. The clan with weeping do thee mourn, Their soul is sad, they cannot sleep. Dougall’s race before thy death, Never did fear the face of foe. Chieftain, thy death has come on them, ’Twould be no boast to rule them now. Not few the women at John’s grave, Pouring their tears from day to day; Of women bands even by night, With bare heads gathering on the plain; No wonder is’t that they should mourn, Because of John of brightest fame. No day can pass but hearts are full Of this sad tale, that wakes our mourning. I care not though’t be thus with them, Though they should feel what I don’t like; Thy death for us is ill to bear, Sore the state to which it brings us; I stand amidst the gloom of death, No word is there of wonted song; My heart is truly rent in twain, As we speak of his departure; Never were we thus before, That it is grief to ask, how fares he; ’Tis cause of sorrow that he is absent, I mourn that he is no more with us; Now that he sleeps in his cold grave, ’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell; They cannot cease from shedding tears, Castle and cottage both in sorrow; The rising tide has swept o’er hills, So for John do mourn his comrades; Yet there’s no heaving of the sea, Not of the boisterous sea at Connal;[196] For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn, In all the borders of clan Dougall; The land for thee does seem to weep, Loud is the cry, with much distress, From the musicians of Dougall’s race, The learned men, and leading bards. On John’s grave lies a heavy stone, ’Tis grief to me to tell the story; Far otherwise than Neil[197] would wish, Does every scandal now appear; Have they no care to see his grave, Since that John has overcome them? The race of Conn are now but few, Since death has ta’en away Macdougall; No pleasure in the violin’s sounds, Nor writing poetry without him; Poetry brings no honour now, Since death has seized the son of Mary; Few are the mouths that now can tell, How commanding is her privilege, Now that on their backs are laid, Both the heads of the clan Dougall; That John’s great power I do not find Soon after losing John his father; May God preserve thy noble nature, Who wisdom learned from thy Isla[198] teacher; Horses can’t insure a triumph, Men must leave them, and depart; After the three, our loss is great, My heart, in truth, can find no comfort; Mournful in youth to see such loss, Death has seized two Johns and Alexander;[199] Alexander, whom no restraint could bind, That I of him should also tell; Thy breast was stout to the rushing wave, Thy body now! alas my sorrow; Never do ye seek again That John’s young heir should go to battle; That he should stand ’midst battle’s storm, Lest soon he come to his long grave.
The author of this is Finlay M’Nab.
The sluggard’s Book of Poems,[200] If ’t were your wish to write in it, Among what they have left you’ll find Enough wherewith to fill it. Though many the men there be, Who cruelly the people oppress, Never will these be found, Honoured in famous songs. Of all the fruits of sluggards, Though there be of them a thousand, The house in which these do meet, They ne’er can by any means reach. They are both gentle and simple, Dressed in their Sunday coats; And yet of all their productions, It happens we never can hear. I won’t their genealogy tell, Of their history nothing I know, But that they are out at evening, Followed close by their hounds. Dugall, thou art their fellow, John’s son of the polished blade, In whom flows the sluggard’s blood, Write thou in the Book of Poems. Write knowingly, intelligently, Write their history and their life; Don’t bring a poem on the earth, To have it read by Mac Cailein. Remember this my claim on thee, Gregor, as thou hast heard That I have as an obligation, All thine to put in the Book of Poems. Let there be nothing in this poem Of priests or of tenantry; But nothing of this band there is, Which is not in the Book of Poems. The sluggard’s.
The author of this is Eafric M’Corqudale. [201]
Jewel,[202] who has roused my grief, Beloved hast thou been of me, Beloved that joyous, generous heart, Which thou hadst until this night. Thy death has filled me with grief, The hand round which I lived so long, That I hear not of its strength, And that I saw it not depart; That joyful mouth of softest sounds, Well was it known in every land. Lion of Mull, with its white towers, Hawk of Isla, with its smooth plains, Shrewdest of all the men we knew, Whom guest ne’er left without a gift. Prince of good men, gentle, kind, Whose mien was that of a king’s son, Guests came to thee from Dunanoir,[203] Guests from the Boyne[204] for lordly gifts. Truth it is they often came, Not oftener than gave thee joy. Shapely falcon of Sliabh Gael,[205] Protection to the bards thou gav’st, Dragon of Lewis of sandy slopes, Glad as the whisper of a stream; The loss of but a single man Has left me lonely, now he’s gone. No sport, no pleasing song, No joy, nor pleasure in the feast; No man whom I can now love, Of Nial’s race down from Nial òg;[206] Among our women there’s no joy, Our men no pleasure have in sport, Just like the winds when it is calm, So without music is Dun Sween.[207] See the palace of a generous race, Vengeance is taken on clan Neil, The cause of many a boastful song, And will till they lay us in the grave; And now ’tis hard to bear, alas! That we should lose on every side. Didst thou, son of Adam, crush Any cluster of three nuts, It is to him thou lovest most The largest third of them thou’dst give. Thus of their husk the topmost nut, Does to clan Neil, ungrudged, belong. The bountiful have often poured Their gifts on the dwelling of clan Neil. The prince, who was the last of all, Is he who me with gloom has filled. In half my purpose I have failed, Jewel, who has roused my grief. Broken my heart is in my breast, And so ’t will be until I die; Left by that black and noble eyelid, Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Mary, mother, foster-mother of the king, Protect thou me from every shaft; And thou, her Son, who all things mad’st. Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Jewel.
The author of this is Dougall Mac Gille glas. [208]
Bold as a prince is John[209] in each gathering, ’Twere long to sing his race’s glory; Of this there is no doubt ’mong men, That he is the first of the race of kings. Mac Gregor of the bravest deeds, Is the boldest chief in any land; Between his gold and Saxons’ spoil, Well may he live in ease and peace. Choice for courage of the Grecian Gael, Whose meed of praise shall ne’er decay, Abounding in charity and love, Known in the lands of the race of kings.[210] White-toothed falcon of the three glens,[211] With whom we read the bravest deeds, The boldest arm ’midst fight of clans, Best of the chiefs from the race of kings. When on Mac Phadrick of ruddy cheeks, Wrath in battle’s hour awaked, The men who with him share the fight Are never safe amidst its blows. Grandson to Malcom of bright eyes, Whom none could leave but felt their loss, The generous, gentle, shapely youth, The readiest hand when aught’s to do. The race of Gregor stand round John, Not as a weak one is their blow; The famous race without a fault, Round him like a fence they stand. Clan Gregor who show no fear, Even when with the king they strive, Though brave Gael may be the foe, That they count of little weight. Gael or Saxon are the same, To these brave men of kingly race, Sons of Gregor bold in fight, Bend not before the fiercest foe. Prince[212] of the host of generous men, To Gregor of golden bridles, heir, Pity the men whom you may spoil, Worse for them who you pursue. Chief of Glen Lyon of the blades, Shield and benefactor of the Church, His arm like Oscar’s in the fight, To whom in all things he is like. Kindness mantles on his red cheek, Thy praise he justly wins, ungrudged; Benevolence when to men he shows, Horses and gold he freely gives. Mac Gregor of the noble race, No wonder though bards should fill thy court; To his white breast there is no match, But he so famous ’mong the Feinn. Three fair watches him surround, Never as captives were his men; His arm in battle’s struggle strong, Well did he love to hunt the deer. In mien and manners he was like The king who ruled amongst the Feinn. Mac Gregor of the spoils, his fortune such That choicest men do covet it. Good and gentle is his blue eye, He’s like Mac Cumhail of liberal horn, Like when giving us his gold, Like when bestowing gifts on bards, Like in wooing or in hunt, To the Cu Caird[213] among the Feinn. Fortune attends the race of kings, Their fame and wisdom both are great, Their bounty, prudence, charity, Are knit to them, the race of kings, Wine and wax and honey, These, with the stag-hunt, their delight. Famous the actions of John’s clan, Like to the sons of the Fenian king; John himself was like to Finn, First and chief ’mongst all his men. Though many sought to have Finn’s power, ’Mongst those who fought against the Feinn, On Patrick’s son fortune attends, His enemies he has overcome. Mac Gregor who destroys is he, Bountiful friend of Church and bards. Of handsome form, of women loved, He of Glenstray of generous men. Easy ’tis to speak of John, His praise to raise loud in the song, Giving his horses and his gold, Just as a king should freely give. King of Heaven, Mary virgin, Keep me as I should be kept; To the great city fearless me bring Where dwells the Father of the king. Bold.
The author of this is the Baron Ewen M’Omie. [216]