Long do I feel my lying here, My health to me is a stranger; Fain would I pay my health’s full price, Were mine the numerous spoils. A spoil of white-haired, heavy cows, A spoil of cows for drink or feasting, I’d give besides the heavy bull, If for my cure I had the price. The herds and flocks of Mannanan,[217] The sword and horn of Mac Cumhail, The trumpet of Manallan[218] I’d give, And the quiver of Cuchullin, Ir, Evir, and Eireamon,[219] And were I to possess them, The harp of Curcheoil,[220] which hid men’s grief, The shield of the King of Golnor.[221] Lomond’s[222] ship of greatest fame, Had I it upon the strand, All I’ve seen I’d freely give, Ere as now I’d long remain. Long to me appears the coming Of Alexander Mac Intosh, That my disease he might drive away, And thus I might no longer lie. Long.
No Author. [223]
For the race of Gael, from the land of Greece There is no place where they can rest; Doubtless thou would’st much prefer To raise the Gaelic race on high. Now that thou risest ’gainst the Saxon, Let not thy rising be a soft one; Have your swords with sharpened blades, Let your spears stand by your sides, Let us not forsake our country, Let us fiercely, bravely fight. It is said by the Gael of Banva,[224] Our fathers did the tale repeat, And I have heard there was a time, Long ago, that Innis Aingin[225] Was ruled by the Fomorian[226] race, Who raised from it a heavy tax. Thus for a while the Saxons have Our country burdened heavily; And now each clan is full of fear, And we are plunged in grievous doubt. But now that a gathering’s begun, There’s need that chiefs should rouse them up; For with them, ’tis my opinion, We will share a common fate. Who is the man, whom we can tell, Will from the Saxon save the Gael? Who in our day has won much fame, And whose house is truly noble? Know a man, were he but willing, Of whom we readily might tell, His power in Banva widely known, Men all bound with him to gather. Archibald of the pointed head, Of thee it is that men now speak. Earl of Argyle,[227] I thee beseech, Be as a hero in the conflict; A hero who shall reign supreme O’er Gael from the famous land; Noble, high-born prince of the Gael, Thou’lt in apportioned Albin reign. Hero, who’ll desert no fight, With sword, so long as right remains, Who for the Gael from Greece, subjection Ne’er suffer would at Saxon’s hand. The very roots from whence they grow, Pluck them that thou may’st us deliver; Suffer not a Saxon hence to live, After that thou overcom’st them. Burn all their women, ugly in form; Burn their children, every one; Burn their black huts, burn them all; And crush their enmity to us. Drown their warriors in their streams, When their accoutrements are burnt. Cease not, while a Saxon lives, To drown them weakened in their streams. Remember thou, of ruddy cheeks, The claims we on the Saxon have; Oppression and beggary all thy days, When that their oppression throve. Remember thy own father Colin;[228] Remember Archibald,[229] father to him; Remember Duncan,[230] the prosperous, He who was liberal and friendly; Remember thou that other Colin;[231] Remember Archibald[232] as well; Remember Colin[233] first of all, He who was brave amongst the Gael. Remember that they never gave Their tax from terror of the Saxon; Much more it now belongs to thee To see that thou bear’st not this tax. Now that there is but thy sire’s blood, Of Gael from the famous land, Let the men together come, Let them fill with fear their foes. Let them attack the Saxon now, Wake thee up then, son of Colin, Golden-haired one, war is begun, ’Tis not good to sleep too much. Great.
The author of this is Duncan Mac Dougall Maoil. [234]
The history of the secret origin of John Mac Patrick,[235] Why should I conceal it? What belongs to his race is not feeble, The bearing of that race we love. Seldom of a feeble race it is, Among the Gael of purest fame, That inquiry of their origin is made, By the men who read in books. Firm the belief to them and me, During the evening time so dark, That in the blood of noble kings Were the rights of true clan Gregor. Now that I’m by thy green dwelling, Listen, John, to thy family story: A root of the very root we are, Of famous kings of noble story. Know that Patrick was thy father, Malcom father was to Patrick. Son of black John, not black his breast, Him who feasts and chariots owned. Another John was black John’s father, Son of Gregor, son of John the lucky. Three they were of liberal heart, Three beneficent to the Church. The father to that learned John, Was Malcom, who his wealth ne’er hid, Son of Duncan, surly and small, Whose standard never took reproach. His father was another Duncan, Son of Gillelan of the ambush, Noble he was, giving to friends, Son of the famous Hugh from Urquhay. Kennan[236] of the pointed spear, Of Hugh from Urquhay was the father. From Alpin,[237] of stately mien and fierce, Mighty king of weighty blows. This is the fourth account that’s given Of thee, who art the heir of Patrick. Remember well thy back-bone line, Down from Alpin, heir of Dougal. Twenty and one, besides thyself, John the black, not black in heart. Thy genealogy leads us truly To the prosperous Fergus M’Erc. Of thy race, which wastes not like froth, Six generations wore the crown. Forty kings there were and three, Their blood and origin are known. Three there were north and three to the south,[238] After the time of Malcom Kenmore. Ten of the race did wear the crown, From the time of Malcom up to Alpin. From Alpin upwards we do find Fourteen kings till we reach Fergus. Such is thy genealogy To Fergus,[239] son of Erc the prosperous. How many are there of thy race, Must have been from thee to Fergus! Noble the races mix with thy blood, Such as now we cannot number. The schools[240] would weary with our tale, Numbering the kings from whom thou’rt sprung. The blood of Arthur[241] is in thy bosom, Precious is that which fills thy veins; The blood of Cuan, the blood of Conn,[242] Two wise men, glory of the race. The blood of Grant in thy apple-red cheek, The blood of Neil, the fierce and mighty. Fierce and gentle, at all times, Is the story of the royal race. The history.
The author of this is Mac Eachag. [243]
Displeased am I with the south wind, Which hinders the coming of John,[244] And that he is kept away out, On his way from the north to M’Leod. Janet’s son, of whitest sails, Well would he like to cross the sea; But the south wind will not listen To John, William’s son of swift steeds. By night or by day as I sleep, From the beach I see to the north, The rushing bark of whitest sails, The bark of him who stays defeat. This is the fame which every man Awards to M’William from Clar Sgith,[245] An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth, One who for aught he did ne’er mourned. This is the eighth day without John, Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye; Like he is in mien and strength To the great house of liberal heart. Cheerful he is, does nought conceal, Such is the fame of sharp-armed John. In battle’s day he takes the lead, Ever ready fame to win. William’s son, my foster child, Son to Janet, royal her race, Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north, All my gloom would disappear.
The author of this is Mac Gillindak, [246] the man of songs.
Lords have precedence of chiefs, It has been so from the beginning; It is commendable in young men, That each should have knowledge of this. The first who was lord of this land Was Duncan beg (little) of the great soul, He who as a legacy has left Their bravery to clan Gregor. Duncan, great by many spoils, Was the blessed father of Malcom; Grandfather he was to princely John, Him who never broke his pledge. Gregor, excellent son of Duncan, Was son to John, and was his heir; Famous man he was of the country, From the bright shore of Loch Tullich,[247] Swarthy John, so pure in speech, Princely son of John M’Gregor, Hunter of the well-formed deer, He like a king aye led the fight. Malcom of unbending truth, Know thou John, succeeds his father, Southwards in fair Glenurchay, Handsome he was amongst its valleys. The first place ’mong their ancestors Is given by the Saxon to clan Gregor, Of whom were three chiefs loved the hunt, And were most active in the fight. In the days of Conn of hundred battles, I heard of something like this, Of Finn of spears and sharp sword, Cumhal’s son of famous deeds: That of Erin the hunting and lordship Belonged to Mac Cumhal of long locks, Patrimony and lordship he hadn’t Over the lands of the race of Gaul. Forest right they had all his life, From Kerry north to Carn Valair. But he possessed the old rights Which previously were his. From Hallowmas on to Beltin, His Feinn had all the rights. The hunting without molestation, Was theirs in all the forests. Many the tributes I cannot tell, Belonged to Finn and his men. Tribute in Erin possessed By Mac Cumhail from the forests. A noble’s forest right to the Feinn, On the banks of every stream. But Malcom’s large tributes Did not belong to Mac Muirn;[248] Finn himself would never hunt Without first asking leave. The hunting of Scotland, without leave, Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom. Constant in the hunt together Are M’Gregor and his fierce men; No oftener did the blood-red hounds Enter the fort of clan Boisgne. A fighting band of chieftains Arose with him in battle’s day, Men whose dress sparkled with gold, Men who conquered in the fight. The head of clans and of huntsmen Is the common fame of his race. No trial of bravery or skill Will show weakness in M’Gregor. Many in his halls are found together, Men who carried well-sharped swords, Red gold glittered on their hilts, The arms of the lion of Loch Awe. Harmonious music among harps, Men with dice-boxes in their hands, Those who leave the game of tables, Go and lead forth the hounds. Mac Gregor of red-pointed palms, Son of Dervail, the Saxon’s terror, No hand like his amidst the fight, He ’tis that ever victory won. Liberal he ever was to bards, Gifts which Mac Lamond[249] knows to earn. Famous for managing his hounds, A hand so ready with its gifts. Mary, who stands by his side, Of noble mind and handsome form, Poets unite to give her praise, Her with cheeks as berries red. Lords.
The author of this is Finlay, the red-haired bard. [250]