The one demon of the Gael is dead, A tale ’tis well to remember, Fierce ravager of Church and cross, The bald-head, heavy, worthless boar. First of all from hell he came, The tale’s an easy one to tell, Armed with the devil’s venomous spear. But he was surely, firmly bound, Ere quitting the black house of hell, To the same stronghold to return, And leave the Star of Paradise. Then, when came the black skinned boar, Many the devils in his train, Each of them with horrid sound, Their voices all in one loud strain. Lest that he should nothing have, It was apportioned by Mac Ruarie,[251] As a covenant firmly fixed, That in hell he’d live a dog. Righteous and just is now the claim Which Allan has against the devils. Whatever share may be their own, He, I think, should have much glory. ’Tis time to cease now from that band, Of horrid sounds, and cruel heart. Mac Ruarie from the ocean far, Wealth thou’st got without an effort. ’Tis a report we can’t neglect, For with Columba I must meet, ’Tis a report that fills the land, Bald-head Allan, thou so faithless, That thou hast, not thine only crime, Ravaged I[252] and Relig[253] Oran. Fiercely didst thou then destroy Priests’ vestments and vessels for the mass. Thou art Inche Gall’s[254] great curse, Her revenue and stronghold spoil’st; Thou art the man whose heart is worst Of all who followed have thy chief, Save one who stands at his left hand, And he, Mac Ruarie, is thy brother. Now thy fight we never hear, But from the cross we hear thee cursed; The two are good who are about thee, Black indeed they are in form. At the time thou first mad’st war, There was the Abbot’s horrid corpse, Besides that other lawless raid Against Finan[255] in Glengarry. Thine own cruel, hateful deeds, Have cursed thy bald-head body, Allan, Just as crime will always do, Revenge itself on who commits it. The country side, with its protest, Has stamped mad rage on Allan’s face. Thine own country and thy friends, Thou hast cruelly oppressed. The last of thy goodness was lost Between the Sheil and the Hourn, ’Tis no wonder thou didst keep Far away, Allan, from the gallows. The fame which men had given thee, Extends to thy mother and thy sister. Time it is to cease from satire, Worthless, cruel son of Ruarie. Though learning which helps not manners, The sound of thy wailing is pleasant. The one demon.
The son has been found like his father,[256] Above all chiefs whom we have known, His bearing, countenance, and mind, And with me he dwells in Lewis. The knowledge and mind of a chief, With which he’ll make prosperous times. I say of this young son we’ve got, That he is just another Roderick;[257] How like each other are their locks, His father’s honour to his ringlets. In battle, too, how like the praise Of Torquil[258] and his famous father. Of all that in Torquil’s time may come, None of his friends shall suffer loss, Great deeds and victories will be, Such as Mac Calman[259] may relate. Many his gifts which we might praise, Torquil of the famous race; His are a hero’s strength and vigour, Which he brings into the fight. I say of him, and say in truth, Since I have come so well to know him, That never was there of his age Better king who ruled in Lewis. To him belonged the “Cairge mhordha,”[260] The richest jewel sailed the sea, Given it was to Mac Vic Torquil, With which to reach his people’s land. Mac Ruarie of cheerful music, Had also the old cleaving sword, Another jewel of sure effect, ’Twas given him by the King of Aineach.[261] Since he so many presents had, ’Twas needless for him to go and seek. A shield he had cleft in the head, Another jewel, sounding loud. Without he had a noble herd Of horses, with their trappings red; ’Twouldn’t suit a man like him Not to have many swift-paced steeds. His was the Du Seivlin, M’Leod’s, whom the bards would sing. ’Twas hard for those to take that horse, Whoe’er they were that might him seek. Torquil had many youths Who never trembled in battle, Who for his race seized on all lands, A race that aye the conflict loved. Not braver of his age was Cuchullin, Not hardier was he than Torquil, Him of the ready, vigorous arm, Who boldly breaks through any breach. Beloved though Mac Vic Torquil is, I can’t enough his beauty praise; He who is fair as he is the brave, The key to every woman’s heart. There is no son of king or chief Of whose fame we’ve ever heard, Though we’ve had much to do with such, That better are to us than Torquil. Catherine,[262] daughter of Mac Cailen, Whose soft hand’s worthy of thy race, Daughter of the Earl of Argyle, Best of the women we have found. To our isle we’ve got a woman, Branch of a great and famous tree. Daughter of Mac Cailen, young and gentle, Whose locks in flowing ringlets fall. The son.
The author of this is Gilliecalum Mac an ollave. [263]
The cause of my sorrow is come, This year has not prospered with me; Foolish who cannot understand How my grief has on me come; He who cannot understand How my grief has come at once; Since these wounds my body got, Such wounds I’ve got I mourn. Pleasant now, though bitter too, To mourn my sad distress; Sorrow fills my inmost heart, Great was my love for him who’s gone; My heart is broken in twain, No wonder it should be so; My body has neither flesh nor blood, Like a strengthless sufferer. ’Tis no wonder if I so grieve For Margaret’s[264] son who now is gone, Remembering all his virtues, And that chiefless we are left. Sore is the loss that he is gone, Now that in the world we’re weak, My grief now that thy days are ended, Is the injury done by Angus.[265] Though it be hard for me to part With John’s[266] son of sweetest speech, What is worst of all is this, That ne’er to his place he’ll return. Though I were from happiness far, Pursued by my foes’ reproach, Whatever good might me o’ertake, From them never would I buy. No wonder though heavy my heart, As another lord’s seen in thy place, That my whole man should be feeble, Now that my king is dead. Bitter is my pain since he left, ’Tis easy the tale to relate, ’Tis hard my great sorrow to bear, For the hero so famous who’s gone. Great is my grief, and no wonder, My mourning is true, sincere; That which sorely has me pained, Is that in Albin we’ve no race.[267] Now since that I must leave, As others with reproach me load, Since he is dead, I fain would go, Away from the rough isles of Albin. Yet ’tis sore for me to leave, Although I feel that go I must, Now that my beloved is dead, My country I must leave behind. Last of all, what grieves me is, And truly the cause is enough, That my beloved will not return, To Islay on this side of Innis.[268] And then, besides, it is so sad, That this during his time should come, Wringing hearts, and bodies rending, Without revenge being in our power. No men on earth could think How ready he was foes to crush, ’Twas nothing both for us and thee That champions should come against us. But thy foes now have pierced thee, Pity we had not with thee died, Fair-handed, sweet-voiced son of Mary, That we should have none to help. He of the fairest countenance, Our loss is not to follow him. All the fame thou didst enjoy, Was such as to thy race belonged, They who had the long curled locks, Whose company men loved much. Now their hearts are sore depressed, Every comfort poor without thee. ’Twould be hard to find one like me, And that from my lord I had, The fellowship of priests and poets; These are plenty, but his hand absent. When others to the banquet go, Of the honour my share is this, Ever to mourn in grief unchanged, And of sorrow drink my fill. ’Tis sad for me I do not follow, Much his absence do we grieve; And then o’er that which makes me mourn, Many the other men who weep. Many the men before our time, Who by sorrow were brought low; And what I’ve said does find its proof, In a tale I’ve told before. “I’ve heard a tale of old,” etc.[269] As follows in another place. The fellow of this noble man, Foster-son of Caoimh and Conull.
Blind Arthur Mac Gurkich. [270]
The assembled fleet at Castle Sween, Pleasant tidings in Innisfail, Of all the riders of the waves, A finer ship no man e’er owned. Tall men did manage the ship, Men, I think, to urge their way; No hand without a champion, A slashing, vigorous, noble band. With coats of black all were supplied, In this bark, noble their race, Bands with their brown, broad belts, Danes and nobles were they all. Chieftains with ivory and gold, The crew on board this brown-sailed ship, Each with a sheaf of warriors’ spears, Shields on their hooks hung round the sides. Wide-spread wings, speckled sails, Bearing purple, all of gems; A long, handsome, gentle band, Stood along the stout-made spars. The blue sea at the swift ship’s prow, The ship laden when the tide is full; Wattled baskets full of swords, With shields all brought on board the bark. Fair women, too, were in the ship, Modest, their beds were placed on high, Spotted cushions were provided, Couches for the nobles’ wives. Spotted coverings of fine linen, This was the covering of the ship; Handsome, easy, as she rocked, Purple linen round each mast. No hardened hands, no tightened belt, Nor roughened by their usual toil; Heroes were there, nor did they labour, Bands of men of sweetest lips. We heard not of so many nobles, Of our isle from labour free; From Erin princely champions, A troop with soft and ruddy hair. Not ship of all did she count swifter, None has there been nor will be, No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief, Nor is there any end of all. No ship of ships she counted swift, Full of princely men she is, Scattering gold among the bards, While round the ship resounds the sea. Many the men of sword and spear, Many men quick in fight to mix; Down by the sea the fighting men, Above, the gentle women were. Who is he provides this fleet, At Castle Sween[271] of many hills? A vigorous man who fears no blast, His masts upraised, seeking his right. John M’Sween,[272] sail thou the ship, On the ocean’s fierce-topped back; Raise aloft the vessel’s masts, Let thy bark now test the sea. A leading wind then for them rose, At Kyle Aca[273] as rose the tide; The speckled sails were roundly bellied, As John ran swiftly for the land. We entered the cheerful anchorage In the bay of fruitful Knapdale;[274] The noble hero, lordly, shapely, Comely, masted, swift, victorious, He was then near Albin’s walls, Helpful, welcoming his men. Fair was then the youthful hero, Abundant dew distilling round, Favourable at Slieve Mun’s[275] streams, To Mac Sween, him of Slieve Mis. Speakers then come near to ask, They deal as with him of sharpest eye. Branches are laid beneath their knees, To welcome those of valour great. Their safety in each harbour nook Suffers from the welcome they give John. The men of Albin’s isles then come With welcome from the narrow sea. The men who sweetest are that sing, Tenfold welcomes to him bring. For a while there was a conflict, Between them and our men of song; They come at last to know full well, How fair the hill from whence came John. Then did we fight at Castle Sween, Just as a slender, furious hawk, We set us down around that rock, Every limb endowed with strength. We pierced the bodies of our foes, Just as a serpent fiercely wounds; Our thin-bladed, well-edged swords, The foreigners’ bodies fiercely hacked. We raised the cry of great Mac Sween, Amidst the rolling of the sea; True it is that roll won’t help, Broad-backed, long although it be, Their javelins have no power to pierce The shields which our brown coats protect. Rathlin of the sharp rocks, hears The music of our ringing swords. The thin-bladed sword, in Europe best, A spear that swift obeys the wish, What shield on earth can it resist? Fierce and fearless Erin’s sons. John Mac Sween of stratagems, With his thin, powerful, cutting sword, He whose shield is spotted brown, A blind man found him brave and wise. The assembled fleet.
Isabella Ni vic Cailein. [276]
Pity whose complaint is love, Whate’er my reason thus to speak, ’Tis hard to separate from its object, Sad’s the condition I am in. The love which I in secret gave, Of which I’d better never speak, Unless I quickly get relief, Withered and thin I’ll soon become. The man whom I have so loved, A love I never must confess; Has me put in lasting bonds, For me a hundred times ’tis pity. Pity.
The author of this is Duncan Og. [277]
Seven arrows me assail, Each of the arrows does me wound; Between me and my God they come, Such of my body is the desire. The first one of these is Pride, Which wounds me under my belt, Often of a triumph it has me spoiled, Which otherwise I might obtain. The second arrow is Lust, To whose power I’m such a slave; Since this shaft trait’rously has me pierced, I cannot live beyond its reach. The third of these arrows is one Which pierces ’midst my very joints; Laziness, which suffers not That I the right way e’er should chuse. The fourth arrow is Covetousness, O God, ’tis mournful where it wounds; Deliverance I can never have From this load of earth upon my back. The fifth of these shafts is Gluttony, Which has brought me much reproach; Besides that it pains my self-respect, From it my body is not free. The sixth sore arrow of them all Is Anger, which me from men divides; May Mary stay them when they’re shot, Otherwise I have no help. The seventh shaft does pierce the eye, Envy, which grudges others’ good; A shaft which, however we may feel, Is one which never does us good. When these in his hand the enemy takes, Many they are by’s arms destroyed; He never shoots but what he strikes, And never strikes but what he kills. Son of God, I’ll place a pater, And the apostles’ creed as well, Between me and these wounding arms, With five psalms, or six or seven. Seven.