“I will give my middle son to your middle sister, and get for me the giant’s sword of light.” “It won’t cost you more,” says Maol a chliobain. She went away, and reached the giant’s house. She went up in the top of a tree that was above the giant’s well. In the night the bald, rough-skinned lad came for water, having the sword of light with him. When he bent over to raise the water, Maol a chliobain came down and pushed him into the well and drowned him, and took away the sword of light. The giant followed her till she reached the river. She leaped the river, and the giant could not follow her. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-haired daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my smooth golden comb and my rough silver comb.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my bald rough-skinned lad.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my sword of light.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “When will you come again?” “When my business brings me.” She reached the farmer’s house with the sword of light, and her middle sister married the middle son of the farmer.
“Bheir mi dhuit féin mo mhac a’s òige,” ars’ an tuathanach, “’us thoir a’m ionnsuidh boc a th’aig an fhamhar.” “Cha chosd e tuilleadh dhuit” ars’ Maol a’ chliobain. Dh’fhalbh i ’us ràinig i tigh an fhamhair, ach an uair a bha greim aice air a bhoc, rug am famhar, oirre. “Ciod e” ars’ am famhar, “a dheanadh tus’ ormsa, nan deanainn uibhir a choire ort ’s a rinn thus’ ormsa.” “Bheirinn ort gu’n sgàineadh tu thu fhéin le brochan bainne; chuirinn an sin ann am poc thu; chrochainn thu ri druim an tighe; chuirinn teine fothad; ’us ghabhainn duit le cabar gus an tuiteadh thu ’n ad chual chrionaich air an ùrlar. Rinn am famhar brochan bainne ’us thugar dhìth ri òl e. Chuir ise am brochan bainne m’ a beul ’us m’ a h-eudainn, ’us luidh i seachad mar gu’m bitheadh i marbh. Chuir am famhar ann am poc i, ’us chroch e i ri druim an tighe, ’us dh’fhalbh e fhéin ’us a dhaoine a dh’iarraidh fiodha do’n choille. Bha màthair an fhamhair a stigh.” Theireadh Maol a’ chliobain ’n uair a dh’fhalbh am famhar, “Is mise ’tha ’s an t-sòlas, is mise ’tha ’s a chaithir òir.” “An leig thu mise ann?” ars’ a’ chailleach. “Cha leig, gu dearbh.” Mu dheireadh, leig i nuas am poca; chuir i stigh a’ chailleach, ’us cat, ’us laogh, ’us soitheach uachdair; thug i leatha am boc, ’us dh’fhalbh i. An uair a thainig am famhar, thoisich e fhéin ’us a dhaoine air a’ phoca leis na cabair. Bha a’ chailleach a’ glaodhaich, “’S mi fhéin a th’ ann.” “Tha fios agam gur tu fhéin a th ’ann,” theireadh am famhar, ’us e ag éiridh air a’ phoca. Thàinig am poc’ a nuas ’n a chual’ chrionaich ’us ciod e ’bha ann ach a mhàthair. An uair a chunnaic am famhar mar a bha, thug e as an déigh Mhaol a’ chliobain. Lean e i gus an d’ràinig i an amhainn. Leum Maol a’ chliobain an amhainn ’us cha b’urrainn am famhar a leum. “Tha thu thall, a Mhaol a’ chliobain.” “Tha, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo thrì nigheanan maola, ruadha.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chìr mhin òir, ’us mo chìr gharbh airgid.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo ghille maol, carrach.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chlaidheamh soluis.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo mhàthair.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo bhoc.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “C’uine a thig thu rìs?” “Thig ’n uair bheir mo ghnothuch ann mi.” “Nam bitheadh tusa bhos ’us mise thall” ars’ am famhar, “Ciod e dheanadh tu airson mo leantuinn?” “Stopainn mi fhéin, agus dh’olainn gus an traoghainn, an amhainn.” Stop am famhar e fhéin, ’us dh’ òl e gus an do sgàin e. Phòs Maol a’ chliobain Mac òg an tuathanaich.
“I will give yourself my youngest son,” said the farmer, “and bring me the buck that the giant has.” “It won’t cost you more,” said Maol a chliobain. She went and she reached the giant’s house, but as she got hold of the buck, the giant laid hands upon her. “What,” said the giant, “would you do to me if I had done to you as much harm as you have done to me?” “I would make you burst yourself with milk porridge. I would then put you in a bag; I would hang you to the roof of the house; I would place fire under you; and I would beat you with sticks until you fell a bundle of dry sticks on the floor.” The giant made milk porridge, and gave it her to drink. She spread the milk porridge over her mouth and her face, and lay down as if she had been dead. The giant put her in a bag which he hung to the roof of the house, and he and his men went to the wood to get sticks. The mother of the giant was in. When the giant went away, Maol a chliobain cried, “It is I that am in comfort; it is I that am in the golden seat.” “Will you let me there?” said the hag. “No, indeed.” At length she let down the bag; she put the hag inside, and a cat, and a calf, and a dish of cream; she took away the buck, and she left. When the giant came, he and his men fell upon the bag with the sticks. The hag was crying out, “It’s myself that’s here.” “I know it is yourself that’s there,” the giant would say, striking the bag. The bag fell down a bundle of dry sticks, and what was there but his mother. When the giant saw how it was, he set off after Maol a chliobain. He followed her till she reached the river. Maol a chliobain leaped the river, but the giant could not leap the river. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-skinned daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my smooth golden comb and my rough silver comb.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my bald, rough-skinned lad.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my sword of light.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my mother.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my buck.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “When will you come again?” “When my business brings me.” “If you were over here and I over there, what would you do to follow me?” “I would stop myself up, and I would drink until I dried the river.” The giant stopped himself up, and drunk until he burst. Maol a chliobain married the young son of the farmer.
The above is a fair specimen of these tales with which the story-tellers of the Highlands were wont to entertain their listeners, and pass agreeably a long winter evening. The versions of such tales are various, but the general line of the narrative is always the same. Scores of these tales may still be picked up in the West Highlands, although Mr Campbell has sifted them most carefully and skilfully, and given to the public those which are undoubtedly best. The following is a specimen referring to the famous Tom na h-iùbhraich, in the neighbourhood of Inverness. It was taken down by the writer from the recital of an Ardnamurchan man in Edinburgh, and has never been printed before. The resemblance of a portion of it to what is told of Thomas the Rhymer and the Eildon Hills, is too close to escape observation. These tales are valuable as preserving admirable specimens of the idioms of the Gaelic language.
Na Fiantaichean.
Fear a’ gheadain Clòimhe.
Bha fear air astar uaireigin mu thuath, a réir coslais, mu Shiorramachd Inbhirnis. Bha e a’ coiseachd là, ’us chunnaic e fear a’ buain sgrath leis an làr-chaipe. Thainig e far an robh an duine. Thubhairt e ris, “Oh, nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin.” Thubhairt an duine ris, “Oh, nam faiceadh tu m’athair, is e a’s sine na mise.” “D’athair” ars’ an duine, “am bheil d’athair beò ’s an t-saoghal fhathasd?” “Oh, tha” ars’ esan. “C’àite am bheil d’athair” ars’ esan, “am b’urrainn mi ’fhaicinn?” “Uh, is urrainn” ars’ esan, “tha e a’ tarruing dhathigh nan sgrath.” Dh’innis e an rathad a ghabhadh e ach am faiceadh e ’athair. Thàinig e far an robh e. Thubhairt e ris, “Nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin.” “Uh,” ars’ esan, “nam faiceadh tu m’ athair, is e a ’s sine na mise.” “Oh, am bheil d’athair ’s an t-saoghai fhathasd?” “Uh, tha,” ars’ esan. “C’aite am bheil e” ars’ esan, “an urrainn mi ’fhaicinn?” “Uh, is urrainn,” ars’ esan, “tha e a’ tilgeadh nan sgrath air an tigh.” Ràinig e am fear a bha ’tilgeadh nan sgrath. “Oh, nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin,” ars’ esan. “Uh, nam faiceadh tu m’athair,” ars’ esan, “tha e mòran na ’s sine na mise.” “Am bheil d’athair agam r’a fhaicinn?” “Uh, tha,” ars’ esan, “rach timchioll, ’us chi thu e a’cur nan sgrath.” Thainig e ’us chunnaic e am fear a bha ’cur nan sgrath. “Oh, a dhuine” ars’ esan, “is mòr an aois a dh’fheumas sibse a bhi.” “Oh,” ars’ esan, “nam faiceadh tu m’athair.” “An urrainn mi d’athair fhaicinn?” ars’ esan, “C’àite am bheil e?” “Mata” ars’ an duine, is òlach tapaidh coltach thu, tha mi ’creidsinn gu’m faod mi m’athair a shealltuinn duit. “Tha e,” ars’ esan, “stigh ann an geadan clòimhe an ceann eile an tighe.” Chaidh e stigh leis ’g a fhaicinn. Bha na h-uile gin diùbhsan ro mhòr, nach ’eil an leithid a nis r’a fhaotainn. “Tha duine beag an so,” ars esan, ’athair, “air am bheil coslas òlaich thapaidh, Albannach, ’us toil aige ’ur faicinn.” Bhruidhinn e ris, ’us thubbairt e, “Co as a thàinig thu? Thoir dhomh do làmh, ’Albannaich.”
English Translation.
The Fingalians.
The Man in the Tuft of Wool.