There was a man once on a journey in the north, according to all appearance in the sheriffdom of Inverness. He was travelling one day, and he saw a man casting divots with the flaughter-spade. He came to where the man was. He said to him, “Oh, you are very old to be employed in such work.” The man said to him, “Oh, if you saw my father, he is much older than I am.” “Your father,” said the man, “is your father alive in the world still?” “Oh, yes,” said he. “Where is your father?” said he; “could I see him?” “Oh, yes,” said he, “he is leading home the divots.” He told him what way he should take in order to see his father. He came where he was. He said to him “You are old to be engaged in such work.” “Oh,” said he, “if you saw my father, he is older than I.” “Oh, is your father still in the world?” “Oh, yes,” said he. “Where is your father?” said he; “can I see him!” “Oh, yes,” said he, “he is reaching the divots at the house.” He came to the man who was reaching the divots. “Oh, you are old,” said he, “to be employed in such work.” “Oh, if you saw my father,” said he, “he is much older than I.” “Is your father to be seen?” said he. “Oh, yes, go round the house and you will see him laying the divots on the roof.” He came and he saw the man who was laying the divots on the roof. “Oh, man,” said he, “you must be a great age.” “Oh, if you saw my father.” “Oh, can I see your father; where is he?” “Well,” said the man, “you look like a clever fellow; I daresay I may show you my father.” “He is,” said he, “inside in a tuft of wool in the further end of the house.” He went in with him to show him to him. Every one of these men was very big, so much so that their like is not to be found now. “There is a little man here,” said he to his father, “who looks like a clever fellow, a Scotchman, and he is wishful to see you.” He spoke to him, and said, “Where did you come from? Give me your hand, Scotchman.”
Thug a mhac làmh air seann choltair croinn a bha ’na luidhe làimh riu. Shnaim e aodach uime. “Thoir dha sin,” ars’ esan ris an Albannach, “’us na toir dha do làmh.” Rug an seann duine air a’ choltair, ’us a’ cheann eile aig an duine eile ’na làimh. An àite an coltair a bhi leathann, rinn e cruinn e, ’us dh’fhàg e làrach nan cuig meur ann, mar gu’m bitheadh uibe taois ann. “Nach cruadalach an làmh a th’agad, ’Albannaich,” ars’ esan, “Nam bitheadh do chridhe cho cruadalach, tapaidh, dh’iarrainnse rud ort nach d’iarr mi’ air fear roimhe.” “Ciod e sin, a dhuine?” ars’ esan, “ma tha ni ann a’s urrainn mise ’dheanamh, ni mi e.” “Bheirinnse dhuit” ars’ esan, “fìdeag a tha an so, agus fiosraichidh tu far am bheil Tòm na h-iùbhraich, laimh ri Inbhirnis, agus an uair a theid thu ann, chi thu creag bheag, ghlas, air an dara taobh dheth.” An uair a’ theid thu a dh’ionnsuidh na creige, chi thu mu mheudachd doruis, ’us air cumadh doruis bhige air a’ chreig. Buail sròn do choise air trì uairean, ’us air an uair mu dheireadh fosgailidh e. Dh’fhalbh e, ’us ràinig e ’us fhuair e an dorus.” Thubhairt an seann duine ris, “An uair a dh’fhosgaileas tu an dorus, seirmidh tu an fhìdeag, bheir thu tri seirmean oirre ’us air an t-seirm mu dheireadh,” ars’ esan, “eiridh leat na bhitheas stigh, ’us ma bhitheas tu cho tapaidh ’us gun dean thu siu, is fheairrd thu fhéin e ’us do mhac, ’us d’ ogha, ’us d’iar-ogha.” Thug e a’ cheud sheirm air an fhìdeag. Sheall e ’us stad e. Shin na coin a bha ’n an luidhe làthair ris na daoinibh an cosan, ’us charaich na daoine uile. Thug e an ath sheirm oirre. Dh’éirich na daoine air an uilnibh ’us dh’éirich na coin ’n an suidhe. Thionndaidh am fear ris an dorus, ’us ghabh e eagal. Tharruing e an dorus ’n a dhéigh. Ghlaodh iadsan uile gu léir, “Is miosa ’dh’fhàg na fhuair, is miosa ’dh’fhàg na fhuair.” Dh’fhalbh e ’n a ruith. Thàinig e gu lochan uisge, a bha an sin, ’us thilg e an fhìdeag anns an lochan. Dhealaich mise riu.
His son laid hold of the old coulter of a plough that lay there. He knotted a cloth around it. “Give him that,” said he to the Scotchman, “and don’t give him your hand.” The old man laid hold of the coulter, while the man held the other end in his hand. Instead of the coulter being broad, he made it round, and left the mark of his five fingers in it as if it were a lump of leaven. “You have a brave hand, Scotchman,” said he. “If your heart were as brave and clever, I would ask something of you that I never asked of another.” “What is that, man?” said he; “if there is anything that I can do, I shall do it.” “I would give you,” said he, “a whistle that I have here, and you will find out where Tomnahurich is near Inverness, and when you find it you will see a little grey rock on one side of it. When you go to the rock you will see about the size of a door, and the shape of a little door in the rock. Strike the point of your foot three times, and at the third time it will open.” He went away, and he reached and found the door. “When you open the door,” the old man said, “you will sound the whistle; you will sound it thrice. At the third sounding all that are within will rise along with you; and if you be clever enough to do that, you, and your son, and your grandson, and your great-grandson, will be the better of it.” He gave the first sound on the whistle. He looked, and he stopped. The dogs that lay near the men stretched their legs, and all the men moved. He gave the second sound. The men rose on their elbows, and the dogs sat up. The man turned to the door and became frightened. He drew the door after him. They all cried out, “Left us worse than he found us; left us worse than he found us.” He went away running. He came to a little fresh water loch that was there, and he threw the whistle into the loch. I left them.
These specimens give a good idea of the popular prose literature of the Highlands. Whence it was derived it is difficult to say. It may have originated with the people themselves, but many portions of it bear the marks of having been derived even, as has been said, from an Eastern source, while the last tale which has been transcribed above gives the Highland version of an old Scottish tradition.
Poetry.
Gaelic poetry is voluminous. Exclusive of the Ossianic poetry which has been referred to already, there is a long catalogue of modern poetical works of various merit. Fragments exist of poems written early in the 17th century, such as those prefixed to the edition of Calvin’s Catechism, printed in 1631. One of these, Faosid Eoin Steuart Tighearn na Happen, “The Confession of John Stewart, laird of Appin,” savours more of the Church of Rome than of the Protestant faith. To this century belongs also the poetry of John Macdonell, usually called Eoin Lorn, and said to have been poet-laureate to Charles II. for Scotland. Other pieces exist of the same period, but little would seem to have been handed down to us of the poetry of this century.
We have fragments belonging to the early part of the 17th century in the introduction to “Lhuyd’s Archæologia.” These are of much interest to the Gaelic student. In 1751 appeared the first edition of Songs by Alexander Macdonald, usually called Mac Mhaighistir Alasdair. These songs are admirable specimens of Gaelic versification, giving the highest idea of the author’s poetical powers. Many editions of them have appeared, and they are very popular in the Highlands. Macintyre’s poems appeared in 1768. Macdonald and he stand at the very top of the list of Gaelic poets. They are both distinguished by the power and the smoothness of their composition. Macdonald’s highest gifts are represented in his Biorluinn Chloinn Raonuill, “Clan Ranald’s Galley,” and Macintyre’s in his Beinn Dobhrain, “Ben Douran.”
Later than Macintyre, Ronald M’Donald, commonly called Raonull Dubh, or Black Ranald, published an excellent collection of Gaelic songs. This Ranald was son to Alexander already referred to, and was a schoolmaster in the island of Eigg. His collection is largely made up of his father’s compositions, but there are songs of his own and of several other composers included. Many of the songs of this period are Jacobite, and indicate intense disloyalty to the Hanoverian royal family.
Gillies’s Collection in 1786 is an admirable one, containing many of the genuine Ossianic fragments. This collection is of real value to the Gaelic scholar, although it is now difficult to be had.
In addition to these, and at a later period, we have Turner’s Collection and Stewart’s Collection, both of them containing many excellent compositions. We have, later still, M’Kenzie’s Beauties of Gaelic Poetry, and we have, besides these, separate volumes of various sizes; by the admirable religious bard, Dugald Buchanan; by Rob Donn, the Reay bard; William Ross, the Gairloch bard; and many others, who would form a long catalogue. As might be supposed, the pieces included in these collections are of various merit, but there is much really good poetry worthy of the country which has cultivated the poetic art from the earliest period of its history, and a country which, while it gave to Gaelic poetry such a name as Ossian, gave to the poetry of England the names of Thomas Campbell and Lord Macaulay.