Och! nach deach do thoirt dachaidh
O mhearg nigheana Shassuinn 's an uair,
Is do charadh le mōrachd.
Ann an cois na Traigh mhor mar bu dual;
Fo dhidean bhallachan arda
Far am bheil do chaomh mhathair 'na suain,
'S far am feudadh do chairdean,
Dol gach feasgair chuir failte air t'uaigh.
I entered his shop soon after this appeared in the Teachdaire Gaelach, and sung him some verses of it. He could scarcely believe that it was his own composition. He seemed in a reverie, his eyes speaking inexpressibles.
"Gaoir nam Ban Muileach"—(The wail of the Mull women)—is another extraordinary piece. I am sorry that I could not get hold of it. M'Gregor also has three hymns suited to this beautiful air. There is a good deal of monotony in singing the few first lines, but it reaches a grand climax of expression at the sixth. The last line is repeated twice. When two or three sing it together, and the whole join in chorus at the sixth line, I have seldom heard singing like it.
Dr M'Donald composed an elegy, to the Rev. Mr Robertson, with a very plaintive air—the air of a song occasioned by the great loss at Caig—
Ochan nan och, is och mo leon,
Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid,
Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid,
'S cha teid air ceol no aighear leam.
Many of the songs of the Gael might be called patriotic songs, and they make us feel proud that we are Gaels. Their daring feats in the field of strife against the enemies of our country, as at Bannockburn, Waterloo, Alma, &c., are celebrated in song. Their quarrels, amongst themselves, is the only thing that makes us feel ashamed of them. Several of their songs raise us in our own estimation, with good cause, above our neighbours the Lowlanders, the English, and the French. The songs of the Gael embrace every variety—their language, mountains, corries, straths, glens, rivers, streams, horses, dogs, cows, deer, sheep, goats, guns, field labour, herding, boats, sailing, fishing, hunting, weddings—some of them as funny as they can be, and some the most sarcastic that was ever written. There is always something sweet and pretty about them. The artless simplicity of the language, with its extraordinary power of expression, gives them an agreeable access to the mind, which no other language can ever give.
The power these melodies have over the Gael is really extraordinary. I was told by a piper, who was at the Battle of Alma, that when on the eve of closing with the Russians, he, contrary to orders, played "Sud mar chaidh 'n cal a' dholaidh, aig na Bodaich Ghallda," which had a most powerful effect upon the men, on which account alone he was pardoned. I saw a man who heard a piper playing "Tulloch gorm" in the East Indies, and it made him weep like a child. About two years ago a young man, a native of Oban, was out far in the country, in Australia, and having entered a hotel, he saw a man who had the appearance of being a Highlander, in the sitting-room. He (of Oban) was in a room on the opposite side of the passage, and thought to himself "If he is a Gael I'll soon find out," and leaving the door partially open, that he might see him without being seen, he commenced playing, on the flute, the most plaintive Highland airs. No sooner did he begin than the other began to move his body backward and forward. At last he bent down his body, covering both his eyes with the palms of his hands, and began to sob out "Och! och mise; och! och mise." He (my informant) then played some marching airs, and instantly the other raised his head and began to beat time with both feet. At last he played some dancing airs, when one foot only was engaged in beating time. He then raised a hearty laugh and closed the door with a bang. The man rushed forward, but finding the door closed he settled down a little. The door was opened, and what a meeting of friends! what union of hearts! what kindness of feeling! what joy! What was the cause of all these? What but the melodies of the Gael.
Now, I am certain that were I to listen to the native melodies of my country in distant parts of the world, I would also weep. But there is nothing that ever I listened to that would affect me so much as: "Crodh Chailean." Many a cow has been milked to that air, and many a fond mother soothed her child to rest with it, and I am sure it would be a greater accomplishment for young ladies to be able to sing it properly than any German or Italian air they could play on the piano:
Bha crodh aig Mac Chailean,
Bheireadh bainne dhomh fhein,
Eadar Bealtuinn is Samhainn,
Gun ghamhuinn, gun laogh,
Crodh ciar, crodh ballach,
Crodh Alastair Mhaoil,
Crodh lionadh nan gogan,
'S crodh thogail nan laogh.
Shaw composed several hymns to this air.