Part 10

[86] Muirne Finn’s mother is said to have been a daughter of Teige, a famous Druid, or, as others say, of a princely family of Bregia, in Meath.

[87] Some of the lines in this part of the original MS. are very much defaced from age and bad usage. The editor has been obliged in consequence to guess one line and a few additional words. The line is the forty-fifth, where he has introduced a phrase sufficiently general to prevent the charge of in any measure tampering with his author. The other words will be seen by referring to the Gaelic.

[88] The word “naoimh,” here translated “saints,” is not necessarily associated with Christianity. The word “naomh,” _holy_, is one belonging originally to the Gaelic language, and not introduced, like many ecclesiastical terms, from the Latin and Greek. The phrase may be rendered “sacred Erin,” a character belonging to the island, in popular belief, even previous to the Christian period. It is a curious fact, that the feat of destroying all the vermin in Ireland was, in a later age, attributed to St. Patrick. It would appear that this was but a transference of a portion of the glory of Finn to the Christian Saint,--a remarkable instance among many of early Christianity borrowing, not very wisely, the laurels of heathenism.

[89] Hospitality was one of the highest qualifications of a Celtic chief. Ossian never fails to sing the generous, open-handed hospitality of his father Finn. Till a late period the same feature of character distinguished the Scottish Highlander, although modern civilisation is fast uprooting it, and overlaying the character of the simple Highlander with the selfishness peculiar to itself. Even now, in most part of the Highlands, the door of a hut is never closed by day,--a practice said to originate in the universal sense of the ready reception due to the wayfarer and the stranger. Is the _seven_ sides of Fingal’s house an orientalism?

The author of this is Allan M’Rorie.[90]

Glenshee,[91] the vale that close beside me lies, Where sweetest sounds are heard of deer and elk, And where the Feinn did oft pursue the chase, Following their hounds along the lengthening vale. Below the great Ben Gulbin’s[92] grassy height Of fairest knolls that lie beneath the sun, The valley winds. Its streams did oft run red, After a hunt by Finn and by the Feinn. Listen now while I detail the loss Of one, a hero in this gentle band: ’Tis of Ben Gulbin, and of generous Finn, And Mac O’Duine,[93] in truth a piteous tale. A mournful hunt indeed it was for Finn, When Mac O’Duine, he of the ruddiest hue, Up to Ben Gulbin went, resolved to hunt The boar,[94] whom arms had never yet subdued. Though Mac O’Duine, of brightest burnished arms, Did bravely slay the fierce and furious boar, Yet Finn’s deceit did him induce to yield; And this it was that did his grievous hurt. Who among men was so beloved as he? Brave Mac O’Duine, beloved of the schools;[95] Women all mourn this sad and piteous tale Of him who firmly grasped the murderous spear. Then bravely did the hero of the Feinn Rouse from his cover in the mountain side, The great old Boar, him so well known in Shee, The greatest in the wild boar’s haunt e’er seen. Glad now was Finn, the man of ruddiest hue, Beneath Ben Gulbin’s soft and grassy side; For swift the boar now coursed along the heath; Great was the ill came of that dreadful hunt. ’Twas when he heard the Feinn’s loud ringing shout, And saw approach the glittering of their arms, The monster waken’d from his heavy sleep, And stately moved before them down the vale. First, to distance them he makes attempt, The great old boar, his bristles stiff on end, These bristles sharper than a pointed spear, Their point more piercing than the quiver’s shaft. Then Mac O’Duine with arms well pointed too, Answers the horrid beast with ready hand: Away from his side there rushed the heavy spear, Hard following on the course the boar pursued. The javelin’s shaft fell shivered into three, The shaft recoiling from the boar’s tough hide. The spear hurled by his warm red-fingered hand Ne’er penetrated the body of the boar. Then from its sheath he drew his thin-leaved[96] sword, Of all the arms most crown’d with victory; Mac O’Duine did there the monster kill, While he himself escaped without a wound. Then on Finn of the Feinn did sadness fall, And on the mountain side he sat him down; It grieved his soul that generous Mac O’Duine Should have escaped unwounded by the boar. For long he sat, and never spake a word, Then thus he spake, although ’t be sad to tell, “Measure, Diarmad, the boar down from the snout, And tell how many feet ’s the brute in length.” What Finn did ask he never yet refused; Alas! that he should never see his home. Along the back he measures now the boar, Light-footed Mac O’Duine of active step. “Measure it the other way against the hair, And measure, Diarmad, carefully the boar.” It was indeed for thee a mournful deed, Youth of the sharply-pointed piercing arms. He went, the errand grievous was and sad, And measured for them once again the boar. Th’ envenomed pointed bristle sharply pierced The sole of him,[97] the bravest in the field. Then fell and lay upon the grassy plain The noble Mac O’Duine, whose look spoke truth; He fell and lay along beside the boar, And there you have my mournful, saddening tale. There does he lie now wounded to the death, Brave Mac O’Duine, so skilful in the fight; The most enduring ev’n among the Feinn, He lies upon the knoll I see on high, The blue-eyed hawk that dwelt at Essaroy,[98] The conqueror in every sore-fought field, Slain by the poisoned bristle of the boar. Now does he lie full stretched upon the hill, Brave, noble Diarmad Mac O’Duine! Slain, it is shame! victim of jealousy.[99] Whiter his body than the sun’s bright light, Redder his lips than blossoms tinged with red; Long yellow locks did rest upon his head, His eye was clear beneath the covering brow, Its colour mingled was of blue and grey; Waving and graceful were his locks behind,[100] His speech was elegant and sweetly soft; His hands the whitest, fingers tipped with red; Elegance and power were in his form, His fair soft skin covering a faultless shape, No woman saw him but he won her love. Mac O’Duine crowned with his countless victories, Ne’er shall he raise his eye in courtship more, Or warriors’ wrath give colour to his cheek; The following of the chase, the prancing steed, Will never move him, nor the search for spoil. He who could bear him well in every fight, Has now us sadly left in that wild vale. Glenshee.

[90] This Poet is obviously a Scotchman; but judging from another of his compositions in this volume, he was, like the Scottish bards of his time, well acquainted with the bardic literature of Ireland. This arose from the frequent intercourse between the two countries during their early history, and the number of Scotchmen educated both in the Medical and Bardic Schools of Ireland. This is one of the circumstances which renders it so difficult now, in the absence of authentic historical documents, to extricate much of the social history of the two countries. Hence the rival Scottish and Irish claims to many of our Celtic literary remains. There is no doubt that the poets of both countries interwove with their compositions the traditions of the race, without much regard to whether these were Scotch or Irish. The Irish trace this common literature to the fact of the Irish colonization of Scotland, which they maintain was the origin of the Celtic population of the latter country; but it is by no means necessary to go so far back in order to find sufficient cause for the fact. Christianity seems to have formed the first solid basis of union between the two countries, and a common Christianity was without doubt the means of long maintaining it. This composition is usually called “Bàs Dhiarmaid,” _The death of Diarmad_.

[91] A valley in the eastern part of Perthshire, where the grave of Diarmad is pointed out to this day. M’Rorie appears to have been an inhabitant of the neighbourhood, for he speaks of Glenshee as being close beside him. The name of Glenshee is derived from the word “Gleann,” _a valley_, and “sìth,” _a hill_ of a peculiar form. This word is found in the names of several Scottish hills, as “Sìth challain,” _Schihallion_; “Beinn shìth,” _Ben Hi_; “An t-Sìth mhòr,” _the great pointed hill_. “Sìthan,” a hillock. The word has been often mistaken for “Sìth,” _peace_, whence the name “Sitheach, sithichean,” _a fairy, fairies_, has been absurdly rendered _the peace folk_, instead of _the folk of the hills_, referring to their reputed residence in earthen mounds.

[92] “Ben Gulbin,” _the mountain of the beak_, lies at the head of Glenshee. There is a hill with a similar name in Ireland, whence Conall Gulbain, one of the kings of Ulster, took his designation. There is a “water of Gulbin,” and a “Torgulbin,” in the braes of Lochaber; but the reference to Glenshee fixes the scene of the death of Diarmad in Perthshire. There is, as is common in Highland topography, a stream called Gulbin, whence a valley of the same name, and then a mountain. The names in similar cases seem to have been primarily attached to the streams, whence they ascended through the valleys to the hills. We have an instance of this in the River Nevis, Glen Nevis, Ben Nevis, the “neamhais,” referring to its impetuosity, having been in all likelihood originally applied to the stream.

[93] Mac O’Duine is the patronymic of Diarmad. Hence the Campbell clan, besides being called “Clann Diarmaid,” _The race of Diarmad_, are called also “Clann O’Dùine,” or _The children of O’Duine_.

[94] The chase of the boar was a favourite employment among the ancient Celts. It is celebrated in many of their tales. Besides this, the sow enters largely into their ancient mythology. Even in this case the boar was possessed of magical properties, as will be seen in the subsequent portion of this poem. It is not unlikely that at an early period the Celts worshipped the sow like the Egyptians, whose worship of it might have been one reason why it was pronounced unclean. Whether the Celts worshipped it or not, it is manifest that it was held in high esteem, for its figure is engraved on most of the ancient sculptured stones of Scotland. Among the Welsh it is a national emblem, and hence one argument for the ancient Picts being British, as these stones are found confined to the ancient Pictish territory. The word “muc,” _a sow_, enters largely into Scottish topography. We have “Eilean nam muc,” the _Isle of muck_, or _Sow island_. The ancient name of St. Andrews was “Muc ros,” _the Sow’s headland_, and we know that the sow is associated with the memory of St. Regulus. There is a “Bridge of Turk,” or _the Boar’s bridge_, near the Trosachs. There is a “Slochd muice,” or the _Sow’s hollow_, near Inverness, on the Highland road, a name derived from a hillock shaped like a sow’s back, in the bottom of the chasm a little to the west of where the coach road crosses; and there is “Sròn muice,” _The Sow’s snout_, on the north side of Loch Ness, derived from the resemblance of a hill-face to that part of the animal. These two latter names are manifestly derived from natural resemblances, and have nothing to do with mythology.

[95] The “schools,” referred to frequently in Ossianic tales, were probably military, although there can be no doubt that there was a learned class among the ancient Celts. Cæsar tells us, as already observed, that the Gauls used the Greek letters, and that their priests were educated in Britain. The “oghum” character, whose antiquity is pretty thoroughly established, is another evidence of ancient literary cultivation.

[96] The Gaelic is “tan-lann,” the _thin sword_. Was this steel or merely bronze? The thinness would seem to indicate steel.

[97] It is hardly necessary to point out the resemblance here between the sole of Diarmad and the heel of Achilles. Achilles could only be wounded in the heel, Diarmad only in the sole of the foot. The Adonis of the ancient Greeks was slain by a boar. There are remarkable analogies between classical and Celtic tradition.

[98] Essaroy, _vide supra_, p. 18, n. This is manifestly the Essaroy of Scotland, which is in the heart of one of the finest hunting regions in the world. Nor is it at any great distance from either of the Gulbins.

[99] Grainne, the wife of Finn, had formed an unlawful attachment to Diarmad. The latter had what is called a “Ball seirce,” or _beauty spot_, which no woman could resist. Hence Finn’s jealousy and desire to destroy Diarmad. The word rendered here “naire,” _shame_, is in the MS. “noor,” _gold_. If this be the accurate reading, Grainne’s dowery must have formed an element in the conflict.

[100] Yellow was the favourite colour of the ancient Celt. “Falt buidh,” _yellow hair_, is an object of the highest admiration, and the longer and more waving the locks, the greater the admiration. The account the Celt gives of himself is somewhat different from that given by his neighbours, who would paint him a wiry, thin, black-haired, black-eyed man. Tacitus gave a different description; and any man who travels the Highlands of Perthshire, where, perhaps, we have the purest Celtic blood in Scotland, will have ample evidence of the accuracy of the Roman historian. With reference to the admiration of the yellow colour among the Celts, it is interesting to trace how it intermingles itself with the vocabulary of the language; thus, a _fine_ day is a _yellow_ day. The name given to Beltin day, the opening of summer, is, “la buidhe Beallteine,” _yellow Beltin day_; and anything propitious is called _yellow_, as, “is buidhe dhuit e,” _it is yellow or propitious for you_; and a man satisfied after a meal is called “buidheach,” _yellow or satisfied_.

The author of this is Allan M’Rory.[101]

To-night my mourning is great, Thou tonsured priest whom I love, While I reflect on the fight, With red-tree[102] Cairbar we fought, Son to great Cormaig O’Cuinn, Woe to the Feinn whom he seized; A king who ne’er shunned the fight, And feared not the face of man. The Feinn to a man did serve, Finn and the good race of Conn, Till the day of Cairbar Roy; Nor evil nor weakness fear’d. Brave Cairbar his people addressed, Deceitful indeed was the speech. In battle would he choose to fall, The Feinn and he together, Ere even as a King he’d live With Erin beneath the Feinn. Barrin then spoke boldly out,

Remember Muckrey[103] and Art; How your great ancestors fell, Resisting the Feinn’s deceit; Remember their cruel bonds, Remember their pride and guile; And that we ne’er knew of war, But such as was stirr’d by Mac Cùil.

Then did the race of Conn resolve, In counsel with Cairbar Roy, That they’d at once assail us, And the whole of us destroy. They’d have days of joy and feasting, Great Alvin cleared of the Feinn. Then would all grief be dead, Nor could they a tax demand. Fiercely and bravely we fought, That fight the fight of Gaura; There did fall our noble Feinn, Sole to sole with Ireland’s kings. From India far in the east, To Fodla[104] here in the west, The kings did all own our sway, Till the battle of Gaura was fought. But since that horrid slaughter, No tribute nor tax we’ve raised. Nor to us was tribute due, Save by part of Erin’s soil. Many were there on the earth Of the folk who felt no grief. To both sides how great the loss, When we each other did destroy, Should strangers fierce come over, And seize on beauteous Erin.

Ossian, what would Finn have done Were burdens laid on Erin?

By thy hand, most holy Priest, There were none in all fair Banva,[105] Save a few aged heroes, And some younger untried men; What king might there plant his foot, Could Fodla have for taking. No fight, no conflict he’d need, No stratagem nor struggle.

Eastward we sent ambassadors, To Fatha of Con’s great son; That he might lead us on, To seize on Erin’s kingdom.

Great grief had now come on you, From Tara’s loud-spoken King: New reason had ye given Why all of you should perish.

Ossian, tell us now the tale, When ye fought that sturdy fight. Did thy son in battle die, Or had he speech when you him found?

I bent me over valiant Oscar, Soon as was the slaughter o’er; Caoilte too did bend him o’er His seven valiant sons; Each living man among the Feinn Bent him o’er his own dear friends. Some of them had still their speech, From others life had parted. Priest of the crosier white, Whoever saw that slaughter, ’Tis an everlasting grief, Erin’s nobles thus to die. Many were the hard round shields, Many precious coats of mail, And lifeless warriors on the field. Nor would our people grieve for this Were they not a vanquished race. Little from that field was left us, Save a king’s or chieftain’s spoil. There found I my own dear son Laid, on his left arm resting, His shattered shield beside him, While his hand still grasped his sword; His precious blood on every side, Flowed swiftly through his harness. My spear I rested on the earth, And o’er him stood as he lay; Then thought I, O tonsured Priest, What, now lonely, I could do. Oscar towards me now turns, ’Twas for me a grievous scene; Forth to me he stretched his hand, Wishing I should him approach. Then my dear son’s hand I seized, And cried out with a bitter cry. Forward from that time till now, In this world I’ve useless been. Thus to me my own son said, As life was fast departing,

Thanks to the powers above, That thou’st escaped, dear father.

Nothing do I tell but truth, A word I could not answer. Then approached the noble Caoilte, Who to visit Oscar came. Gently did Mac Ronain[106] say,

How find’st thou thyself, dear friend?

Just as thou would’st have me be, Going to a better world.

Cairbar Roy’s spear had pierced, ’Neath the navel, red-armed Oscar; The arm of Caoilte up to its bend, Followed in its course the spear. Caoilte did deeply search the wound, And well saw how all stood there. The wound was through to the back, Torn by the murderous spear. Mac Ronain gave a loud shriek, And, fainting, fell to the earth. Then spake Caoilte, the warrior brave, Recovering from his faint,

Dear Oscar, no more art thou ours; Thou and the Feinn must part, So part must the Feinn with war, Conn’s race the tribute shall raise.

We had been thus a brief space, Thou priest, the son of Alpin, When leaving the slaughter we saw, All of Fail’s Feinn now living, There were but two thousand men, The old and the young together, And none unwounded returned, Even of these hundred score. Nine wounds them grievously pierced, There were few of them with less. Then raised we the noble Oscar, Aloft on the shafts of our spears; To a fair green knoll we bore him, That we his dress might remove. Of his body one hand’s breadth Was not whole, down from his hair, Till you reached the sole of his foot, Save his face, and that alone. The entrails, the liver, the spleen, Each draining the body till day. The sons of the Feinn did then To a fair knoll them betake; His own son did no man mourn, Nor did he mourn his brother: As they saw how lay my son, All, all did mourn for Oscar. Thus was it with us a while, Watching the fair-skinned hero, When we saw approach at noon Finn Mac Cumhail, mac Treinvor. From the fierce slaughter escaped, A third of the Feinn still lived, When they laid the sons of Boisgne Upon their biers, the fight being o’er. With gashed limbs the men were halt, The chiefs a dreadful sight. We saw the standard of Finn Raised on the shaft of a spear, Which from the slaughter they bore; Gladly to meet it we went. All of us saluted Finn, But no salute was returned, As he climbed the warrior’s hill, Where deadly-armed Oscar lay. When by Oscar Finn was seen, As o’er him sadly he bent, He turned to him his face, His grandfather saluting. Then did my Oscar thus speak To him who was first of us all:

In death I have my desire, Noble Finn of pointed arms.

Sad it is, my brave Oscar, Thou good son of my own son; After thee I’m but feeble, And after Erin’s brave Feinn. The heavy curse of Art aenir Is on us to our great grief, From the east it me pursued, Following me along the field. Farewell to battle and fame, Farewell to the victor’s spoils, Farewell to the many joys, Which in this body I’ve had.

When Oscar had heard Finn’s wail, Convulsive pangs did him seize. Both of his hands he stretched forth, And his soft fair eyelid fell. From us then Finn turned away, And shed many bitter tears. But for Oscar and for Bran, Never did he shed a tear. There was none but Finn and I, Greater than him of the Feinn. Then did the men give three shrieks, Which rung through fair Erin all. Five score hundred, ten hundred and ten, There were who belonged to us, Of the Feinn dead on the field, The number was nothing less. No lie it is that double, With Erin’s king, great tale, Perished on the other side, Of Erin’s well-armed men. Finn cheerful or peaceful never Was from that down to his death; Since that fight it touched him sore That our kings should want their land. Ever since Gaura’s battle My speech has lost all its power. No night or day has e’er passed Without a sigh for each hour.[107] To-night.

[101] This is the second composition of M’Rory’s given in the Dean’s MS. The present is as purely Irish in its incidents as the former was Scotch, the author having been in all likelihood, as already shown, a Scotchman, but perfectly familiar with the events of Irish history, and equally so with what is called the Irish dialect, although in the day of the Dean it was common to the literature of both countries, with a few variations. It will be seen, for instance, that in several of these pieces the Irish negative _ni_ and the Scottish _cha_, are used indifferently. This composition has been published at much greater length than here, under the name of Ossian, but from MSS. apparently of no antiquity. This poem is usually called “Cath Ghabhra,” “the battle of Gaura,” or “Bàs Osgair,” “the death of Oscar.”