Part 11

[102] The “red-tree” knights were the knights of Emania, or Ulster. Cæsar mentions the order of _equites_, or knights, as one of the three great leading classes into which the Gauls were divided; so that the existence of such an order in Ireland, at an early period, is in no way inconsistent with what history relates of ancient Celtic policy. Cairbar was the son of Cormac, son of Art, son of Conn of the hundred battles, Irish kings of the Emanian race. Finn, according to O’ Flaherty, was married to a daughter of Cormac, so that this battle with Cairbar was in reality with his brother-in-law. It seems to have originated in the Feinn, who are said to have been a species of militia, or rather a standing army in Ireland, becoming disposed to stretch their prerogative farther than was agreeable to the monarch, and that the object of Cairbar in this battle was to put them down. It is said that the Feinn were supported by the provincial king of Munster. This is Irish history, and it is remarkable to find these events sung by a Scottish Poet.

[103] Muckrey, or “The island of Swine,” is an ancient name for Ireland, derived obviously, not as it might be in modern times, from the abundance of the animal in the country, where it is the sum total of the family possessions in many instances, but from the place which the sow held, as referred to already, in the national mythology. It is obvious from the reference in this line to a difference with the Feinn, that that was no new event in the history of the Irish monarchs.

[104] Another name for Ireland. O’Flaherty says there were five names for the island, and quotes a scholiast of the name of Fiach, who lived a thousand years before. The names are Ere, Fodla, Banba, Fail, and Elga. Might we not add to these the much-disputed name of Scotia, which our Irish neighbours claim, yet don’t possess. Surely it is time now to perceive that the only true and satisfactory solution of the question regarding it, is that the name was applied to both countries, latterly under the distinctive appellation of Scotia Major and Scotia Minor, as the countries of the Scots. Surely Scotland was as much a Scotia as Ireland, and Ireland as much as Scotland, in so far as they were both occupied by Scottish inhabitants. This identity of race, language, and at an early period religion, is not sufficiently allowed for in discussing questions involving the several claims of Scotland and Ireland to much of what was common to both. Scotland has suffered more than Ireland from the destruction of her early archives; but is not the life of Columba, so recently given to the world under the able editorship of Dr. Reeves, in reality a Scottish work?

[105] “Banva” is another name for Ireland. This is the Gaelic name for a _sucking-pig_, so that it also is probably mythological. It is in all likelihood the same name with our Scottish Banff.

[106] Another name for Caoilte.

[107] It may be interesting to many readers to have here a specimen of this poem, as taken down from the oral recitation of a Christina Sutherland, an old woman in the county of Caithness, in the year 1856. It commences thus:

Is trom an nochd mo chumha fein, Guilgeantach mo rian, Smuaineachadh a chath chruaidh, Chuir mise ’us Cairbar claon ruadh, Am macsa Chormaic O Chuinn, Is mairg sinn a thàradh fo ’laimh; Laoch gun ghràin cha do chuir, Annsa dh’ a laimh iuthaidh, etc.

Translation:--

My mourning is grievous this night, Weeping is my condition, As I think of the fierce fight, Fought with red, squint-eyed Cairbre, That son of Cormac O Chuinn; Woe to them fell into his hands, Hero who knew no coward fear, Whose hand took delight in the arrow, etc.

The composition is very much the same with that of the Dean, but in many portions contains lines which the latter wants, and in others is comparatively defective. Although frequently superior in force, it is not, upon the whole, so smooth and regular as the Dean’s edition. It will be given at greater length in the Appendix to this volume.

The author of this here is Fergus the Bard.[108]

High-minded Gaul,[109] Who combats Finn, A hero brave, Bold in assault, His bounty free, Fierce to destroy. Beloved of all, Gaul, gentle, brave, Son of great Morn; Hardy in war, His praise of old, A comely man, King, soldierly, free, Of no soft speech, No lack of sense, Cheerful as great: In battle’s day He moved a prince; Though soft his skin, Not soft his deed, Of portly mould, A fruitful branch, His heart so pure, He trains the young. ’Bove mountains high Rises in victory, We ever fear When he assails. I tell you Finn, Avoid the man, Terror of Gaul Should make you quail; Soothe him rather, Better than fight. Skilful and just, He rules his men, His bounty wide, A bloody man, First in the schools, Of gentle blood, And noble race, Liberal, kind, Untired in fight, No prince so wise, Brown are his locks, Marble his skin, Perfect his form, All full of grace, Fierce to exact, When aught is due, In vigour great, Of fairest face, No king like Gaul. I tell thee Finn, His strength as waves In battle’s crash, Princely his gait, Comely his form, Gaul’s skill’d fence No play when roused. Ready to give, Dreadful his strength, Manly his mould, Soldierly, great, Ne’er could I tell His grace and power; A fearful foe, Ready his hands, Conceal’d his wrath, A cheerful face. Like murmuring seas, Rushed to the fight, A lion bold, As great in deed, Powerful his arm, Choice amidst kings. Joyful his way, His teeth so white. ’Tis he that wounds, The greatest foe. His purpose firm, A victor sure, Desires the fight, In history learn’d, Warrior bold, Sharp is his sword, Contemptuous Gaul, Plunders at will. A fearless man, Wrathful he is, Dreadful in look, Leopard in fight, Fierce as a hound, Of women loved. A circle true E’er by him stood. He hurls his dart, No gentle cast. Soft are his cheeks, In blossom rich, Of beauteous form, Unchanged success; No stream so swift As his assault, Mac Morn more brave, Than any told, Of powerful speech, It far resounds, He’s truly great, Liberal, just, Does not despise, Yet firm resolves, Gentle, yet brisk, Forsakes no friend, In fight of kings, No powerless arm. There, fierce his mien, And strong his blow. When roused his wrath, He’s third of the chase. Noble Mac Cumhail, Soothe and promise, Give peace to Gaul, Check wrath and guile.

During my day, Whate’er it be, I’d give without guile, A third of the chase.[110]

Let’s hear no more, Soft dost thou speak, Finn’s love to Gaul, And third of the hounds.

Gaul, leave thy wrath, With us have peace, Now without grudge, Thou’st of Finn’s forest third.

That will I take, Fergus, dear friend, My wrath is gone, No more I ask.

Friend without guile, Lips thin and red, Bounty and strength, Shall win thee praise. High-minded Gaul.

[108] Fergus the Bard was one of the sons of Finn, and consequently brother to Ossian. He was, from all we can learn, the chief Poet of the Feinn. Ossian was both warrior and poet; Fergus was chiefly poet. Fergus was probably somewhat like a modern Gaelic Bard, John Macdonell, commonly called Ian Lom, who, on being urged to fight at the battle between Montrose and Argyle at Inverlochy, replied with well-assumed indignation, “Cha-n e sin mo ghnothuch, cathaichibh sibhse ’us innsidh mise,” _that is not my business,--fight you and I’ll relate_. In one of the odes preserved in the Dean’s MS., Fergus is called “Filidh Feinn Eirinn,” _Bard of the Feinn of Erin_.

[109] This composition is usually called, “Rosg Ghuill,” or the _Ode to Gaul_. Gaul was chief of one branch of the Feinn, the branch denominated “Clann Moirn,” or _the children of Morn_, as Finn was chief of the other branch, called “Clann Baoisgne,” or _the children of Boisgne_. The word “Gall” means _a foreigner_; “muirn” means _a body of men_, or _beauty_, _elegance_, in either sense giving a marked significance to the name. This poem represents a difference between Gaul and Finn, the cause of which will appear as the poem proceeds. Fergus, as was customary with the Bards, interposes as peacemaker, and represents to his father, whom he manifestly holds to be in the wrong, the danger of a difference with Gaul. The ode is a very remarkable one, having a striking resemblance to Ossian’s eulogy on Finn, as given already in this volume. Both bear decided marks of genuineness and antiquity. The language is peculiar, many of the words being obsolete. Indeed, the phonetic orthography of the Dean, the peculiar handwriting, and the discoloration and bad condition of the MS., with the obsoleteness of many of the words, made it a matter of no little labour to decipher the composition at all. There is an edition of it in Miss Brooks’ “Reliques of Irish Poetry,” from which, however, the present differs considerably in many of the lines, besides having several additional lines, and several deficient in some parts. The peculiar rhythm of the original, with the alliterations and vocalic concords, give it remarkable smoothness and force. The rhythm has, as far as possible, been retained in the translation. But besides the language, the sentiment of the piece is strong evidence of its antiquity. Those features of character are commended which have always been in favour in a rude age. Bodily strength, courage, manliness, and size, are dwelt on with all the warmth of an ardent admiration; while as much of literary cultivation is pointed out and commended, as would show the acquaintance of the hero with the traditions of his race. Gaul is said to have been “eagnaidh a stair,” _learned in history_. This and the ode to Finn have internal evidence of being compositions belonging to a very remote age.

[110] It would appear from this latter part of the poem, that the difference between Finn and Gaul concerned the right to hunt. It would appear that such a cause of controversy is no modern affair, but that game and game-laws had their place among human interests and human contentions from the earliest period of our country’s history. Finn seems to have claimed the right of chase over the whole territory of the Feinn. Gaul resisted and claimed a share for the race of Morn. Hence the contest giving Gaul the appellation of “Fear cogaidh Fhinn,” or _resister of Finn_. Fergus’s intervention resulted in Gaul’s obtaining from Finn, with good will, one-third of the territory called here “fiodh,” or _wooded territory_, and one-third of the hounds. There is a curious reference to these hunting rights in one of the poems in praise of the M’Gregors, given in an after-part of this volume, in which it is said that Finn himself dare not hunt without leave.

The author of this is Fergus the Bard.[111]

Tell us now, Fergus, Bard of Erin’s Feinn, How did fare the day In Gawra’s furious fight.

Not good, son of Cumhail, The tidings from Gawra’s fight. Dear Oscar lives no more, He who bravely fought; Caoilte’s seven sons are gone, With the commons of Alvin’s Feinn. The youth of the Feinn have fallen, All in their warlike robes. Mac Luy too is dead, With six of thy father’s sons. Fallen are the youth of Alvin, Dead are the Feinn of Britain.[112] Lochlin’s king’s son is dead, Who came to give us aid, He of the manly heart, And arm at all times strong. Tell them now, O Bard, My son’s son, my delight, How it was that Oscar Hewed the helmets through. It would be hard to tell, ’Twould be a heavy task, To number all that fell, Slain by the arms of Oscar. No swifter is a cataract, Or hawk in sweeping stoop, Or rapids rushing fast, Than in that fight was Oscar. You saw him, last of all, Like leaves in windy weather, Or like a noble aspen, When hewers strike its stem. When Erin’s King he saw, Still living ’midst the fight, Oscar swift approached him, As waves break on the strand. When Cairbar this observed, He shook his hungry spear, And through him drove its point. Chiefest of all our griefs! Yet Oscar did not quail, But made for Erin’s King; With force he aimed a blow, And smote him with his sword. Then Art mac Cairbar fell, Struck with the second blow. So ’twas that Oscar perished, With glory, as a King. Fergus the bard am I, I’ve travelled every land, I grieve after the Feinn, To have my tale to tell. Tell.

[111] This is another of the compositions of Fergus, the son of Finn, and brother of Ossian. It will be found to be an account of the death of Oscar at the battle of Gaura. One composition on this subject by Allan M’Rory has been given already. M’Rory’s appears to be the more modern of the two, besides being inferior in many respects to this. The account of Oscar’s death given here, is in the way of reply to an inquiry of Finn.

[112] Here we have in this very ancient composition reference to the Feinn of Britain, Britain including then as now England, Scotland, and Wales. If the Feinn belonged to Britain as well as Ireland, they could not have been a mere Irish militia.

This tale is by Gilliecallum M’ an Olave.[113]

I have heard a tale of old, A tale that should make us weep; ’Tis time to relate it sadly, Although it should fill us with grief. Rury’s[114] race of no soft grasp, Children of Connor and Connal; Bravely their youth did take the field, In Ulster’s noble province. None with joy returned home Of Banva’s proudest heroes. For as they once more tried the fight, Rury’s race did win the day. There came to us, fierce his mien, The dauntless warrior, Conlach, To learn of our beauteous land, From Dunscaich[115] to Erin. Connor spoke thus to his men, “Who’s prepared to meet the youth, And of him to take account; Who will take no refusal?” Then the strong-armed Connal went, Of the youth to take account; The end of their fight was this, Conlach had bound Connal. Yet the hero did not halt, Conlach, brave and vigorous, He bound a hundred of our men, It is a strange and mournful tale. To the hounds’ great chief[116] a message Was sent by Ulster’s wise king, To sunny, fair Dundalgin,[117] The old, wise fort of the Gael, That stronghold of which we read, And the prudent daughter of Forgan.[118] From thence came he of great deeds To see our generous king; To know of Ulster’s great race, There came to us the red branch[119] Cu, His teeth like pearl, cheeks like berries. “Long,” said Connor to the Cu, “Has been thine aid in coming, While Connal, who loves bold steeds, Is bound and a hundred more.” “Sad for me to be thus bound, Friend, who could’st soon unloose me.” “I couldn’t encounter his sword, And that he has bound brave Connal.” “Refuse not to attack him, Prince of the sharp, blue sword, Whose arm ne’er quailed in conflict, Think of thy patron now in bonds.” When Cuchullin of the thin-leaved sword Heard the lament of Connal, He moved in his arm’s great might To take of the youth account. “Tell us now that I have come, Youth who fearest not the fight, Tell us now, and tell at once, Thy name, and where’s thy country?” “Ere I left home I had to pledge That I should never that relate; Were I to tell to living man, For thy love’s sake I’d tell it thee.” “Then must thou with me battle do, Or tell thy tale as a friend. Choose for thyself, dear youth, But mind, to fight me is a risk. Let us not fight, I pray thee, Brave leopard, pride of Erin, Boldest in the battle field, My name I would tell unbought.” Then did they commence the fight, Nor was it the fight of women. The youth received a deadly wound, He of the vigorous arm. Yet did Cuchullin of battles, The victory on that day lose. His only son had fallen, slain, That fair, soft branch, so gentle, brave. “Tell us now,” said skilful Cu, “Since thou art at our mercy, Thy name and race, tell us in full, Think not to refuse thy tale.” “Conlach I, Cuchullin’s son, Lawful heir of great Dundalgin, It was I thou left’st unborn, When in Skiath[120] thou wast learning. Seven years in the east I spent, Gaining knowledge from my mother; The pass by which I have been slain Was all I needed still to learn.” Then does the great Cuchullin see[121] His dear son’s colour change; As of his generous heart he thinks, His memory and mind forsake him; His body’s excellency departs, His grief it was destroyed it; Seeing as he lay on the earth The rightful heir of Dundalgin; Where shall we find his like, Or how detail our grief? I have.

[113] This is the composition of a Poet of whom we know nothing save what we find in this volume. From a poem of his in praise of the M’Gregors, he would appear to have been a Scotchman. The name signifies Malcom, the son of the chief bard or the physician. It is found still in the form of M’Inally. This poem is the Celtic edition of the Persian tale of Zohrab and Rustum. The incidents are so similar, that the two tales must have had a common origin. Whether the Persians received the tale from the Celts, or the Celts from the Persians, or both from some other and older source, it is hard to say. The composition is in Gaelic, usually called, “Bàs Chonlaoich,” or _The death of Conlach_.

[114] Clann Rughraidh, a powerful race, who occupied the province of Ulster at an early period, after having expelled the Clann Deaghaidh, or the Dalcassians, afterwards of Munster.

[115] Dunscaich, a stronghold in the Isle of Skye, on the coast of Sleat, of which the ruins still exist.

[116] Cuchullin, or the hound of Cullin, was a famous Celtic warrior, whose fame is celebrated both in Scotland and Ireland. The name is a curious one, and is thought by some critics to indicate the existence of Anubis worship, or the worship of the dog, among the ancient Celts. There is a Cullin in Skye, and another in Ireland. From which of these the name was taken it is difficult to say. Certainly the Skye mountain is by far the more magnificent natural object, and Dunscaich is unquestionably in Skye.

[117] Dundalgin is said to be the modern Dundalk.

[118] Cuchullin’s wife is said to have been unwilling that he should engage Conlach.

[119] Cù is a dog or hound. The “red branch” heroes were the knights of Ulster, the most famous of the Irish military orders. Cuchullin is often called “Cù nan con,” or _The hound of hounds_.

[120] The Isle of Skye.

[121] The touching incident in this story is the death of the son by the hand of his own father. It is said that Conlach’s mother, in revenge for Cuchullin’s forsaking her, had laid her plans for securing this object, and had sent her son into Ireland under vow never to disclose his name until overcome in battle.

The author of this is the Blind O’Cloan.[122]

’Tis the sigh of a friend from Fraoch’s green mound, ’Tis the warrior’s sigh from his lonely bier,[123] ’Tis a sigh might grieve the manly heart, And might make a maid to weep. Here to the east the cairn, where lies Fraoch Fitheach’s son of softest locks, Who nobly strove to favour Mai, And from whom Cairn[124] Fraoch is named. In Cruachan east a woman weeps, A mournful tale ’tis she laments; Heavy, heavy sighs she gives For Fraoch mac Fithich of ancient fame. She ’tis, in truth, who sorely weeps, As Fraoch’s green mound she visits oft; Maid of the locks that wave so fair, Mai’s daughter so beloved of men. This night Orla’s soft-haired daughter, Lies side by side with Fraoch mac Fithich. Many were the men who loved her, She, of them all, loved Fraoch alone. Mai is filled with bitter hate, As the love of Fraoch she learns. His body got its grievous wounds, Because with her he’d do no wrong; She doomed him to a bitter death: Judge not of women by her deed, Grief ’twas that he should fall by Mai, Yet I’ll relate it without guile. A sigh.[125]

A rowan tree stood in Loch Mai, We see its shore there to the south; Every quarter every month, It bore its fair, well-ripened fruit; There stood the tree alone, erect, Its fruit than honey sweeter far; That precious fruit so richly red, Did suffice for a man’s nine meals; A year it added to man’s life,-- The tale I tell is very truth. Health to the wounded it could bring, Such virtue had its red-skinned fruit. One thing alone was to be feared By him who sought men’s ills to soothe: A monster[126] fierce lay at its root, Which they who sought its fruit must fight. A heavy, heavy sickness fell On Athach’s daughter, of liberal horn; Her messenger she sent for Fraoch, Who asked her what ’twas ailed her now. Mai said her health would ne’er return, Unless her fair soft palm was filled With berries from the deep cold lake, Gleaned by the hand of none but Fraoch. “Ne’er have I yet request refused,” Said Fithich’s son of ruddy hue; “Whate’er the lot of Fraoch may be, The berries I will pull for Mai.” The fair-formed Fraoch then moved away Down to the lake, prepared to swim. He found the monster in deep sleep, With head up-pointed to the tree. A sigh.

Fraoch Fithich’s son of pointed arms, Unheard by the monster, then approached. He plucked a bunch of red-skinned fruit, And brought it to where Mai did lie. “Though what thou did’st thou hast done well,” Said Mai, she of form so fair, “My purpose nought, brave man, wilt serve, But that from the root thou’dst tear the tree.” No bolder heart there was than Fraoch’s, Again the slimy lake he swam; Yet great as was his strength, he couldn’t Escape the death for him ordained. Firm by its top he seized the tree, And from the root did tear it up: With speed again he makes for land, But not before the beast awakes. Fast he pursues, and, as he swam, Seized in his horrid maw his arm. Fraoch by the jaw then grasped the brute, ’Twas sad for him to want his knife: The maid of softest waving hair, In haste brought him a knife of gold. The monster tore his soft white skin, And hacked most grievously his arm. Then fell they, sole to sole opposed, Down on the southern stony strand, Fraoch mac Fithich, he and the beast, ’Twere well that they had never fought.[127] Fierce was the conflict, yet ’twas long,-- The monster’s head at length he took. When the maid what happened saw, Upon the strand she fainting fell. Then from her trance when she awoke, In her soft hand she seized his hand: “Although for wild birds thou art food, Thy last exploit was nobly done.” ’Tis from that death which he met then, The name is given to Loch Mai; That name it will for ever bear, Men have called it so till now. A sigh.