Part 14

Once on a day there was in Dundalgin,[152] Cuchullin of the handsome form; Joy and merriment were his, All his people were with him. When from the drinking hall we rose, We saw the whole of the Feine. We strove from their hiding-place to raise The flocks of birds in the two hills. The most loved thing of all we had Was the women of Clan Rury province. The valley we were in was rough, We drove the birds to its mouth, In hopes that we might find a hero. The father of Conlach chased The birds with handsome Daoruing, The sweet-spoken noble of Coll in Galway. The well-formed sling was then used With skill by great Cuchullin, He with the arm of well-known strength; The birds with speed he kills. The game was then divided, None was forgotten but Evir.[153] Evir took wrath for her share, ’Tis true that prudence was lacking. ’Twas promised her in reparation That she should have the first birds slain, Killed on the mountain side, With the skill of the shot for her fired. As they travelled they came to a place Where poets were wont to resort; Each of them wore round his neck A chain of the purest gold. The wife of Cuchullin fell in love With one of our Ulster Fians, With the willing and handsome friend Who came from the Ulster bounds. Evir of the weighty locks asks Her agreement with Cuchullin, That she should now have her birds, Without excuse about them. Twice or thrice did he shoot at The wild birds, but missed his aim; ’Twas a victor’s leap as he shot Three shots amongst the birds. The last blow he had struck ere then Had pierced his own dear son. Without joy, or women at feasts, Had he been, as he sadly mourned. For a whole year he did nought But grieve for the hero now dead. ’Twas not tales of the Feine he sought, But to have that tale rehearsed. If the story men tell be true, The Cu never ceased to grieve; The blossomed branch whom women loved, Sad and grievous was his state. It happened at length of a time, A few of the Feine met together. Finn himself had joined the hunt, And sent us in pairs to search. I myself sat with Garry, Side by side with the King. Finn put the question to Garry, As by the King’s side he sat: “Since that thou wert there, How was’t ye slew Cumhal?” “I will now pass my word,[154] Since to me the question thou putt’st, That mine was the powerful arm Which gave the first wound to Cumhal.” “That is a cold welcome for me, Ye sons of Morn, as a follower; ’Tis hard indeed for me to bear, To know that ye slew my father.” “If that be a cold welcome for you, Finn, son of Cumhal from Alvin, Put aside pretended love, And show your usual hatred.” “Should I now raise my arm, Ye hated children of Morn, I could do all I chose alone, Without the help of any man.” “Ere ever thou had’st so moved, Walking in the steps of thy father, Lightly could we leap o’er streams, Were it not for the wiles of Cumhal. ’Twas Cumhal got influence o’er us, ’Twas Cumhal oppressed us sore, ’Twas Cumhal that banished us far, To the land of the stranger away. Some he sent to Albin fair, And some to Lochlin the dark, The third band to Greece the white, We all from each other were torn. Sixteen years were we all Severed from Erin; ’tis truth, No small calamity was this, Never each other to see. The first day we set foot on shore In Erin’s isle, so much loved, We slew, and it is no lie, At least sixteen hundred men. These all were slain by Clan Morn, Their heroes and their chiefs; There was not a man of them all But such as their women would mourn. With that their castles we seized, We, the noble Clan of Morn, Our race did bravely then Before the men of Erin. By thy hand, hero of the Feine, There ne’er was seen, east or west, One thing to cloud my eye, But seeing the slaughter there; My heart became tender and soft As I saw the terrible scene. We all surrounded one house, In Munster of the red towers; But such was the strength of the man, ’Twas easier to find than to kill. They slew on the opposite hill All that lived of Cumhal’s race. We made a joint and rapid rush To the house where Cumhal still was; Each man of us gave a wound With his spear to the body of Cumhal. Though it was my lot to be there At the time that Cumhal was slain, For the deed which then was done, Take vengeance now if you will.” Once on a day.

[138] This is a curious episode in Fenian history. Maighineas was the wife of Finn according to Irish writers on Fenian history. The daughter of Deirg was the mother of Ossian, and consequently another of Finn’s wives.

[139] Sasunn, “England,” after the Saxon invasion.

[140] It is difficult to say what this is. “Crom” was a Celtic deity. Here the word seems to indicate a banner. The word “Crom nan cairge” will be found in the second volume of the publications of the Ossianic Society of Ireland, pp. 53, 58.

[141] This is a curious piece. The dog without doubt entered largely into the mythology of the ancient Celts. Some have supposed that it was an object of worship with them. Mr. O’Curry informs the editor that the “Concheannaich or Dogheads were an ancient race who inhabited Magh O’Coin-chinn, now Moygonihy, in Kerry. They were said to be great enemies of Finn. This poem may really describe an attack upon them.” One of the Irish kings was called “Cairbar Cinn Chait,” or _Cairbar of the Cat’s-head_. The latter portion of the poem, referring to the banners of the Feine, has been preserved in tradition, although the editions of it are various.

[142] This seems to have been an imaginary monarch, like many of those in the “Ursgeuls,” or prose tales of the Highlands. At least the Editor has not met with the name elsewhere.

[143] Finn’s banner had inscribed upon it, according to this bard, “Dealbh Ghréine,” or _The image of the Sun_. This word has been corrupted by tradition to “Deo ghréine,” said to be _the sunbeam_, though upon no authority, “deo” in no case signifying “_a beam_.”

[144] The Editor has not attempted to translate these and several others of the emblems of the Fenian leaders. He has given the words as he found them, except when the meaning was obvious and unquestionable.

[145] This heraldic emblem of Caoilte M’Ronan has descended through a long course of ancestors to the modern M’Donalds. It is probably the oldest of the kind in the kingdom.

[146] Hospitality was the most esteemed feature in the character of the Celtic chief. That of Finn is sung with untiring admiration by the poets. This virtue, with bravery, generosity, and liberal giving, no doubt to the poets themselves especially, seemed to make up what they looked upon as a perfect character for their leader. These feasts were apparently affairs of great moment, as the like are in our own day.

[147] Scoilean was the second favourite hound of Finn.

[148] Rath Cruachan, as Irish tradition says, was the chief seat of the Feinn of Connaught, usually called the Sons of Morn. The word “Rath” means a _Fort_, and Cruachan an elevation more than usually steep. It sometimes stands upon another hill, as in Argyleshire, where we have “Cruachan Beinne,” _The hillock upon the mountain_, usually called Ben Cruachan. The word “Rath” enters largely into Scottish topography, and assumes different forms in English, as _Rath_, _Roth_, _Rothie_, _Rait_, _Raits_, etc.

[149] “Yellow” was the favourite colour of the Celts. It seems that St. Patrick adopted it as the clerical colour, very probably as a means of commending himself and his cause to the good-will of the people.

[150] Fatha Canan appears in several of these pieces. He appears as Fatha son of Mac Con, and Faycanan. He was son of Lughaidh Mac Con, a King of Ireland, of the race of Ith, who flourished in the middle of the third century. Hence his name Fatha Mac Mhic Con, _Fatha son of Mac Con’s son_. The Irish say he settled in Scotland, and was progenitor of the Campbells.

[151] Grainne was the wife of Finn, and the poet, whether it be Ossian or some other of the Fenian bards, addresses this description of the glory of Finn and his followers to her.

[152] The following piece seems to be made up of fragments. Mr. O’Curry, who has obligingly taken the trouble to examine it, suggests that it contains fragments of four different pieces: The Irish bardic account of the name of “Srubh Brain,” or the “Raven’s snout,” at Loch Swilly; the legend of “Cuchullin’s sick-bed;” the death of Conlaoch; and a short but imperfect account of the battle of Cnucha, in which Cumhal was killed. The piece is given as in the MS., and if thus made up, is just as it was written in the beginning of the sixteenth century. The Editor has to state, however, that the leaves which contain it are so discoloured, and the writing so defaced, that he has had the greatest difficulty in deciphering it at all, and for many of the words he cannot be answerable except as guesses. Mr. M’Lachlan of Aberdeen, who transcribed the greater portion of the MS., did not transcribe this piece; and it is given now merely from the desire to withhold nothing in it that may be of value or interest.

[153] Evir was the wife of Cuchullin.

[154] It is here that Garry’s account of the battle of Cnucha commences. The account, as Mr. O’Curry says, may be imperfect; but the gathering together of such fragments, and comparing them with one another, cannot but be interesting to the student of early Celtic history. There is interest in the variety, irrespective of the question of comparative merit as between the different compositions. This may be a Scotch version of an Irish story.

The author of this is Duncan Mor from Lennox.[155]

Pity the man who lost his voice, When he is called on to recite, Who cannot speak so fast as needs be, And yet’s unwilling to give up. Who cannot sing an air or tune, And cannot well recite a lay. Who cannot put aside his harp, Yet cannot sing as he would wish. Pity him ever with his “dring, drang,” Trying his verses to recite, When men can neither hear his harp, Nor understand the songs he sings. Pity the man neglects his health, And strives not his vigour to retain. Pity the man who ever strives To have the fruit he cannot reach. Were I to wish to have such fruit, Fruit which I could not reach on high, I’d cut the tree down at the root, Let men be angry if they will. Pity.

[155] The fragments of Ossianic or Fenian poetry in the miscellany of Dean Macgregor are now exhausted. They afford some idea of the amount of such poetry in the Highlands at the time he lived. We now proceed with those pieces which profess to be of a more recent date. These will be found to consist chiefly of compositions of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The first short composition here given is one by a poet hitherto unknown to modern fame. Duncan the big, from Lennox or Dumbartonshire, might be a man of some note in his day, but time has obliterated all knowledge of him. His composition is of a class well known in his day, and highly popular, being aphoristic. Several compositions, consisting of a series of aphorisms, will be found in the sequel.

The author of this is Gilchrist Taylor.[156]

Bless, O Trinity, thy household, King of heaven, place of jewels; Black thy family was not formed, All by thyself in wisdom made. By thee ’twas Adam’s race was shaped The cheek like berries richly red; Thou who blessest place and people Curse them that ’gainst thee fierce contend. There is a pack of cruel hounds, Who the king’s children sorely grieve; I hear the baying of these dogs, Every glen is full of it. Such as war on Adam’s race, Since that they cannot silence keep, Joined together in their evil, Powers of the king of light them smite; Such as war on Adam’s race, Of crafty Lucifer the slaves, Give them no rest, to them give none, King of lights do thou them burn. Mounted on two ugly steeds, When vicious packs abound the most, They furiously commence the hunt, Belching out death on every side. Curse thou their hunt and devastation, Their two steeds so black in hue; Lay them, their backs stretched on the turf, Scatter the heads of this black band. There is a band of cruel hounds Harbouring at Inch Ald Art, They’re horrid brutes, Thou God forsake them, Let bags out of their skins be made. Though many be the skins of wolves, Covering our harps, both small and great, The cold and empty skulls are many, Given us by these fierce hounds. Father of Christ, with speed them strike From Lochaber to Raon Fraoich, Soon let the plague their bodies waste; ’Tis sad that thus I have to speak. Though no reparation for a true hound, For Robert’s son[157] of clustering locks. From Loch Venachar of rich glens, Many’s the ugly head laid low. Though from Ben Gulbin’s sunny side, Many the dogs to Tummel’s stream, Who know to hunt along its side, The eye of Christ is on them all. ’Twas told me when at Inverness, That greyhounds were scattering the pack. Pity the man who’s seized with fear, ’Tis like the falling sickness, sore. Pleasing to witness hounds pursue, Them who would slay the fine grey steeds. May God’s Son with His holy power, Destroy all surly cruel hounds. Smoke every den in Schiehallion, John Stewart of the bounding steeds, Ere I must call a sweet-voiced pack This litter of ugly, snarling curs. By Garry of John Stewart of the white steed, No antlers are seen without the head, While ’mongst the rocky rugged woods, Are seen the grey-skinned pack of hounds. Bless.

[156] There are several pieces by this poet in the Dean’s MS., but we know nothing of his history. He was probably an ecclesiastic.

[157] The piece is extremely obscure, but the reference to Mac Robert and the Athole Stewarts would seem to indicate that the subjects of the poem were the murderers of King James the First. The infamous persons whom the poet denounces are said to have done evil to the race of kings.

The author of this is Gilliecallum Mac an Olla.[158]

There is no joy without the clan Donald, No battle when they are awanting; First of the clans in all the earth, Each man of them is a hundred. The noblest clan which you can find, A race as brave as they are peaceful; The clan whose praise does fill the lands, Famed for their faith and godliness. The clan so faithful, bold, and brave, The clan so swift amidst the fight, The clan so gentle among men, And yet in battle none so fierce; The clan most numerous of all Whose number has been ever known. The clan which never vexed the Church, And ever dreaded its reproach. Of all that dwell in Albin green, This is the bravest e’er baptized. The third of every land is theirs, Their bravery is like the falcon’s. The clan most numerous and famous, Of finest form and fairest mould; The clan that has the largest hearts, Most patient and most liberal. They, sons of kings, deserved no gibe When asked in trouble to give help. Noble were they since the time When there was giving and poor ones. The clan for wine and shelter best, The first in prowess and in strength. ’Tis sad how short the length extends Given by him who spins your thread. They were not wicked and rough, Nor were they gentle and weak. In midst of trial and hardships, Not harder than them was the rock. The clan without pride or misdeeds, When the spoil of battle is theirs. ’Mongst them you’d find gentlemen, And common people with them. Pity him who has lost their defence, Pity him who forsakes their protection. There is no clan like the clan Donald, The noble clan of firmest mind. Who is there can number their gifts? Who is there can count their nobles? Without limit, commencement or close, Of excellencies among their gentry. First of all with the clan Donald, There is knowledge which they learn; Last of all, there is among them Polish, generosity, and modesty. ’Tis in sorrow and in grief Understanding and learning are got, By him who them would have. No joy without the clan Donald. Loud was the sound of their thunder, This race so wise and faithful, Though now they be reproached, There is no joy without the clan Donald. This people so great in fame, In courtesy, mind, and firmness, There is no right without them, There is no joy without the clan Donald. The son of his virgin mother, Who hath earned for us freedom from pain, Though he be faithful and true, There is no joy without the clan Donald. There is no joy.

Alas! alas! this is the head[159] Which belonged to the blue-armed Conull; The head where understanding was found, Noble it was and most lovely. Alas! alas! this is the eye That dwelt in generous Conull’s head; Round which the eyelid wound, Benevolent it was and manful. Alas! alas! this is the mouth In which no bard did folly find; Its lips so thin, like apples red, Sweet as honey the mouth of Conull. Alas! alas! this is the hand That Conull Mac Scanlan owned; The hand of him so brave in battle, The hand of Conull my first beloved. Alas! alas! this is the side By which our noble side we laid; It was a hound from Mull that came, John did lie upon his side. Alas! alas! this is the foot Which ne’er before a warrior fled; The foot of him in fight most brave, The foot of the shielded son of Scanlan. Alas! success e’er followed Conull, Where’er it was he battle fought; But now that my tale is done, This place is the dwelling of tears. Alas!

[158] This bard has been met with already as an imitator of Ossian. He was in all likelihood an ecclesiastic. Several of the early Lords of the Isles were liberal benefactors to the Church, and it is not unlikely that this liberality called forth the praises of our bard. The word “bochd,” _poor_, associated in one of the lines of this composition with “brontachd,” _bestowing_, is often by early Gaelic writers applied to monks and hermits, who lived upon the beneficence of the wealthy, and became finally enriched by their gifts.

[159] Mr. O’Curry says regarding this Conull Mac Scanlan, “I don’t know any person in our history whose name would agree with his but Congal Claen, son of Scanlan, Prince of Ulster, who fought the battle of Magh Rath in A.D. 634, in which the Four Masters say he was killed. The old account says he was disabled, and disappeared no one knows where. It would be curious if your elegy could be traced up to this hero.”

The author of this is John of Knoydart.[160]

Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre,[161] Though great be thy trouble and pain, I grudge thee not all thou hast suffered, Although it be painful to tell. I grudge not though thy ragged locks Be searched by the winds from the glens. I grudge thee not that thou art bound, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Pity the thought e’er filled men’s breasts, That thy friendship was not hatred; Pity, alas! thou turn’dst not back, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Thou hast the King of Isla slain, Who freely gave his wine and money, Him of the soft and flowing locks, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Isla, king of well filled horns, Who with his friends so kindly dealt; Alas! who gashed his soft white skin, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre! Beloved was that liberal hand, Which never grudged his gold or silver, And which in feast or hunt was first, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. It is my prayer to th’ Apostles’ King, He who preserves by His great power, That He from pain may him e’er keep, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. Thou head.

[160] Of the author of this fragment we have no tradition. All we learn here is that he was a Knoydart man, that mountainous region lying between Loch Hourn and Morar, on the west coast of Inverness-shire, till lately possessed by the Macdonells of Glengarry.

[161] In a transcript of a MS. history of the Macdonalds, published in the Transactions of the Iona Club, it is said that Angus Og of Isla, or of the Isles, who fought against his father in the battle of the Bloody Bay, was assassinated by Art O’Carby, an Irish harper, instigated by M’Kenzie, whose daughter had captivated the impressible musician. In the Irish annals this harper is called Diarmad. This lay seems to commemorate the event by commemorating the punishment of the assassin, which was inflicted by drawing him between horses. The lines being composed shortly after the event, which took place about the year 1490, and being taken down by the Dean, are sufficient evidence of the historical accuracy of the statement.

The author of this is Gormlay, daughter of Flann.[162]

Melancholy earth upon the breast of Nial, Melancholy its depth upon his grave; Neither nobility nor fame can save, Since that the King of the North is dead. Whose back is turned upon this joyful world, Now that his death-wound he received. He from the noble race of Nial is traced, The men who proudly governed all this land. I, the gentle, kind, Mac Cuilenan,[163] did leave, With Muireagan mòr I also joyful lived. With Nial I spent a truly happy life; Bright was my honour as with him I drunk, Of feasts and wine I could abundance have; My gold I freely gave the church. If any there be who heaven reach, How could Nial be without heaven? Never have I seen one like Nial. Fair was he all except the knee, Great were his beauty and his fame, Soft were his locks, and grey his eye. Wrath grew upon the mighty deep, The wind in strength blew from the east,[164] Nial then bent him on his knee, Stronger it blew and without fail; It suffered no happiness nor peace. The wind never ceased its sound, Neither fort nor tree was spared, Since that the courteous king is dead. Since Nial[165] Aidh’s son died yesterday, Numbers on numbers sorely mourn; And though cups and horns are filled, Sore is the blow to Conn’s great race. Without him prosperity is joyless, His form my heart with sorrow fills, That I’m till judgment left behind, Is that which fills my heart with grief. Melancholy.

[162] Gormlay was the wife of Nial Glundubh, _Nial of the Black Knee_, who succeeded to the throne of Ireland in 916. He was of the northern O’Neills, hence called “Righ Tuaisgearta,” or _King of the North_.

[163] The famous Cormac M’Cuilenan, the King-bishop of Munster and Cashel, to whom M’Geoghagan says Gormlay was first married.