Part 15

[164] Nial Glundubh was killed in battle by the Danes in 919, having reigned only three years.

[165] Nial was son of Aidh Finliath, King of Ireland. O’Flaherty mentions an elegy of Gormlay on her husband, as preserved in the Annals of Donegal.

Gormlay, daughter of Flann.[166]

Monk, remove thy foot, Lift it off the grave of Nial. Too long dost thou heap the earth On him with whom I fain would lie; Too long dost thou, Monk, there Heap the earth on noble Nial. Thou brown-haired friend, though gentle, Press not with thy sole the earth. Do not firmly close the grave, O Priest, whose office is so sad. Raise off the fair, black-kneed Nial, Monk, remove thy foot. Mac O’Nial of finest gold, ’Tis not of my will thou’rt bound.[167] Leave his stone and his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. I am Gormlay, who order keeps, Daughter I of Flann the bold; Stand not thou upon his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. Monk.

* * * * *

Wounded thou hast been, great man,[168] Whate’er the men were thou hast met; Though thou art truly sad and sick, ’Tis joy to us that thou’st got fame. Ten hundred ships from Greece of the Gael, While of them only three were noble, Thou didst attack with sharp-edged arms, Sore was the strife while life did last; That people with their many spears; They live not now who were so pure, Thy six nobles at last they slew, Many their bold deeds at thy side. That of thy wounds thou may’st be healed, I pray for thee, pray thou thyself, To Mary, the mother of the poor, My Pater and my Creed’s for thee. Wounded.

[166] This is another elegy of Gormlay, Queen of Ireland, on her husband, Nial Glundubh. There is something extremely mournful in these compositions of the youthful queen. Mr. O’Curry has kindly furnished the Editor with Irish copies of these two elegiac pieces, which he is about to publish in a second volume of his admirable Lectures.

[167] Referring, undoubtedly, to the mode of laying out the dead.

[168] The allusion in this fragment is not very clear. Celtic poetry is full of reference to Greece, whence a portion of the race are said to have come; but what this battle with Greeks was, the Editor cannot say. These allusions belong, without doubt, to the period when both Scotland and Ireland were brought into contact with Greek literature.

The author of this is Phelim M’Dougall.[169]

’Tis not good to travel on Sunday, Whoever the Sabbath would keep; Not good to be of ill-famed race; Not good is a dirty woman; Not good to write without learning; Not good are grapes when sour; Not good is an Earl without English; Not good is a sailor, if old; Not good is a bishop without warrant; Not good is a blemish on an elder; Not good a priest with but one eye; Not good a parson, if a beggar; Not good is a palace without play; Not good is a handmaid if she’s slow; Not good is a lord without a dwelling; Not good is a temple without a burying ground; Not good is a woman without shame; Not good is a harper without a string; Not good is fighting without courage; Not good is entering a port without a pilot; Not good is a maiden who backbites; Not good is the poverty of a debtor; Not good is a castle without an heir; Not good is neglecting the household dogs; Not good is disrespect to a father; Not good is the talk of the drunken; Not good is a knife without an edge; Not good is injustice in judging; Not good is the friendship of devils For thy son, oh Virgin most honoured; Though he has saved the seed of Adam, Not good for himself was the cross. Not good is a reader without understanding; Not good for a man to want a friend; Not good is a poet without a subject; Not good is a tower without a hall; Not good is a web without fulling; Not good is sport without laughter; Not good are misdeeds when prosperous; Not good is marriage without consent; Not good is a crown without supremacy; Not good is ploughing by night; Not good is learning without courtesy; Not good is religion without knowledge. Not good.

* * * * *

I myself, Robert, went[170] Yesterday to a monastery, And I was not allowed in, Because my wife was not with me.

* * * * *

I dislike to journey for a year;[171] I dislike the table where a woman sits; I dislike sorrow and sadness; I dislike a great house without joy; I dislike seeing a good man with a bad wife; I dislike a frown upon a prince’s face; I dislike weak drink at a high price; I dislike a noble without courtesy; I dislike war when it is peace, When nothing is allowed to pass; I dislike a rough and cruel chief; I dislike the men who cannot fight; I dislike being long at a tune; I dislike the men who grudge me food; I dislike a jealous woman if unchaste; I dislike the dog who cannot kill a stag; I’m loath to go to Erin in the west, Now that Brian of the tunes is dead; I dislike a widow who is not cheerful; I dislike the man of melancholy mind; I dislike an ill-favoured old woman, Whose tongue is sharp and rapid too; I cannot tell to any man All the things that I dislike. I dislike.

[169] We have here a curious specimen of aphoristic poetry, the idea borrowed probably from the Proverbs of Solomon. These aphorisms throw some light upon the habits and modes of thought of the age in which they were produced.

[170] These lines are given as indicative of the state of public feeling at the time with respect to a great social question. The writer of these lines was manifestly no friend to monasteries, and no believer in their purity.

[171] We have here another specimen of aphoristic poetry. In the original the lines are in rhyme. The author’s name is not given, though it is probably Phelim M’Dougall.

Earl Gerald.[172]

Pity the man who overleaps his horse; Let him that likes, my meaning understand, That from myself my means have taken flight; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. May my curse ’mongst women rest, Although for a time I mixed with them; As for men who still are single, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. That man who early is on foot, Cannot but many evils find; Were I to tell what I have seen, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The man who has got a useless wife, Cannot do much before the foe, The first milch cows that bellow loud; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The wife who listens to my speech, Who listens to my voice and cry, Just as if wax were in her ears; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Her husband she to wrath provokes, Different her manner with all else, For them she lightly steps about; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Were she to see a weeping eye, With any youth of handsome form, To him she would not run but leap; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Where is the young and sprightly maid, Who would not quietly give her kiss, To any lips that she might meet? ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Though married from th’ altar and the church, From the good priest’s worthy hand, Still are her way and temper bad; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. ’Tis best to have nought to do with women, Wrath and annoyance they provoke; He who does not this proclaim Is sure to find a woe himself. Pity.

[172] The following is the composition of Gerald Fitzgerald, the fourth Earl of Desmond. He is known in Ireland as Earl Gerald, the poet. There are several of his compositions scattered over the MS.; but as they are mostly of the same character--satires on the female sex--it has been thought that one specimen is sufficient. The Editor thought it desirable to give one of those, with a view to a fair representation of the contents of the MS., although there is not much in the composition itself to render it worthy of being rescued from oblivion.

The author of this is Andrew M’Intosh.

The coquetry of Duncan from Taid’s daughter, The most impudent coquetry men have seen, The coquetry of the wife of David, Coquetting like the wind in her red-tailed skirts, Men had thought that I was dumb, Whilst I’d three reasons not to speak.

The author of this is the Bard M’Intyre.[173]

What is this ship on Loch Inch,[174] Of which we now may speak? What brought this ship on the loch, Which songs cannot o’erlook? I would like much to ask, Who was it brought that ship, Afloat upon that angry loch, Where changes often come? The fierce wind from the hills, And bitter storms from the glens, Oft has the vessel from the shore, Stolen upon the dangerous sea. Stranger, who sawest the ship, On the rough and angry stream, What should hinder thee to tell About her and about her crew? An old ship without iron or stern, Never have we seen her like, The vessel all with leather patched, Not even beneath the waves is’t tight. Her boards are trifling bits of deals, Black patches down along her sides, Useless nails to fix them on Upon her scanty, stinted ribs. What woman cargo is in the black ship Pulling her on betwixt the waves, The cargo heartless and senseless too? Widows of a foolish mind, A boasting, talkative crew, A load vexatious and bad, Quarrelsome and covetous, Of evil minds and evil deeds. Their ways and conversation bad, A band of well-known fame, No substance in what they say, Drunken, singing, with levity, A band ill-shapen, mischievous, Who live by both sides of Loch Inch. In spite of thee and of their ship On the stormy sea’s dun face, No good woman could take that ship, However pressing the constraint. The worst of women go to sea, Others cannot give them help. Let this ship be driven from the loch, Down to the fierce and roaring deep, Let the wind pursue the ship, To the old point of Seananach. There will I leave upon the stream, The ill-favoured, ill-doing ship, Of wicked widows full on the sea, Without a psalm or creed e’er said, What.

* * * * *

The fame of the house of Dunolly, little favour where they drive a herd.[175] This brute is much like a dog, greedy aye for stolen flesh.

[173] Nothing is known of this poet. The modern M’Intyre, the bard of Glenurchy, has a place second to none among the composers of Gaelic poetry; but it would appear that there was an older poet of the name, and one not unknown to fame. Four hundred years may produce no little change in the place which not a few men of note in our day hold in the temple of fame, and greater stars than the bard M’Intyre may have their lustre dimmed by time. He is another writer of satires on women, a kind of composition wonderfully popular, judging from our MS. at the period. We only give a few specimens of these, but there are several in the miscellany, and some of a character which, in modern days, one wonders the Dean could have admitted to his collection.

[174] The only loch of this name with which the Editor is acquainted is Loch Inch, on the Spey, in Badenoch.

[175] These satirical lines on the family of Dunolly are given as a specimen of the strain indulged in at times by the bards, to gratify their animosity against hostile clans. It need hardly be added, that the Macdougalls of Lorn were a race as distinguished for the antiquity of their descent, as for the high character of many of the name.

The author of this is John M’Murrich.[176]

Sad to me’s my fate, Though men don’t understand, Suffer not, Son of God, Me to have pain to-day. Little thought the school That such should be my fate, The fate which me o’ertook, ’Tis it has me destroyed. The pain in it I have, Is threefold what I’ve felt, The trouble I have found Is weighted with a stone. For her who caused my grief, My wrath and rage are great. Her skin like froth of waves, Ruddy and soft her hand, Her lips like berries red, My soul she gently seized. Since I slept last night, Sad indeed my state. I thought she was beside me, That I saw her smile. She’s not been since the day, When began my grief. She of curling locks, And colour richly red, Five jewels in a knot, In the maiden’s name. Pity she’s not with me, And others have her not. That I myself might get For evermore that friend. Were I to suffer from, What other men have felt, The spear of great Cuchullin, The horse of white-steed Teague, The purple shield unbroken, Famous all in war; The speed of Mac Erc’s coursers, Though much it is to say, Alas, more sad for me The trouble I endure.

[176] This John M’Muirich, or M’Vurrich, was in all likelihood a member of the family who were so long bards to Clanranald, and who derived their name from their great ancestor in the thirteenth century, Muireach Albanach. A list of the names of these bards is given for eight generations by Lachlan, who lived in 1800, in his declaration, as given in the Report of the Highland Society on Ossian, but it does not embrace this John. The piece is chiefly interesting from the historical references at the close.

Duncan M’Pherson.[177]

Alexander, hast thou left thy sadness, Or is it so that thou canst not? Hast thou without God passed another year, Or dost thou mean to live thus ever? Hast thou not found thy God, Now that thou’rt aged and grey? If sadness be prosperity, Rich are the gifts thou’st got from God.

* * * * *

Four men met at the grave,[178] The grave of Alexander the great; They spoke the words of truth, Over the hero of Greece the fair. The first man of them said, “There were yesterday with the king, The world’s great hosts, sad the tale, Though to-day he lonely lies.” “Yesterday the world’s great king Proudly rode upon the earth; But to-day it is the earth That rides upon the top of him.” Then did the third wise speaker say, “Yesterday Philip’s son owned the world; But to-day he only owns Of it all not seven feet.” “Alexander, brave and great, Who won and treasured gold and silver, To-day,” the fourth man wisely said, “The gold it is that treasures him.” The palm among trees was Philip’s son, The moon among the lesser stars, As gold above the finest gems, As among fish leviathan. The lion amidst carrion, The eagle among other birds, As Sion hill amidst the hills, As Jordan amidst other streams. The polished gem ’mongst common stones, The sea amidst all lesser streams, Noble was the fearless man, The man above all other men. The man above all other men, Save heaven’s great and holy King. King he was of herds and boars, Ruler of hosts and heroes too. True was the talk these speakers had, As at the great king’s grave they met. Unlike to women’s empty talk, Were the sayings of the four. Four.

[177] This writer was probably an ecclesiastic, but nothing is known of him.

[178] This composition is one of the few of the more recent fragments in this MS. which appear elsewhere. We have a copy of it in the collection of Gaelic poems made by Ronald M’Donald, schoolmaster of Eigg, son of Alexander M’Donald, the famous Skye bard. M’Donald’s edition was most likely taken down from oral recitation, and it is remarkable how little it differs from this of the Dean’s, 250 years before.

John M’Murrich said this.

The men of Albin, and not they alone, Unless that M’Gregor survived, How much wrath would them destroy! All excellence in Alexander.[179]

[179] Alexander was a family name of the Macgregors of Glenstrae. In the obituary contained in this MS. is the following entry:--1526. Obitus Gregorii filii Johannis M’Gregor, alias M’Evine M’Allester de Glenschray. This would indicate the period of Alexander as about the middle of the fifteenth century.

Finlay, the red-haired bard, said this.[180]

Gael-like is every leap of the dun horse, A Gael she is in truth. It is she who conquers and wins, In all that I’ll now sing. The praise of speed to her limbs, In every fierce assault. Marked, and famous her strength, While quiet at the house of prayer. The birds are they who could, Strive with her in the race. Not false is the fame of that horse, The steed both sturdy and swift, Liker she was to Duseivlin,[181] Than to the beast of Lamacha.[182] They who would view her size and triumphs, Can nowhere find her match. Just like the wheeling of the mountain winds, Is the action of the prancing steed. Hundreds admire her paces, Like one in frenzy passing. Like the point of an arrow this horse, Famous are all her doings. Bands of the great witness her course, As with speed she rushes. Though far before her stands the groom, No blunderer is her rider. Few are the words would tell her praise, Like birds on wing her movements. Her triumphs and paces the same, Whether ’mong rocks or bogs she moves. Before that horse all men do fear, When she comes in the trappings of war. In the troop, the hunt, or the conflict, That horse a noble horse is. That horse is all full of spirit, As fameworthy she follows the banner. That wave-like steed, hardy and keen, Will win for her rider the praise of men. Forth from her stall she takes the lead, That gentle, great, and active horse. She will triumph in speed and slaughter, Till that the day in evening sinks. Ready to treasure the girdle of gold,[183] The field with violence shakes. Startling, rounded, bright, well shod, Gentle, broad-backed, coloured well. A horse of such great fame as this, I long had heard that they possessed. Where was ever found her match, Not he, the beast of Lamacha. Mac Gregor ’s the master of that horse, Prince of the house to poets free. From Banva men do come to praise, To Albion they do come to seek, The man who robs from the Saxon, And e’er puts his trust in the Gael.

[180] This Finlay is the author of several pieces in this miscellany. He is apparently the Finlay M’Nab to whom another composition is attributed, and is called in one place “Am bard maith,” _The good poet_. He seems to have been the family bard of M’Gregor, the praise of whose horse he here proclaims in most poetic strains.

[181] Duseivlin was one of the famous steeds of the Feinn.

[182] The beast of Lamacha, “Aidhre an Lamacha,” is entirely unknown to the Editor. The animal is called “Beisd,” _a beast_, in a subsequent part of the poem. It must have been some animal famous in the country for its ugliness.

[183] The girdle of gold would seem to have been the prize conferred upon the victor in a race.

Finlay the red-haired bard.

I am a stranger long to success, ’Tis time that I should have it. ’Tis time now to desist, From satire justly due. The way that I shall take, To seek a noble branch, Is to the Prince of the Gael, Where are no worthless guests. To Mac Gregor the brave, Head of all the schools;[184] He’s neither cruel nor sparing, To praise him is our duty. To whom courage is a right; When summer time comes round, Peace he never knows, He’s in the throat of all his fellows. When men of him do speak, As Gregor of the blows, ’Tis his delight to drive, Flocks and herds before him. Of that flock John’s[185] the head, The king at lifting cattle, I myself will sing, Mouth with mouth at daybreak. When his sharp-armed men see, Mac Gregor at the Bealach,[186] His way so gently soft, No weight to them their burdens. Then when war arises, Proclaimed in enemies’ hearts, It is to him they’d gather, Clothed in martial dress. ’Tis of Mac Gregor’s fame, When fighting’s left behind. To men not to be cruel, His castle full of mirth; When victory I had left Upon the field of war, When of the fight I spoke, Nought loved my patron more. Though sad, on the stormy lake, To tell men of my grief, To have a crew of mariners, Is best in battle’s day. Remember I’ll be with thee, Mac Gregor without stain, In face of any foe, Long, long’s the time. Gentle Elizabeth, Change thou my state; Woman of softest locks, And of the loftiest brow. I am.

[184] The schools of the bards. Many Highland bards at this period were trained in Ireland, of which these poems bear evident marks.

[185] In his obituary the Dean enters at 1519, May 24-26, death of John dubh MacGregor of Glenstrae, at Stronmelochane. He was buried in Dysart (Glenurchy), north of the great altar, in a stone coffin, upon the 26th of May 1519, on which day there was a great mourning in Glenurchy. The Elizabeth afterwards mentioned was probably the wife of this chief.

[186] “Bealach,” the modern “Taymouth,” was, with the territory around, in possession of the M’Gregors down to about 1490, when it passed by Royal charter into the possession of the Knights of Glenurchy.

The author of this is Duncan Mac Cailein, the good knight.[187]