Part 16

Who is now chief of the beggars, Since the famous man is dead? Tears flow fast for the man, For beggary has lost its strength. The orphan is in a piteous case, Beggary’s gone since Lachlan’s death. In every homestead this is sad, That beggary should want for knowledge. If he be dead, I’ve never heard, Of one that could compare with Lachlan, Since God created man at first; It is a source of bitter grief, That without mother or a father, Poor beggary should be so weak. Since that Bretin’s son is dead, Why should I not mourn his loss? There is no man now on earth Who can beg as he could do. Since Lachlan the importunate’s dead, Great’s the grief that is in Erin. Who will now beg a little purse? Who will even beg a needle? Who will beg a worthless coin? Since that rough-palmed Lachlan’s dead. Who will beg a pair of brogues, And then will beg a pair of buckles? Who will beg a shoulder plaid? Whose begging now will give us sport? Who will beg soles for his shoes? Who will ask a peacock’s feather? Who will beg an eye for his belt? Who will mix in any mischief? Who will beg an old felt hat? Who will beg a book to read? Who will beg an early meal? Who is it wears arms with his dress? Who will beg for boots and spurs? Who is it will beg for bristles? Who will beg for sids and meal? Who will beg a sheaf of rye? Who will ask a sporran spoon? Who will gather without shame? Since Lachlan the hero is dead. Who will now afford us sport? Who will beg for maidens’ shifts, Since old shoe’d Lachlan is dead? Sad the fate that he should die, Who will ask men for a rullion? Who will steal the servant’s feather, And who is it can’t tell the truth? Who likes to travel in a boat, And likes his old friends to visit? Who will beg the hen with her eggs? Who will beg a brood of chickens? Who will ask the hen’s overplus, After a handful of money? Who will beg a headless pin? Who can read as he can do? That Lachlan should leave no heir, Is that which mournful makes his death. Who will beg for a hook and line? Who will seek for open doors? Who will beg for unboiled rennet? Who will beg for anything? Who won’t give a penny to the poor, And yet e’en from the naked begs? Who would oppress the very child, And is cruel to the infant? Who would beg for wool and butter, That they may have it, after Lachlan? Who would beg a woman’s collar? Who is it likes a dirty heap? Who would beg from young women, From little dogs and weasels? Who would take the fire from an infant? Who would steal e’en the dead? Who is sick when he is well? Who on his gruel begs for butter? More sad for me than this man’s death, Is that he has left no heir. For fear that beggary should die, And none be found to keep it up. Do not ye forget the man, Men of the earth, do ye, Each of you for himself make rhymes, My malison on him that won’t. If Lachlan died on Monday last, Every man will joyful be. Sad it is that for his death, None there is who will lament. Who is now.

[187] This poet is generally supposed, by those who have seen the Dean’s MS., to have been Sir Duncan Campbell of Glenurchy, one of the most distinguished of the ancestors of the present noble family of Breadalbane. There are several pieces in the MS. attributed to him. These are remarkable for caustic humour, indulged in in several cases at the expense of the female sex. He almost uniformly receives the title of “An Ridir maith,” _The good Knight_. The present piece is a strange satirical elegy on a miser.

Gormlay, daughter of Flann, the good wife.

Alas! alas! my own great pain, Alas! that I’ve my beauty lost, To-night sore is my wound, Since that Mac O’Neill is dead. Alas! to want the son of Dervail, Alas! my fate now left behind, Guaire’s hospitality is nought, Erin’s a desert without him. Alas! for the good king of Banva, How fair thy form down to this night, Since he, my life, in battle died, Nought will I say but alas! alas! Alas!

The author of this is Duncan M’Cabe.[188]

M’Dougall of bright armour, A noble chief’s thy famous son, All that I think is true Of thy fair-formed, prudent child. ’T were better that thy fair head Were now exposed than mine, kind friend. Duncan Carrach[189] is his name, A name that triumphed ever. Duncan of bravest deeds, Remember thy first honoured name; Son of Allan,[190] do not merit, Reproach thy race did ne’er deserve. Since now that thou art so well known, With every reason to esteem thee, To thee is given the foremost place, Since thou the favourite art of all. True it is thou art indeed The man to take the richest spoil. Like a bull that’s fierce for fight, ’Tis thus thou goest to make war. ’Tis thou who traversest Cruachan,[191] Casting thy spear beneath its knolls. Thy fame is as that of the leopard, Thou art Duncan of Durinis. Thou quellest quick thy foe, Thou stainest both hands with blood. Thou cheerest us when we are weary, Thou art the source of all our joy. He is the man whom ’tis easiest In song like mine to praise, Which among heroes I compose,-- The generous dragon of Connal.[192] Other fame belongs to him, The art that is in his gun. The bravery and skill of Erin Bound firmly up in all his blows. Whatever skill a king’s son has, That he has, with no defect. The purest speech has come to him, This will in thy son be found. Now I see thee raise the tax, Truly out of every homestead, Noble king of bravest deeds, Descendant of that martial race. Macdougall.

[188] We know nothing of this poet. The name is a rare one, although still existing in the Highlands. He would appear to have been a family bard of the Macdougalls of Dunolly.

[189] In the Dean’s chronicle of deaths, contained in this MS., is the following entry in Latin:--1512, Jul. 13. The death of Duncan M’Dougall, who was slain A.D. 1512, who was the son and heir of Alexander M’Dougall of Dunolly; and Duncan was buried in Ardchattan 13th July. “Carrach” means a _scald head_, from which he seems to have got his name in childhood. The poet refers to his head as now more smooth than his own.

[190] In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. part 1, p. 115, it is said, on the authority of the Acts of Council, that, in 1478, Colin Earl of Ergile was sued by Alane Sorlesone M’Cowle for warrandice of the lands of Lereage and Wouchtrouch, etc. This is probably the Alan referred to by the bard.

[191] “Ben Cruachan,” the highest mountain in Lorn, the ancient territory of the clan Dougall.

[192] Connal Ferry, the remarkable narrow at the mouth of Loch Etive, where the stream at times becomes a salt-water cascade. The name “Connal,” “Conthuil,” means a _roaring stream_.

The author of this is John M’Ewen M’Eacharn.[193]

A mournful cry amongst Conn’s[194] race, Heavy indeed is now their loss; As every one now follows John, Silent they can’t be at his grave. What grief did ever them o’ertake, The race of Conn ne’er honour lost. For John each man does weep, Necessity leads us to his grave; Sad is the land because of thy death, Son of the noble race from Allan. Great is our grief as thee we mourn, Few are the men that shed not tears. Sorely has it touched us all, Grievous the tale that John is dead. Tidings from the Dun went through the land, The stranger now does o’er us rule. Changeful the world down till John’s death, Now they rise not to the fray; Since then indeed thy race is sad, This grief now has them sorely wounded. ’Tis grief to them that thou art thus, Clan Dougall mourn for their great chief; The conflict of their grief is long, The tale which now is told is grievous; Thou messenger who brought the news, God made thee messenger of evil; Ere men thy tidings did recite, Pity they had not lost their ears. The abundance of my racking grief Has almost my eyesight ta’en away; No feeble mourning is’t for John, Tears for him I cannot shed; Mourning for our buried prince, The death of Macdougall of Dunolly. His was the form of Conn’s great race, Like a nut kernel, fair and rounded; His death has been a grievous breach, The very waves sing his lament. Above the beach,[195] since John has died, No ceasing is there of men’s sorrow; Men speak not even now of joy, Since that this grief has on them seized; Bitter sorrow has them filled, No word of sport, of music none; That way is called the sacred way, That from the beach leads to the grave. So do men thus mourn their loss, And women too, who loved thee well. Shall I from thy soft locks have honour? In place of it I have but ruin. I mourn as on thy grave I stand, All I see makes me lament; Women will not leave thy grave, So truly heavy is their sorrow. Raise up a tomb for our fair prince, Let it be wide as Cruachan’s cell, That men may see by what they do, How heavily on them weighs their grief. The clan with weeping do thee mourn, Their soul is sad, they cannot sleep. Dougall’s race before thy death, Never did fear the face of foe. Chieftain, thy death has come on them, ’Twould be no boast to rule them now. Not few the women at John’s grave, Pouring their tears from day to day; Of women bands even by night, With bare heads gathering on the plain; No wonder is’t that they should mourn, Because of John of brightest fame. No day can pass but hearts are full Of this sad tale, that wakes our mourning. I care not though’t be thus with them, Though they should feel what I don’t like; Thy death for us is ill to bear, Sore the state to which it brings us; I stand amidst the gloom of death, No word is there of wonted song; My heart is truly rent in twain, As we speak of his departure; Never were we thus before, That it is grief to ask, how fares he; ’Tis cause of sorrow that he is absent, I mourn that he is no more with us; Now that he sleeps in his cold grave, ’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell; They cannot cease from shedding tears, Castle and cottage both in sorrow; The rising tide has swept o’er hills, So for John do mourn his comrades; Yet there’s no heaving of the sea, Not of the boisterous sea at Connal;[196] For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn, In all the borders of clan Dougall; The land for thee does seem to weep, Loud is the cry, with much distress, From the musicians of Dougall’s race, The learned men, and leading bards. On John’s grave lies a heavy stone, ’Tis grief to me to tell the story; Far otherwise than Neil[197] would wish, Does every scandal now appear; Have they no care to see his grave, Since that John has overcome them? The race of Conn are now but few, Since death has ta’en away Macdougall; No pleasure in the violin’s sounds, Nor writing poetry without him; Poetry brings no honour now, Since death has seized the son of Mary; Few are the mouths that now can tell, How commanding is her privilege, Now that on their backs are laid, Both the heads of the clan Dougall; That John’s great power I do not find Soon after losing John his father; May God preserve thy noble nature, Who wisdom learned from thy Isla[198] teacher; Horses can’t insure a triumph, Men must leave them, and depart; After the three, our loss is great, My heart, in truth, can find no comfort; Mournful in youth to see such loss, Death has seized two Johns and Alexander;[199] Alexander, whom no restraint could bind, That I of him should also tell; Thy breast was stout to the rushing wave, Thy body now! alas my sorrow; Never do ye seek again That John’s young heir should go to battle; That he should stand ’midst battle’s storm, Lest soon he come to his long grave.

[193] We have no written or traditional account of this poet. He was manifestly one of the bards of the clan Dougall. The difficulty of deciphering the Dean’s writing is in this case increased by the peculiar measure of the composition, which is one of those well known to Irish scholars, and where the accentuation is in accordance with the Irish mode. The Editor does not pretend to have deciphered every line with perfect accuracy, but he is pretty well assured of having caught the meaning of the poet throughout.

[194] The clan Dougall, as well as the cognate clan Donald, were held by the bards to have descended from “Conn Ceud chatha,” _Conn of the hundred battles_, King of Ireland.

[195] The Macdougalls of Dunolly buried at the old Priory of Ardchattan, on the banks of Loch Etive.

[196] Connal Ferry, on Loch Etive.

[197] There is considerable obscurity about these lines. It would serve to elucidate the meaning if we knew of any feud between this chief and the clan Neil, or any person of the name of Neil belonging to any other Highland clan. The Editor has not been able to find any information on this subject.

[198] The original here is indistinct. The word “noid illeich,” made “an oide Ilich,” may be “nord Illeich,” or “an uird Ilich,” _The Isla order_, meaning some ecclesiastical order in Isla, by whom he was educated, or it may refer to the weapons of war for which Isla was famous.

[199] Alexander was Laird of Dunolly in 1493; Greg. High. p. 83. His son Duncan Carrach was slain young; Dean’s Obit. Greg. Ed. In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. pt. i. p. 114, we find that, in 1451, Stewart Lord of Lorn granted to John M’Alan of Lorn, called M’Cowle, and to John Keir (“ciar,” _dark_), his eldest son and heir, etc., twenty-nine marklands of the island of Caruvray, etc. These are probably the two Johns and Alexander of our bard. This holding of the Stewarts may explain the bard’s reference to the rule of the stranger.

The author of this is Finlay M’Nab.

The sluggard’s Book of Poems,[200] If ’t were your wish to write in it, Among what they have left you’ll find Enough wherewith to fill it. Though many the men there be, Who cruelly the people oppress, Never will these be found, Honoured in famous songs. Of all the fruits of sluggards, Though there be of them a thousand, The house in which these do meet, They ne’er can by any means reach. They are both gentle and simple, Dressed in their Sunday coats; And yet of all their productions, It happens we never can hear. I won’t their genealogy tell, Of their history nothing I know, But that they are out at evening, Followed close by their hounds. Dugall, thou art their fellow, John’s son of the polished blade, In whom flows the sluggard’s blood, Write thou in the Book of Poems. Write knowingly, intelligently, Write their history and their life; Don’t bring a poem on the earth, To have it read by Mac Cailein. Remember this my claim on thee, Gregor, as thou hast heard That I have as an obligation, All thine to put in the Book of Poems. Let there be nothing in this poem Of priests or of tenantry; But nothing of this band there is, Which is not in the Book of Poems. The sluggard’s.

[200] The word “duanaire,” here used in the original, means “a miscellany of poetical compositions.” The Dean’s MS. is a “duanaire,” but not a “duanaire nan strangair,” for the Dean seems to have been a most industrious compiler. This piece of M’Nab’s is a satire on lazy composers or compilers. It is valuable as showing that the ancient bards wrote their compositions. The number of such books must have been large, although during the course of centuries they seem to have perished with few exceptions.

The author of this is Eafric M’Corqudale.[201]

Jewel,[202] who has roused my grief, Beloved hast thou been of me, Beloved that joyous, generous heart, Which thou hadst until this night. Thy death has filled me with grief, The hand round which I lived so long, That I hear not of its strength, And that I saw it not depart; That joyful mouth of softest sounds, Well was it known in every land. Lion of Mull, with its white towers, Hawk of Isla, with its smooth plains, Shrewdest of all the men we knew, Whom guest ne’er left without a gift. Prince of good men, gentle, kind, Whose mien was that of a king’s son, Guests came to thee from Dunanoir,[203] Guests from the Boyne[204] for lordly gifts. Truth it is they often came, Not oftener than gave thee joy. Shapely falcon of Sliabh Gael,[205] Protection to the bards thou gav’st, Dragon of Lewis of sandy slopes, Glad as the whisper of a stream; The loss of but a single man Has left me lonely, now he’s gone. No sport, no pleasing song, No joy, nor pleasure in the feast; No man whom I can now love, Of Nial’s race down from Nial òg;[206] Among our women there’s no joy, Our men no pleasure have in sport, Just like the winds when it is calm, So without music is Dun Sween.[207] See the palace of a generous race, Vengeance is taken on clan Neil, The cause of many a boastful song, And will till they lay us in the grave; And now ’tis hard to bear, alas! That we should lose on every side. Didst thou, son of Adam, crush Any cluster of three nuts, It is to him thou lovest most The largest third of them thou’dst give. Thus of their husk the topmost nut, Does to clan Neil, ungrudged, belong. The bountiful have often poured Their gifts on the dwelling of clan Neil. The prince, who was the last of all, Is he who me with gloom has filled. In half my purpose I have failed, Jewel, who has roused my grief. Broken my heart is in my breast, And so ’t will be until I die; Left by that black and noble eyelid, Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Mary, mother, foster-mother of the king, Protect thou me from every shaft; And thou, her Son, who all things mad’st. Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Jewel.

[201] This poetess seems to have been the wife of the last M’Neil of Castle Sween. The name M’Corqudale is common in Kintyre.

[202] The word “paidrein,” derived from “Paidir,” _The Lord’s Prayer_, really means _a rosary_.

[203] Dunanoir was a castle on the island of Cape Clear, on the south-west coast of Ireland. See _Miscell. of Celt. Soc._ p. 143.

[204] The river Boyne. From Dunanoir to the Boyne included all Ireland.

[205] Sliabh Ghaidheael, a range of hills in Kintyre.

[206] In Innes’ Orig. Par. vol. ii. pt. i. p. 41, we find that Hector M’Torquil Mac Neil was constable of Castle Sween in 1472. In 1481 the office and lands were conferred on Colin Earl of Argyle. Between these two periods M’Neil would appear to have died, leaving no heir in the direct line.

[207] Castle Sween is an ancient stronghold at the mouth of Loch Sween in Knapdale, said to take its name from Sween of Argyle, who flourished in the thirteenth century; but the Irish annalists make mention of it at a much earlier period. It was probably a stronghold of the Dalriadic monarchs.

The author of this is Dougall Mac Gille glas.[208]