Part 18

Lords have precedence of chiefs, It has been so from the beginning; It is commendable in young men, That each should have knowledge of this. The first who was lord of this land Was Duncan beg (little) of the great soul, He who as a legacy has left Their bravery to clan Gregor. Duncan, great by many spoils, Was the blessed father of Malcom; Grandfather he was to princely John, Him who never broke his pledge. Gregor, excellent son of Duncan, Was son to John, and was his heir; Famous man he was of the country, From the bright shore of Loch Tullich,[247] Swarthy John, so pure in speech, Princely son of John M’Gregor, Hunter of the well-formed deer, He like a king aye led the fight. Malcom of unbending truth, Know thou John, succeeds his father, Southwards in fair Glenurchay, Handsome he was amongst its valleys. The first place ’mong their ancestors Is given by the Saxon to clan Gregor, Of whom were three chiefs loved the hunt, And were most active in the fight. In the days of Conn of hundred battles, I heard of something like this, Of Finn of spears and sharp sword, Cumhal’s son of famous deeds: That of Erin the hunting and lordship Belonged to Mac Cumhal of long locks, Patrimony and lordship he hadn’t Over the lands of the race of Gaul. Forest right they had all his life, From Kerry north to Carn Valair. But he possessed the old rights Which previously were his. From Hallowmas on to Beltin, His Feinn had all the rights. The hunting without molestation, Was theirs in all the forests. Many the tributes I cannot tell, Belonged to Finn and his men. Tribute in Erin possessed By Mac Cumhail from the forests. A noble’s forest right to the Feinn, On the banks of every stream. But Malcom’s large tributes Did not belong to Mac Muirn;[248] Finn himself would never hunt Without first asking leave. The hunting of Scotland, without leave, Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom. Constant in the hunt together Are M’Gregor and his fierce men; No oftener did the blood-red hounds Enter the fort of clan Boisgne. A fighting band of chieftains Arose with him in battle’s day, Men whose dress sparkled with gold, Men who conquered in the fight. The head of clans and of huntsmen Is the common fame of his race. No trial of bravery or skill Will show weakness in M’Gregor. Many in his halls are found together, Men who carried well-sharped swords, Red gold glittered on their hilts, The arms of the lion of Loch Awe. Harmonious music among harps, Men with dice-boxes in their hands, Those who leave the game of tables, Go and lead forth the hounds. Mac Gregor of red-pointed palms, Son of Dervail, the Saxon’s terror, No hand like his amidst the fight, He ’tis that ever victory won. Liberal he ever was to bards, Gifts which Mac Lamond[249] knows to earn. Famous for managing his hounds, A hand so ready with its gifts. Mary, who stands by his side, Of noble mind and handsome form, Poets unite to give her praise, Her with cheeks as berries red. Lords.

[246] We have no tradition respecting this poet. But he must have been a bard of the M’Gregors’. The allusion to the Feinn will be understood by referring to the war-song of Gaul.

[247] Elsewhere translated Loch Tummell. “Tolve” is the word in the original. Loch Tullich lies at the head of Glenurchay.

[248] This is usually the name of Gaul, but here it is Finn, whose mother’s name was Muirn.

[249] Probably the chief bard of the MacGregors.

The author of this is Finlay, the red-haired bard.[250]

The one demon of the Gael is dead, A tale ’tis well to remember, Fierce ravager of Church and cross, The bald-head, heavy, worthless boar. First of all from hell he came, The tale’s an easy one to tell, Armed with the devil’s venomous spear. But he was surely, firmly bound, Ere quitting the black house of hell, To the same stronghold to return, And leave the Star of Paradise. Then, when came the black skinned boar, Many the devils in his train, Each of them with horrid sound, Their voices all in one loud strain. Lest that he should nothing have, It was apportioned by Mac Ruarie,[251] As a covenant firmly fixed, That in hell he’d live a dog. Righteous and just is now the claim Which Allan has against the devils. Whatever share may be their own, He, I think, should have much glory. ’Tis time to cease now from that band, Of horrid sounds, and cruel heart. Mac Ruarie from the ocean far, Wealth thou’st got without an effort. ’Tis a report we can’t neglect, For with Columba I must meet, ’Tis a report that fills the land, Bald-head Allan, thou so faithless, That thou hast, not thine only crime, Ravaged I[252] and Relig[253] Oran. Fiercely didst thou then destroy Priests’ vestments and vessels for the mass. Thou art Inche Gall’s[254] great curse, Her revenue and stronghold spoil’st; Thou art the man whose heart is worst Of all who followed have thy chief, Save one who stands at his left hand, And he, Mac Ruarie, is thy brother. Now thy fight we never hear, But from the cross we hear thee cursed; The two are good who are about thee, Black indeed they are in form. At the time thou first mad’st war, There was the Abbot’s horrid corpse, Besides that other lawless raid Against Finan[255] in Glengarry. Thine own cruel, hateful deeds, Have cursed thy bald-head body, Allan, Just as crime will always do, Revenge itself on who commits it. The country side, with its protest, Has stamped mad rage on Allan’s face. Thine own country and thy friends, Thou hast cruelly oppressed. The last of thy goodness was lost Between the Sheil and the Hourn, ’Tis no wonder thou didst keep Far away, Allan, from the gallows. The fame which men had given thee, Extends to thy mother and thy sister. Time it is to cease from satire, Worthless, cruel son of Ruarie. Though learning which helps not manners, The sound of thy wailing is pleasant. The one demon.

The son has been found like his father,[256] Above all chiefs whom we have known, His bearing, countenance, and mind, And with me he dwells in Lewis. The knowledge and mind of a chief, With which he’ll make prosperous times. I say of this young son we’ve got, That he is just another Roderick;[257] How like each other are their locks, His father’s honour to his ringlets. In battle, too, how like the praise Of Torquil[258] and his famous father. Of all that in Torquil’s time may come, None of his friends shall suffer loss, Great deeds and victories will be, Such as Mac Calman[259] may relate. Many his gifts which we might praise, Torquil of the famous race; His are a hero’s strength and vigour, Which he brings into the fight. I say of him, and say in truth, Since I have come so well to know him, That never was there of his age Better king who ruled in Lewis. To him belonged the “Cairge mhordha,”[260] The richest jewel sailed the sea, Given it was to Mac Vic Torquil, With which to reach his people’s land. Mac Ruarie of cheerful music, Had also the old cleaving sword, Another jewel of sure effect, ’Twas given him by the King of Aineach.[261] Since he so many presents had, ’Twas needless for him to go and seek. A shield he had cleft in the head, Another jewel, sounding loud. Without he had a noble herd Of horses, with their trappings red; ’Twouldn’t suit a man like him Not to have many swift-paced steeds. His was the Du Seivlin, M’Leod’s, whom the bards would sing. ’Twas hard for those to take that horse, Whoe’er they were that might him seek. Torquil had many youths Who never trembled in battle, Who for his race seized on all lands, A race that aye the conflict loved. Not braver of his age was Cuchullin, Not hardier was he than Torquil, Him of the ready, vigorous arm, Who boldly breaks through any breach. Beloved though Mac Vic Torquil is, I can’t enough his beauty praise; He who is fair as he is the brave, The key to every woman’s heart. There is no son of king or chief Of whose fame we’ve ever heard, Though we’ve had much to do with such, That better are to us than Torquil. Catherine,[262] daughter of Mac Cailen, Whose soft hand’s worthy of thy race, Daughter of the Earl of Argyle, Best of the women we have found. To our isle we’ve got a woman, Branch of a great and famous tree. Daughter of Mac Cailen, young and gentle, Whose locks in flowing ringlets fall. The son.

[250] It has been suggested to the Editor that this poet might have been the chief of the Macnabs, the chief of this period being Finlay Macnab of Boquhan; and we know that the Macnabs counted themselves of the same lineage with the Macgregors. There is much in the composition given here, however, to indicate his being an ecclesiastic.

[251] We learn from Greg. High. pp. 65, 66, that Allan MacRuari, great-grandson of Ranald, and chief of clan Ranald, was one of the principal supporters of Angus, the young Lord of the Isles, at the battle of the Bloody Bay; and that he also followed Alexander of Lochalsh in his invasion of Ross and Cromarty in 1491, receiving a large share of the booty taken on the occasion. The poet describes him as a sacrilegious marauder.

[252] The ecclesiastical establishment at Iona. The Reformers had probably less to do with the destruction of the buildings in Iona than is generally thought.

[253] The church of St. Oran in Iona.

[254] The Hebrides were known as “Innsegall,” or _the islands of the strangers_, probably since the rise of the kingdom of the Norsemen there.

[255] The church of Kilfinan, at the east end of Loch Lochy, where is still the burying-place of the M’Donells of Glengarry.

[256] There is no author’s name given for this spirited eulogy. The author was probably a family bard of the Siol Torcuil, or M’Leods of Lewis.

[257] Roderick M’Leod of Lewis was head of the Siol Torcuil, or _sons of Torquil_, in 1493. (Greg. High. p. 73.)

[258] Torquil was second son of Roderick M’Leod of Lewis, the eldest having been killed in the battle of the Bloody Bay. Torquil was forfeited for harbouring Donald dubh, son of Angus Og of Islay. (Greg. High. p. 73.)

[259] Probably the chief bard of the Siol Torcuil.

[260] “Cairbhe” is _a ship_. This was probably the name of Torquil’s galley, although spelled “cairge” by the Dean.

[261] “Aineach,” a castle of the O’Kanes, within a few miles of Derry. The King of Aineach was chief of the O’Kanes.

[262] Catharine, daughter of Colin, 2d Earl of Argyle, who married Torquil Macleod of the Lewis.

The author of this is Gilliecalum Mac an ollave.[263]

The cause of my sorrow is come, This year has not prospered with me; Foolish who cannot understand How my grief has on me come; He who cannot understand How my grief has come at once; Since these wounds my body got, Such wounds I’ve got I mourn. Pleasant now, though bitter too, To mourn my sad distress; Sorrow fills my inmost heart, Great was my love for him who’s gone; My heart is broken in twain, No wonder it should be so; My body has neither flesh nor blood, Like a strengthless sufferer. ’Tis no wonder if I so grieve For Margaret’s[264] son who now is gone, Remembering all his virtues, And that chiefless we are left. Sore is the loss that he is gone, Now that in the world we’re weak, My grief now that thy days are ended, Is the injury done by Angus.[265] Though it be hard for me to part With John’s[266] son of sweetest speech, What is worst of all is this, That ne’er to his place he’ll return. Though I were from happiness far, Pursued by my foes’ reproach, Whatever good might me o’ertake, From them never would I buy. No wonder though heavy my heart, As another lord’s seen in thy place, That my whole man should be feeble, Now that my king is dead. Bitter is my pain since he left, ’Tis easy the tale to relate, ’Tis hard my great sorrow to bear, For the hero so famous who’s gone. Great is my grief, and no wonder, My mourning is true, sincere; That which sorely has me pained, Is that in Albin we’ve no race.[267] Now since that I must leave, As others with reproach me load, Since he is dead, I fain would go, Away from the rough isles of Albin. Yet ’tis sore for me to leave, Although I feel that go I must, Now that my beloved is dead, My country I must leave behind. Last of all, what grieves me is, And truly the cause is enough, That my beloved will not return, To Islay on this side of Innis.[268] And then, besides, it is so sad, That this during his time should come, Wringing hearts, and bodies rending, Without revenge being in our power. No men on earth could think How ready he was foes to crush, ’Twas nothing both for us and thee That champions should come against us. But thy foes now have pierced thee, Pity we had not with thee died, Fair-handed, sweet-voiced son of Mary, That we should have none to help. He of the fairest countenance, Our loss is not to follow him. All the fame thou didst enjoy, Was such as to thy race belonged, They who had the long curled locks, Whose company men loved much. Now their hearts are sore depressed, Every comfort poor without thee. ’Twould be hard to find one like me, And that from my lord I had, The fellowship of priests and poets; These are plenty, but his hand absent. When others to the banquet go, Of the honour my share is this, Ever to mourn in grief unchanged, And of sorrow drink my fill. ’Tis sad for me I do not follow, Much his absence do we grieve; And then o’er that which makes me mourn, Many the other men who weep. Many the men before our time, Who by sorrow were brought low; And what I’ve said does find its proof, In a tale I’ve told before. “I’ve heard a tale of old,” etc.[269] _As follows in another place._ The fellow of this noble man, Foster-son of Caoimh and Conull.

[263] It has been said in a previous note that nothing is known of this poet. But the present composition would indicate his being one of the celebrated Beatons, physicians and sennachies to the Lords of the Isles. There is a charter of lands in Islay, written in Gaelic by Fergus Beaton in 1411. There were several of the family whose name was Gilliecallum. “Mac an Olaimh ” means _son of the physician_.

[264] Margaret Livingstone, daughter of Sir Alexander Livingstone, married to Alexander Lord of the Isles.

[265] Angus Og, son of John last Lord of the Isles, who fought the battle of the Bloody Bay against his father.

[266] John, son of Alexander Lord of the Isles.

[267] Both John and Angus, sons of the last Lord of the Isles, died before their father. He was forfeited, and died in a monastery in Paisley.

[268] This word is spelled “Eithnis,” and “Einis,” and “Enis.” It is translated _Angus_ and _Innis_. But it is difficult to decide which it means; probably “Inis” in Ulster, where the Lords of the Isles had extensive possessions.

[269] See above, p. 50.

Blind Arthur Mac Gurkich.[270]

The assembled fleet at Castle Sween, Pleasant tidings in Innisfail, Of all the riders of the waves, A finer ship no man e’er owned. Tall men did manage the ship, Men, I think, to urge their way; No hand without a champion, A slashing, vigorous, noble band. With coats of black all were supplied, In this bark, noble their race, Bands with their brown, broad belts, Danes and nobles were they all. Chieftains with ivory and gold, The crew on board this brown-sailed ship, Each with a sheaf of warriors’ spears, Shields on their hooks hung round the sides. Wide-spread wings, speckled sails, Bearing purple, all of gems; A long, handsome, gentle band, Stood along the stout-made spars. The blue sea at the swift ship’s prow, The ship laden when the tide is full; Wattled baskets full of swords, With shields all brought on board the bark. Fair women, too, were in the ship, Modest, their beds were placed on high, Spotted cushions were provided, Couches for the nobles’ wives. Spotted coverings of fine linen, This was the covering of the ship; Handsome, easy, as she rocked, Purple linen round each mast. No hardened hands, no tightened belt, Nor roughened by their usual toil; Heroes were there, nor did they labour, Bands of men of sweetest lips. We heard not of so many nobles, Of our isle from labour free; From Erin princely champions, A troop with soft and ruddy hair. Not ship of all did she count swifter, None has there been nor will be, No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief, Nor is there any end of all. No ship of ships she counted swift, Full of princely men she is, Scattering gold among the bards, While round the ship resounds the sea. Many the men of sword and spear, Many men quick in fight to mix; Down by the sea the fighting men, Above, the gentle women were. Who is he provides this fleet, At Castle Sween[271] of many hills? A vigorous man who fears no blast, His masts upraised, seeking his right. John M’Sween,[272] sail thou the ship, On the ocean’s fierce-topped back; Raise aloft the vessel’s masts, Let thy bark now test the sea. A leading wind then for them rose, At Kyle Aca[273] as rose the tide; The speckled sails were roundly bellied, As John ran swiftly for the land. We entered the cheerful anchorage In the bay of fruitful Knapdale;[274] The noble hero, lordly, shapely, Comely, masted, swift, victorious, He was then near Albin’s walls, Helpful, welcoming his men. Fair was then the youthful hero, Abundant dew distilling round, Favourable at Slieve Mun’s[275] streams, To Mac Sween, him of Slieve Mis. Speakers then come near to ask, They deal as with him of sharpest eye. Branches are laid beneath their knees, To welcome those of valour great. Their safety in each harbour nook Suffers from the welcome they give John. The men of Albin’s isles then come With welcome from the narrow sea. The men who sweetest are that sing, Tenfold welcomes to him bring. For a while there was a conflict, Between them and our men of song; They come at last to know full well, How fair the hill from whence came John. Then did we fight at Castle Sween, Just as a slender, furious hawk, We set us down around that rock, Every limb endowed with strength. We pierced the bodies of our foes, Just as a serpent fiercely wounds; Our thin-bladed, well-edged swords, The foreigners’ bodies fiercely hacked. We raised the cry of great Mac Sween, Amidst the rolling of the sea; True it is that roll won’t help, Broad-backed, long although it be, Their javelins have no power to pierce The shields which our brown coats protect. Rathlin of the sharp rocks, hears The music of our ringing swords. The thin-bladed sword, in Europe best, A spear that swift obeys the wish, What shield on earth can it resist? Fierce and fearless Erin’s sons. John Mac Sween of stratagems, With his thin, powerful, cutting sword, He whose shield is spotted brown, A blind man found him brave and wise. The assembled fleet.

[270] Who this blind poet was the Editor cannot say. He can find no notice of him anywhere, nor of the attack on Castle Sween, which he describes. He was an Irish bard, and composes in the Irish dialect, making use, like the later Irish poets, of language much more difficult to understand than the older composers. The Editor encountered more difficulty in reading this piece, than in reading any other in the Dean’s MS. “Broin” is an ancient word for a _troop_ or _band_, and “cleath,” “comhlan,” “nòs,” are words for a _warrior_; but these words are entirely obsolete; so “glantair,” as the comparison of “glan,” is unknown in the modern language. There is a manifest attempt in the composition to use obsolete words; but the Editor trusts the meaning has been correctly rendered.

[271] We can find no trace in our history of this attack by the Irish Mac Sweenys on Castle Sween. The event cannot be of a very ancient date, as the Mac Sweenys are not a very ancient tribe in Ulster.

[272] One of the Mac Sweens or Mac Sweenys of Slieve Mis in Antrim.

[273] This cannot be Kyle Akin in Skye, but is probably the ancient name of the entrance to Loch Sween.

[274] Knapdale, on the west coast of Argyle, south of Crinan.

[275] Not known to the Editor, but is probably on the Knapdale side of Loch Sween.

Isabella Ni vic Cailein.[276]

Pity whose complaint is love, Whate’er my reason thus to speak, ’Tis hard to separate from its object, Sad’s the condition I am in. The love which I in secret gave, Of which I’d better never speak, Unless I quickly get relief, Withered and thin I’ll soon become. The man whom I have so loved, A love I never must confess; Has me put in lasting bonds, For me a hundred times ’tis pity. Pity.

[276] This lady is elsewhere called “Contissa Ergadien,” _the Countess of Argyle_. From the name given her here, she would appear to be a daughter of the Earl of Argyle, but she might as countess be styled Ni vic Cailein, or the daughter of Colin. We know that Sir Colin Campbell of Glenurchy, was uncle and tutor to Archibald, first Earl of Argyle, and that having himself married Margaret, eldest daughter of Stuart last Lord of Lorn, he arranged a marriage between his nephew and Isabella, the second daughter, who became Countess of Argyle. She was most likely the authoress of these lines, but we have no key to the piece of domestic history to which they refer.

The author of this is Duncan Og.[277]