Part 8

Long are the clouds this night above me; The last was a long night to me. This day, although I find it long, Yesterday was longer still. Each day that comes is long to me, Such indeed was not my wont. Now is no fight, or battle-field, No learning noble feats of arms Without maiden, song, or harp; No crushing bones or warlike deeds, No studious learning any more, No hospitable heart or board, No soft wooing, and no chase, In both of which I took delight. Without the battle-march or fight, Alas! how sorrowful life’s close; No hunting of the hind or stag, How different from my heart’s desire! No trappings for our hounds, no hounds. Long are the clouds this night above me. No rising up to noble feats, No mirthful sport as we would wish, No swimming heroes in our lakes. Long are the clouds this night above me; In this great world none is like me, So sad, how sad my case! A poor old man now dragging stones. Long are the clouds this night above me, The last man of the Feine am I, The great Ossian, the son of Finn, Listening to the sound of bells.[46] Long are the clouds this night above me.

Find, O Patrick, from thy God What our eternal state shall be. Freed may we ever be from ill. Long are the clouds this night above me. Long are the clouds, etc.

[45] This piece is extracted and printed in the report on the Poems of Ossian, published by the Highland Society. Dr. Smith, however, who made the extract, appears not to have read it with much care or accuracy, and the concluding portion, from the twentieth line downwards, is suppressed altogether. This seems to have arisen from a desire to suppress all the references in those poems to St. Patrick, and thus to establish by all possible means their Scottish origin. If any of the Poems are the genuine compositions of Ossian, there is sufficient evidence that the references to the Saint are of more recent introduction, in the fact, that if Ossian saw Art, who lived in the opening of the third century, as he tells us in the preceding fragment, he could hardly hold a dialogue with St. Patrick, who flourished in the fifth. In the present publication the poems of every kind are given just as they stand, without any reference to the effect on existing systems and theories, Scotch or Irish.

[46] The bells used in Christian worship. “Patrick of the bells,” is a common appellation of St. Patrick in these compositions.

The Author of this is Ossian:

Once on a time when Finn my loved Went to hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill,”[47] With three thousand nobles of the Feine, Their shields aloft o’er their heads. Ossian! thy words are sweet to me, My blessing on the soul of Finn.[48] Tell us the number of the deer That fell on the “Fair maids’ hill.”

[47] “Sliabh nam ban fionn,” or the “hill of the fair-haired women,” is said to be one of the mountains of Tipperary, in the neighbourhood of Clonmel. It is now called “Sliabh nam ban,” and has several traditions of the Feine associated with it. The writer is not aware of any mountain of the name in Scotland; besides, although the word “Sliabh” is well known and in common use among the Scottish Highlanders, it is seldom found in the topography of the country, in which the almost uniform term for a mountain is “Beinn,” the English “Ben.” This is one of the marked differences between Irish and Scottish topography. The term under consideration has sometimes been called in Scotland “Sliabh nam beann fionn,” “the hill of the fair hills,” a manifest mistake, which the meaningless tautology should be enough to prove. Topographical phrases in the Gaelic language are usually not only grammatically accurate, but of remarkable elegance in their structure. The interpretations often put upon them are a monstrous outrage upon this sound and invariable principle.

[48] It is obvious that parts of these compositions are dialogues, for the most part between Ossian and St. Patrick. The dialogue portion in these editions of Dean M’Gregor’s is generally either prefixed or added to the body of the poem. This is quite consistent with the genuineness of the work, and can be explained upon the supposition, that these portions were either prefixed or adjoined at an after period by some other hand to serve a purpose. This cannot be said of those poems which are in the form of dialogues throughout.

How vigorously we shook our spears, For never hast thou sung the deer Slain on the “Fair maids’ hill,” By the hand of Finn of the feasts. Tell them the tale in full, My blessing on thy guileless lips. Had you your dress and your armour When you went forth to the chase?

We had our dress and our armour When we went forth to the chase; There was no Fian amongst us all Without his fine soft flaxen shirt, Without his under coat of substance soft, Without a coat of mail of brightest steel, The covering for his head adorned with gems, And in his hand he bore two spears, Besides a fierce and conquering shield, And sword that never failed to cleave the skull. Wert thou to search the universe Thou would’st not find a braver man than Finn; Of noblest race and fairest form, No arm from him could carry victory. As he went forth to try his snow-white hound Who ’mongst us all was like to Finn? Westward we went, an ordered band, To hunt on the “Fair maids’ hill.” O Patrick, pupil of the church’s head, Bright was the sun above us, As in the midst of us sat Finn. Eastward and westward sweetly rung, From hill to hill the voice of hounds, Arousing boars and harts. Then Finn and Bran[49] did sit alone A little while upon the mountain side, Each of them panting for the chase, Their fierceness and their wrath aroused. Then did we unloose three thousand hounds Of matchless vigour and unequalled strength. Each of the hounds brought down two deer, Long ere ’twas time to bind them in their thongs. That day there fell six thousand deer, Down in the vale that lies beneath the hill; There never fell so many deer and roe In any hunt that e’er till this took place. But sad was the chase down to the east, Thou cleric of the church and bells, Ten hundred of our hounds, with golden chains, Fell wounded by ten hundred boars: Then by our hands there fell the boars, Which wrought the ill upon the plain. And were it not for blades and vigorous arms, That chase had been a slaughter.

[49] Bran was the famous hound of Finn. The word means “a raven,” but used as an adjective it signifies “black,” which is apparently the origin of the name. Another of his dogs was called “Luath,” or “Swift,” also an adjective. These are common names for staghounds in the Highlands at this day. Reference is made a few lines before this to a white dog, “achoin ghil,” translated “snow-white,” “geal,” implying the most intense whiteness.

O Patrick of the holy crosier, Eastward or westward, hast thou ever seen, Another chase, in all thy days, Greater than that of Finn and of the Feine? This then was the hunt of Finn, Thou son of Alpin[50] of the holy relics, More than thy howling in the church Do I love to tell the day. Once on a time, etc.

The author of this is Ossian:[51]

Once on a time as Patrick of the holy crook Betook him to his cell, He sought as his companion Ossian of gentle mien.

Now let me hear, he said, Ossian, whose courage has made foes retreat, Who of all those whom thou ne’er sang’st, Most vexed the Feine of Finn?

Priest of the spotted crook,[52] Thy lifetime it would take To tell in human speech The glory of the Feine of Finn.

[50] The Irish call this word “Arpluinn,” in Latin, “Calphurnius.” In the Highlands the name is uniformly “Alpin,”--“Padruig mac Alpain.”

[51] This composition the Irish call the battle of “Ventry Harbour,” a place in the county of Kerry in Ireland. There are, however, Fintrays in Scotland, which are apparently the same name, and Mr. Skene has called the attention of the writer to the fact, that there is a Sgùir Dhaire dhuinn, “the hill of Daire donn,” in Duror in Argyleshire. Irish Antiquaries say the battle was fought in the third century between the Féine of Ireland and Daire donn, or Daire the brown, King of the world. It will be seen in this copy that Daire is introduced as King of Lochlin or Scandinavia, although afterwards called King of the world. It is very probable that both to the Scotch and Irish Celt Scandinavia was at this period synonymous with the world. This poem is here attributed to Ossian, although it is very doubtful whether it is so in the MS. The writing is so indistinct, that it is impossible to read the title correctly. It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that the poem is in the form of a dialogue between the bard, whoever he may be, and St. Patrick. The name of the saint seems to have been a favourite one with the bards, and was used no doubt to give consequence and currency to their compositions.

[52] The crozier of St. Patrick. Several ancient Celtic croziers are still in existence. Two are well known in Scotland. One of them is the Quigrich, or crozier of St. Fillan, now in possession of a family of the name of Dewar in Canada, to whose progenitor it was intrusted by Robert Bruce at the battle of Bannockburn. An interesting notice of this relic has recently been published by Dr. D. Wilson of Toronto. Another is the crozier of St. Munn, now in the Museum of the Society of Antiquaries in Scotland, and long in possession of a family called the Barons of Bachul (a _crozier_, from the Latin _Baculus_), in the island of Lismore. A notice of this relic will be found in the transactions of the Scottish Antiquaries, from the able pen of Mr. Cosmo Innes. The word “breac,” or _spotted_, applied to the crozier, must refer to its ornamentation. The term will be found elsewhere applied to spears or swords.

Since without guile thou art, And now that they are dead, dost live, Watch thou for ever on, And tell the deeds done by the Feine.

Should I be spared for fifty years, Hearing thy music in thy cell Till my death’s day, I could not tell The noble deeds of the Feine of Finn. The kingdoms of the earth in all its breadth Belonged to us on every side. Tribute we raised from all of them for Finn,[53] Else filled them with the shout of war. In this wide earth there was not one That dared refuse us, Not ev’n in Alve[54] of the spotted spears, With all its power and its untold renown.

[53] This is a curious piece of Bardic exaggeration. But there may be some history hidden within its folds. There is sufficient evidence to prove that the Féine, whoever they were, were not confined to Ireland. We have numerous ancient Celtic compositions in which reference is made to the Féine of Scotland, and the Féine of Britain, meaning either Wales, or England and Wales together. The truth with regard to Finn and his Féine seems even yet to be a long way off.

[54] This is said to be “Almhuin,” or Allen, the residence of Finn, according to Irish accounts, in the county of Kildare. The word has a strong resemblance to “Alba,” the Gaelic name for Scotland; and in reading ancient Gaelic MSS., care must be taken to distinguish the two. We give the name in the Dean’s orthography, whatever the place may be.

Would’st thou but tell them now, Ossian, of the fierce assaults, Which was the stoutest arm Among the men that followed Finn.

Thou sett’st me to a painful task, O Priest, thou pupil of the heavenly king, I could not till the judgment day, Tell of the Feine, the men and deeds.

Yet since it so fell out that thou outliv’st them Ossian of sweet and pleasing songs, Which would’st thou chuse of all the Feinn, To stand in battle by thy shield?

Oscar and Caoilte and Gaul, And Luthy’s son, of sharpest swords; Round Cumhal’s son,[55] they well might stand, No nobler band in battle fought; Bloody Fargon, son to the king, And Carroll with the murderous spear; Dermin, brave and fair, who nothing feared, And bore his pointed shield aloft, Coll Caoilte’s son, so gentle at the feast; Corc, a warrior of no tender blows; Ryno, son to the king;-- A band than which no braver fought. The fair-haired Fillan, who was son to Finn, And Garry, than whom no bloodier foe; The guileless Dyrin, Doveran’s son, Hugh, son of Garry of the powerful arm, I, myself, and Gaul the son of Smail, And Daire of oaken frame, brave Ronan’s son; The armourer’s three sons, men without guile, Whose ruddy armour gleamed, adorned with gold. Now that I tell my tale to thee, Cleric that dwell’st at Port-na-minna, No man of all the Feine was known to me But one, to whom all other men must yield. But, now, do thou be seated in thy chair, Take up thy pen, we’ll number all the host, The host of brave and noble men Who came, well-ordered bands, unto the Feine. Across the sea the King of Lochlin came, The brown-haired[56] Daire of famous shield, From Conn to wrest the tribute paid by Erin, A mournful tale for us and all our host. Our Feinn had friends who came to give them aid, Men from the sides of every hill, Led on by Cairbar of the sinewy arm. Of these four bands came safe to land. Of the Feinn themselves came seven bands, Three from the east, the half of Erin called from Conn.[57] The greater number in the battle fell, But few escaped the bands of Daire donn. Down with his fleet lay Daire donn Himself and all his host. Of these were thirty score[58] Who ne’er again did see their native land. There watched them near the shore Conn Crithear of the well-aimed strokes. He seized the men of India there, And raised the king’s head on the mountain side. This famous Conn, the son of Ulster’s king, And Dollir, no less famed for warlike deeds, We left upon the strand, Drowned in mutual clasp beneath the waves. Dathach’s three sons, no braver men, Ascending from the place where lay the ships, Feartan and Kerkal, he with the large round head, We left their bodies naked on the strand. Owar,[59] the armed daughter of the King of Greece, And Forna of the heavy sturdy blows We left, a vacant grin upon their faces. We knew no sorrow as we left them there. Four of the King of Lochlin’s sons we left, Slain by our fierce, resistless arms. The three Balas from Borrin in the east, Hardly escaped our murderous blows. Great as was the king of the world, Daire donn, with shield of purest white, We left his body, too, upon the strand, Slain by the blows of the victorious Feine. Of all the world’s hosts, brave though they were, None did escape the slaughter Except the King of France alone, Who, like a swallow as it grasps the air, Fled from fear of noble Oscar, And even once his sole ne’er touched the earth Until he got to Glenabaltan, as men relate; Then and there only did he find him rest. It was on Fintray’s strand, down at the sea, Our people made this slaughter, Of these, the kings of all the world, And drank our full of vengeance. Our fierce and conquering arms Laid many a noble warrior low; Many a sword and shield Lay shattered on the strand, The strand of Fintray of the port; Many dead bodies lay upon the earth, Many a hero with a vacant grin. Much was the spoil we gathered in the fight. Patrick, son of noble Alpin, Even of the Feine themselves, none did escape The fierce and murderous fight Except two ordered bands, Nor were their bodies whole. The sons of Boisgne[60] made one band of those, A race, with hands that knew no tender grasp, Then came the sons of Morn,[61] who with the sons of Smail Made up the second band. By thy hand, O noble Priest In that sore fight, there perished of our Feine Five well-trained bands Who left us for the strand. Thirty luckless bands, A thousand score in each, We numbered of the men of Daire donn, That never reached the waves. Were I to answer thee, O Priest, As thou desir’st to hear my every tale, Down to the time we[62] Gawra’s battle fought, We never lost our power. Then did we seize the ships; We took the heavy silver of the king, The gold, the garments, and the other spoil; Each half of Erin had its share. Holy Patrick of the relics, Shall I meet death within thy house of prayer? Cover thou my form with earth, Since thou knowest well my tale.

Ossian, since thou art wearied now, Make thy peace, that thou may’st die, Take up thy prayer and ask for mercy, Early each day call on thy God, And when, on the judgment day, thou reachest Sion, Where all men shall be gathered, May Michael, Mary, and the Son of God Take thee kindly by the hand.

May the Twelve Apostles, with their song of praise, Each holy cleric, and each prophet, Me save from hell, For I’ve been very sinful in my day. Once on a time.[63]

[55] Finn was Cumhal’s son. The word is pronounced “Finn mac Cúil,”--very much as M’Dougal is pronounced in the speaking of Gaelic. The writer has been led to think that traces of “Cual” (Cumhal) might be found in the King Coil of Ayrshire. The whole region about the scene of Coil’s territory and sepulchre has been purely Celtic, and the grave itself bears marks of being constructed in the early Celtic method.

[56] As already observed, Daire donn, or “Daire the brown,” is called here the King of Lochlin.

[57] Ireland was divided into two great sections: the northern, called Leth Chuinn, or Conn’s half, from Conn of the hundred battles, King of Ulster; the southern, called Leth Mhogha, or Mogh’s half, called from Mogha Nuadhat, King of Munster, both in the second century.

[58] The Celts always count by twenties up to 400. When a Highlander speaks of 340 or 360 of anything, he uniformly says seventeen score or eighteen score. The numbers given here are an instance of the poetic license.

[59] This daughter of the King of Greece is well known in Celtic tradition. In Mr. J. F. Campbell’s _Tales of the West Highlands_, vol. ii. p. 470, it will be seen that traces of her existence are found still in the island of Barra. Greece was not unknown to the ancients. Cæsar tells us that the Gauls, although not committing their religious mysteries to paper, in common writing which was familiar to them, used the Greek letters. This is a remarkable statement, and one of which too little use has been made in discussing the social condition of the early Gael. At the same time, we learn from the history of the Gallic war that the literature of Gaul was drawn from Britain, at least her priests studied there, which can have no other meaning.

[60] The race of the Féine to which Finn belonged. The Irish say they occupied Leinster and the eastern part of Ulster.

[61] The race to which the famous Gaul belonged. They are said to have occupied Connaught and the west of Ireland. These are the Irish accounts, and must be taken as contributions to a correct elucidation of the history of these events, if they have a real history.

[62] A poem on this famous battle will be found in a subsequent part of this collection.

[63] It will be seen in this and the previous pieces, that the first few lines are repeated at the close of every poem. This practice is uniformly followed in all ancient Celtic Poetry, and is a sure indication that we have reached the end of the piece.

The author of this is Ossian:

Feeble this night is the power of my arm, My strength is no more as it was; No wonder though I should mourn, Poor old relic that I am; Sad that such should be my lot, Beyond all men who tread the earth, Wearily dragging stones along To the church on the hill of the priest. I have a tale which I would tell Regarding our people, O Patrick: Listen to Finn’s prediction. Shortly ere thou cam’st, O Priest, The hero was to build a fort, On Cuailgne’s[64] bare and rounded hill. He laid it on the Feine of Fail[65] Materials for the work to get. Two-thirds of all his famous fort He laid upon the sons of Morn; The other third he laid on me, And on the other sons of Boisgne. I answered, but not aright, The son of Cumhal, son of Trenmor. I said I would cast off his rule, And would submit to him no more. Then for long Finn held his peace, The hero hard to vanquish, He who knew no guile nor fear, When my answer he had heard, His words to me were these, The words of Finn, prince of the Feine:

[64] A hill said to be in the county of Armagh, celebrated in the ancient poem of “Tain bo Chuailgne,” or “The cattle spoil of Cuilinn.” It is said to have been here that Cuchullin resided, whence probably his name, Cu Chuailgne, or Cuchullin, the Hound of Cuillinn. In Irish History Cuchullin is said to have lived a couple of centuries previous to the era of Fingal.

The reader may be reminded that there is a mountain in Skye called Cuilinn, one of the grandest of the Scottish mountains. The person from whom both this and the Irish hills of the name were called, is said to have been Cuilionn, a Druidical priest of great fame. The word means also the Holly tree, from whence the derivation is sufficiently probable.

[65] “Fail” is an ancient name for Ireland. The word signifies _fate_; hence “Innisfail,” or the “Island of fate,” or, more probably, “the sacred island.”

Thou shalt be dragging stones awhile Ere to thy mournful home thou goest. Then did I rise up in wrath, From Cumhal’s son of bloody sword. There followed me of all the Feine, The fourth battalion, hardy and brave. Then was I long with the Feine, On all things I my judgment gave. Many were there with me then, But now, alas, I’m feeble, feeble; I was counsellor to the Feine, In all emergencies, how feeble. How many men that do not know That on this earth I’m feeble, feeble. This night my body’s frame is feeble, Patrick, I believe thy words. My hands, my feet, and head, All of them are feeble, feeble. Feeble, etc.

The author of this is Ossian: