CHAPTER V.

ANCIENT BALLADS.

“Thoir an eachdraidh Mhaighstir Dòmhnull A tha chòmhnaidh ’n cois na tuinne; An ùrnuigh bha aig Oisein liath-ghlas Nach robh riamh ach ’na dhroch dhuine.”

ENGLISH:

_To Master Donald take the story; There he dwells beside the billow; The prayer said by Ossian hoary, Who was aye a worthless fellow._

It has been well remarked that each of the literatures of the two branches of our Celtic population was chiefly the utterance of feeling stirred by a great struggle for independence, and that each has at the heart of it “a battle disastrous to the men whose wrestle with an overmastering power is the chief theme of their bards.” The Gaelic struggle and literature began earlier, and its great battle is that of _Gabhra_, said to have been fought in 284 A.D. In the later Celtic literature of the Cymri the memorable battle described is that of Cattraeth, said to have been fought in 570 A.D.

While _Cath Gabhra_ is the chief theme of the Gaelic bards, individual combats, adventures, and other battles are also rehearsed in the early ballads.

Macpherson’s “Ossian” and Smith’s “Old Lays,” whose authenticity has been so fiercely disputed, are excluded from consideration at present. They will be afterwards examined under the dates of their production. The number of lines in these works and other two poems respectively is:—

Macpherson’s Poems of Ossian 10,232 lines. Smith’s Old Lays 5,335 ” Clark’s Mordubh 758 ” MacCallum’s Collath 504 ” —————— Total 16,829 ”

Laying aside these 16,829 lines of suspected poetry, there is still the 54,000 lines of ancient poems of unquestioned genuineness in Campbell’s “Leabhar na Féinne,” enough surely to sustain the literary character and genius of our early ancestors.

The ballads which we are now to consider are all genuine and old, and may be found in manuscripts written ages before Macpherson was born.

The Ossianic or Heroic Ballads will be found in the following publications:—The Dean of Lismore’s Book (1512, published 1862); Hill’s (1780); MacArthur’s (1784); Young’s (1784); Gillies’s (1786); Stewart’s (1804); Highland Society’s Report (1805); Turner’s (1813); Grant’s (1814); MacCallum’s (1816); Campbell’s great work (1872). Some of the ballads contained in these books were printed from old manuscripts; others were taken down during the last two or three centuries from the oral recitation of old men, living in all parts of the Highlands.

These collections represent a good deal of industry and literary activity, which reflect very creditably on men who had not the stimulus of a vast reading public to work upon their minds.

THE GENUINE GAELIC BALLADS.

The place in time occupied by these compositions is one of considerable length—it extends at least as far back as the third century of our era. It is very interesting to note that this body of oral popular literature has been loved, preserved, and rehearsed by the Gaelic clans of Albin for at least a thousand years; for a much longer period, indeed, if we rely on fairly credible tradition.

The inter-tribal struggles described in these ballads—the patriotic resistance against the Norse attempts to obtain the supremacy, mixed up as they are with the encroachments of Christianity within the realms of heathenism—took place mainly within the Albinic area. The geographical limits of this area in those early times were very vague and shifting. In a general way they may be said to have embraced the Western Islands, the North-west, and part of the central Highlands, as well as the Isle of Man and Ireland. Over all these regions we watch in these ballads the shadowy movements of our brave ancestors. We hear the faint echoes of their names, and the fame of their deeds, the war-cries and voices of their almost semi-mythic heroes.

We regard the tribes whose deeds are celebrated in these productions under two classes—those of the Cruithne or Albinic race and those who have become known as the Scottish Iro-Gaelic race. At that period there were Cruithne or Picts in Erin as well as in Albin.

Previous to the arrival of Patrick in Ireland and to that of Columba in the Highlands, there is strictly speaking no chronological history of either country. Of the earlier movements of the clans and their battles we have no authentic account. But there are traditions with a highly probable basis of truth sufficient for the purposes of the present Ossianic discussion. Two or three of the central facts of the Finian period, as related in a preceding section, are as follows:—

Finn MacCumhaill lived in the reign of Cormac MacArt who ruled from A.D. 227 to 266, and whose daughter Gràinne he married. Goll MacMorni was a contemporary. Finn was slain in 283, but the bards bring him somehow alive next year to pronounce a eulogy on his grandson, Oscar, who fell in the battle of Gabhra. Ossian and Caoilte lived for a hundred and fifty years longer; and the blind old heathen bard relates the heroic achievements of his departed fellow-heroes to St. Patrick who arrives in Ireland about 432. Chronology did not trouble the old ballad-makers of Albin and Erin. Such an anachronism as brings Ossian of the third, into conjunction with Patrick of the fifth century, did not disturb their heroic muse.

Ireland claimed this Ossian as her own, and her learned doctors declared that Macpherson stole his poems from their country. Two or three words will be sufficient to dispose of all this: 1. Macpherson never was in Ireland; and never kept up any correspondence with Irishmen. 2. The Ossianic poems published by the Dublin Gaelic Society and the Ossianic Society were all collected and made known subsequent to the publication of Macpherson’s Ossian. 3. It is admitted by the late Eugene O’Curry, one of the highest authorities, that prior to the 15th century there existed in Ireland only _eleven_ Ossianic poems, which are extremely short, and which will be found in the Book of Leinster, compiled in the 13th, and in the Book of Lecan in the 15th century. Of these, seven are ascribed to Finn himself, two to Ossian, one to Fergus, and one to Caoilte. This clearly disposes of Ireland’s claim to possess anything like Macpherson’s work. Indeed it has been given up by some who advanced it, while at the same time these writers and others laboured to manufacture and publish poems _a la_ Macpherson; but to the great chagrin of these learned sons of Erin the public will not assign them the same distinction and appreciation, which have been accorded to Macpherson’s productions.

Let us now glance at the genuine, and indisputably ancient Ossianic ballads preserved in Scotland: 1. We have the tragic tale of _Deirdri_ in the Glenmasan MS., bearing the date of 1238, now in the Advocate’s Library. 2. There is a MS. of the 15th century, containing a glossary and a poem of five quatrains, attributed to Ossian. A text the same as this poem is in the Book of Leinster of the 13th century. 3. There is the Book of the Dean of Lismore, compiled between 1512-20 A.D. This book contains 28 Ossianic poems, nine of which are directly attributed to Ossian, two to Fergus, one to Caoilte; two to Allan MacRuairi, and one to GillieCallum Mac an Olla,—these two last bards being hitherto unknown; and there are eleven anonymous ones, which in style and subject belong to the Féinne. These twenty-eight poems extend to 2500 lines, or one-fourth of all Macpherson’s Gaelic poems. The rest of the extant heroic poetry has been collected in the Highlands and Islands, chiefly within the last 150 years; and in the main consists of versions of the same productions that we have in the Book of the Dean of Lismore. They are genuine Highland compositions of an ancient character, and some of them are instructive as showing how far oral transmission during the last 400 years has affected their style and language.

We thus find that the work begun by Sir James Macgregor upwards of 400 years ago, has been taken up at intervals by others since his time. Towards the end of the last, and the beginning of the present century the principal collectors of these ballads appeared. Old men in all parts of the Highlands and Isles, famous for their mnemonic and reciting powers were sought out by educated natives and strangers, and their versions of the old ballads taken down. The last and the greatest of the ballad and tale-collectors was Mr Campbell, who in 1859-60 traversed the whole Gaelic area; and assisted by intelligent Highlanders formed large collections, of which he has given a considerable quantity to the world, in his four volumes of tales. All these are genuine productions of the Gaelic popular mind. No stigma or suspicion attaches to them. Some of them are at least as ancient as the time of Dean Macgregor—400 years ago; and they were regarded as ancient then. In character and spirit they resemble—are in many cases only Scottish versions of—the kindred literature of the Gael of Ireland; and possess much definite value to the student of social life and the philologist.

Although many of those heroic compositions have been probably lost and others marred in their oral transmission, yet enough remains to interest the literary student and the historic antiquary. Upwards of 54,000 lines have been preserved, and are accessible in that truly excellent and scientifically arranged work _Leabhar na Féinne_. In this body of literature we have indubitable proof of the existence of a large mass of popular literature among the ancient Gaels, who it is evident must have developed considerable taste for ballad, song, and story.

It is hard to assign any date to the composition of these ballads. They may have been composed centuries before they were committed to writing. We have fragments such as the Glen-mason MS. which were written as early as the 12th century, scarcely anything earlier. These are written in the hand and language common to the learned in both Albin and Erin at the time. The book of the Dean of Lismore, however, is written phonetically to represent the spoken language of his day, and is mainly in the Perthshire dialect. The various collections of ballads made between 400 and 70 years ago exhibit different styles of writing, and the unsettled modes of orthography prevalent at the time.

The poetic form of these productions is generally that of the quatrain. Some pieces do not exceed a few stanzas in length, others extend to 80 or 100 quatrains or to between 300 or 400 lines. Many archaic expressions are to be met with; but on the whole when presented in modern orthography they are understood by an ordinary Highlander. Not a few of these phrases, though not generally understood, have been preserved and transmitted even in the oral versions taken down within the last 100 years.

Some of the most ancient ballads relate to Cuchulin and his deeds of deathly valour; others tell the tragic tale of Deirdri; others relate to the Norse wars; and not the least romantic describe the fierce combats and heroic conflicts in which the brave heroes of the Féinne indulged on the shores and plains of Albin and Erin. On many a field of fame, east and west, had the banners of the Finian heroes gleamed and gained renown; but with all their victories they always fell as they went forth to the battle, until they all faded and disappeared “like sungleam in wintry weather.”

THE COCHULIN BALLADS.

Taken in chronological order, the Cochulin ballads come up first for consideration. Much credit is due to Mr Campbell for his attempt at a chronological classification of these productions, a very difficult matter, considering the vagueness, historically, of everything connected with the heroic period. As far as dates of composition are concerned, all that can be safely affirmed is that these ballads were composed between the Christian era and the thirteenth century, some of them undoubtedly belonging to the earlier, and some of them to the later centuries of that period. Copies of many of them were made by Sir James Macgregor, Dean of Lismore, between 1512-26. Then they were regarded as very ancient. Those relating to Cochulin and to his son Conlach are:—_Cochulin and Evir_; _Cochulin’s Sword_; _Cochulin’s Car_; _Garbh Mac Stairn_; _Conlach’s Death_; _The Heads_. According to ancient annals Cochulin lived in the first century. _Connal Cearnach Mac Edirskeol_ is the author of the last-mentioned ballad, _The Heads_, and the most ancient of all the Heroic poets. Cochulin was his foster-son; and when he was slain Connal revenged himself on his enemies by putting them all to death. In the ballad, Evir, the wife or betrothed of Cochulin, is told the names of those put to death, whose heads he carried on a withe. There is a heroine of Dun sgathaich, Skye, called Aoife, who also is mixed up with Cochulin’s story. The length of the ballad is 96 lines. The following is a literal translation of the first six stanzas:—

Connal, these heads are little worth, Though in their blood thine arms did’st soil; These heads thou hast upon the withe Tell me their owners, now thy spoil.

Daughter of Orgill of the steeds, Evir, whose words sweet feelings waken, ’Twas to avenge Cochulin’s death That I these many heads have taken.

Whose is that nearest thy left arm,— That mighty, hairy, dusky head,— That head whose colour has not changed, With cheeks than any rose more red?

The king of fleet steeds owned that head, Said Cairbar’s son, keen lance in war; ’Twas to avenge my foster-son I took that head and bore it far.

Whose is that head I see beyond Inwrapt with soft and flowing hair, His eye like glass, his teeth like bloom, With beauty that is peerless there?

Manadh, the one that owned the steeds, The son of Aoife—pirate true; I left his trunk without its head, His people every one I slew.

THE DEIRDRI BALLADS.

The next class is that of the _Deirdri Ballads_. The story of _Deirdri_ and _Clan Uisneach_, or the three brothers, Naos, Ainle, and Ardan, sons of Uisneach, is very affecting and tragic. Mr Campbell says:—“The story of Deirdre is related to Indian Epics, and is an Aryan romance which pervades the whole world. A beautiful girl, shut up to baulk a prophecy, is beloved by an old King. She runs away with a family of brothers, and after adventures of many kinds, the story ends in a tragedy.” Connachar, King of Ireland, whose reign is placed about the middle of the first century, was preparing to marry the beautiful princess, Deirdri, when she ran away with the three sons of his sister, Naos, Ainle, and Ardan. They went to Scotland, where they were well received. The names of places in the ballads indicate that it was in Argyllshire they settled. While the brothers were away on some expedition, to Lochlin, it is supposed, Deirdri was left in charge of a “black-haired lad,” it is said, in an islet north of Jura till they would return. The “lad” began to make love to Deirdri in their absence, but they came back opportunely to save her. By this time Connacher sent them a message of peace from Ireland; and believing that the once wrathful monarch was sincere they returned to Ireland. But they were at once met with the hostile forces of the King; and after a fierce struggle the King slew his nephews. When Deirdri saw her beloved Naos and his brothers fall, she rushed forward, bewailing them, and died upon their bodies. There are six or seven versions of this story, the oldest being in the MS. dated 1208, in the Advocates’ Library. It was written at Glenmasan, in Cowal. The versions vary in length. The longest contains upwards of 400 lines. The ballad is sometimes divided into several parts, and some collectors give only one or two parts. It is the part in which Deirdri laments her departure from Scotland that is here translated. This and the Book of Deer are the earliest specimens that we possess of written Gaelic in Scotland.

The glens and other places mentioned in the following farewell of Deirdri are readily identified. The large number of proper names occurring in the piece renders it difficult to give anything more than a very stiff translation, which is almost absolutely literal:—

“Do dech Deardir ar a hèise ar crichibh Alban, agus ro chan an Laoidh”:—(_Deirdri looked back on the land of Albin, and sang this Lay._)

Beloved land, that eastern land! Alba with waters wide: With Naos in those happy glens I wish I could abide!

Beloved Dunfigha and Dunfin; The Dun above them seen; Beloved is Inis-Draighnde; Beloved is fair Dun Sween.

Coille-Chuan! O Coille-Chuan! Where Ainle comes no more! Too short, I ween, was there my stay With Naos on Albin’s shore.

Glen-Laye! O Glen-Laye! Oft by its stream I lay; Fish, flesh and fat of badger My repast in sweet Glen-Laye.

Glen-Masan! O Glen-Masan! Where fairest boughs are seen; Lonely was my place of rest By Inver-Masan green.

Glen-Eitive! O Glen-Eitive! There my first home was raised; Beautiful were its woods in morn When there the sun had blazed.

Glen-Orchay! O Glen-Orchay! Straight vale of ridges smooth, Full joyful there round Naos Were the Glen-Orchay youth.

Glen-Daruadh! O Glen-Daruadh! I love its men—I love it! Sweet are the cuckoos on the boughs On the grey hills above it.

Beloved is Drayen—its sounding shore; Beloved is Avich of pure sand; Oh, that I might not leave the east,— Beloved and happy land.

On this tale, and on its connection with Scottish topography, Dr MacLauchlan says:—“This is one of the most touching in the catalogue of Celtic tales, and it is interesting to observe the influence it exerted over the Celtic mind by its effect upon the topographical nomenclature of the country. There are several Dun Deirdres to be found still. One is prominent on the vale of the Nevis, near Fort-William, and another occupies the summit of a magnificent rock overhanging Loch Ness, in Stratherrick.” _Ness_, the name of the loch, is thought to be from Naos. Dr Skene remarks—“Adomnan, in his life of St. Columba, written in the seventh century, appears to mention only three localities in connection with St. Columba’s journey to the palace of the King of the Picts, near Lochness, and these are Cainle (Ainle), Arcardan (Ardan), and the flumen Nesae (Naise). Two vitrified forts in the neighbourhood of Lochness are called Dun-_Dearduil_.” The same authority also observes that “the ancient legends of Cochulin and the sons of Uisneach connect them with those remarkable structures termed vitrified forts.” Dun-Sgathaig and Dun-mhic-Uisneachan are vitrified like Dun-dhearduil. It is suggested that a mythic meaning underlies this topography and story.

THE FINIAN BALLADS.

A class of ballads which is wholly taken up with the Finian heroes proper—with their intercourse and doings among themselves—may be described as _Finnic_ ballads. Finn is the central hero; and the other Finian characters are his attendant satellites.

There was more than one class of heroes known as Féinn, or Fianna:—

1. Féinn of Albin: Albin was north of the firths of the Forth and Clyde.

2. Féinn of Erin: The same class of heroes in Ireland.

3. Féinn of Breatan: Breatan was the southern districts of Scotland, Dunbreatan, or Dumbarton, being the principal seat.

4. Féinn of Lochlin: These according to Tacitus, dwelt on the right shore of the Suevic Sea, or the Baltic, and were called the Aestii.

There are some evidences which indicate that the last also were a Celtic people, who spoke a Celtic language. The inhabitants of this district now form part of the Kingdom of Prussia.

It is the Féinn of Albin and of Erin that the heroic lays generally celebrate. Trenmor, the fifth from Baoisgne, from whom Finn and his followers were called Clanna Baoisgne, was general of the Féinn; Cumhal, his son, was the father of Finn. Oisein, Fergus, Raoidhne, or Rayne, and Cairol were the sons of Finn. Oscar, the son of Oisein, was his grandson; and Diarmad was his nephew, who eloped with his queen, Gràine, daughter of Cormac Mac Art, King of Ireland, A.D. 227. Caoilte, or Cailt, was a relative; and Goll, or Gaul, Conan, and Garaidh were chiefs of the Clann Morna. But the heroes, one after another, soon disappeared. The theme of several of the principal ballads is the deaths of Oscar, Diarmad, Gaul, &c., and lastly, of Ossian himself, who was left alone of all that noble band of heathen heroes. In his last days the blind old bard came in contact with some Christian Patrick, and dialogues of their discussions were for ages repeated in Highland ballads. The following ballad, entitled the “Sweetest Sound,” is a specimen of the less martial kind:—

Once when the kindly feast was spread On Almhin’s golden slope, The bards they sang of bliss and woe, Despair, and love, and hope.

And heroes, as they drained the bowl, With joy or sadness heard; For those good harpers as they pleased Men’s rising feelings stirred.

Lord of the feast there Fingal sat— His fair hair touched with grey— Near his first son, the warrior bard, Strong as the noon of day.

The good MacLuy there conversed With Oscar, young and bright, And bald head Conan, rash and bold, Who never shunned the fight.

And Diarmad there sat, beautiful, And rolled his eye of blue, When Fingal spoke, and all the board His regal question knew.

“Come, tell me now, my chieftains good, At Fingal’s feast who be, What sounds are they that form for each The sweetest harmony?

“What are the notes that charm you most, And send your cares to flight— What sound most charms your inmost core, And thrills you with delight?”

The Conan—the rash Conan spoke— Of all that company The first to speak, the first to fight— The last to think was he.

“The rattling dice I love the most, When the play is running high; And my coming chances strain my ear, And almost blind my eye.”

“When heroes rush together, When battle wakes around, With clash, and clang, and crushing blows, I hear my sweetest sound.”

So Oscar spoke.—Thus Diarmad said, “When in my secret ear Sweet woman whispers love for me, My best loved sound I hear.”

“When first I catch my good hounds’ cry, Where the proud stag stamps the ground, And stands at bay,” MacLuy said, “I hear my sweetest sound.”

Then Fingal said, “My music is The banner’s fluttering fold, When winds blow free, and the brave I see Beneath its streaming gold.”

Alas! alas! my sweetest sound Was once in Fingall’s hall; To hear bards sing and heroes speak, And now they’ve perished all!

The above has been translated by Pattison, and I use his rendering. It gives us a good picture of a social gathering of the Finian heroes. The bowl goes round, the harpers begin, and the warriors deliver themselves successively on the objects which most moved their hearts. Fingal sat there as lord of the feast, and directed their intercourse. Conan, rash and thoughtless, but bold, loves the rattling dice; Oscar loves the waking of battle, Diarmad the whispering of woman’s love, MacLuy the hound in the chase. Fingal himself delights in the banner fluttering over the brave in battle, and Ossian, as usual, regretfully declares that his sweet sound was once in the hall of Fingal, who now with his heroic followers have all perished.

The titles of some of the other ballads are _Ossian’s Lament_, _Cailte and the Giant_, &c. We have a special set in several dialogues between Ossian and Patrick on the Féinn and their exploits, and on the comparative merits of the Christian religion and the stories of the Féinne. One of them is called _Oisein agus an Cleireach_, or Ossian and the Cleric, in which we have a description of a battle between the Finians and the Norse. The saint is very agreeable in this poem, very unlike what he is in _Ossian’s Prayer_, and concedes much to the bard, so much, indeed, that he is willing to rear an altar, not to God, but to Finn! It is difficult to say whether the ballad refers to a Manus, or Magnus, of the third or of the twelfth century. Actually known historic facts favour the latter. The length of the ballad varies; some of the versions are upwards of two, some three hundred lines long.

I here translate the first few verses:—

_Ossian._—O Cleric, that singest the psalms! Rude are thy thoughts I ween; Hearest thou a little my songs On the Féinn thou hast never seen?

_Cleric._—’Tis thine to delight in the songs Of the Féinn whom thou didst see— Sounds of psalms on my lips are sweeter Than Finian rhymes to me.

_O._—If thou darest liken thy psalms To the Finian arms blood-red, Cleric! I swear I would sever By blade from its trunk thy head.

_C._—Great Bard! I compare them not; The lay of thy lips is sweet; Let us raise an altar to Finn, And render him praise complete.

_O._—Kind Cleric! if thou wert south-west At the Fall of the soft-flowing stream Where it hastens to join the sea, The Féinn thou wouldest greatly esteem.

_C._—Blessed be the soul of that hero! Who fought in his violent might— Mac-Cuhail, the chief of the host, Renowned in the field of fight.

_O._—One day we were hunting for red-deer, And failing to meet with game, Ten thousand barks were seen, And towards the shore they came.

We all stood there on the plain; Fins gathered on every side; Round the son of the daughter of Teig, Flocked full seven tribes in their pride.

Their galleys they rushed ashore,— That host of the blades blood-red; They were many the tents of cloth That they reared above their head.

They hastened along from the woods, And put on their armour bright,— The weapons on shoulders great As they moved from the shore for fight.

To his heroes Mac-Cuhail spoke,— “These foes you have known before? You know how this cruel race Wakes warfare along our shore?”

It was then that Conan replied,— “Who are these that came o’er the sea? Knowest thou who is chief, Finn of battles? The flower of Norse Kings is he!”

_F._—“Who will go from the ranks of the Féinn To get word from the hostile host? My favour he’ll have if he brings Tidings sincere from the coast.”

Then Conan made answer again— “Whom should’st thou send, O King, But Fergus, thy prudent son; Wise word, I ween, he’ll bring.”

“Let my curse take thee, bald-headed Conan,” Said Fergus of gentlest face; “I will go, but ’tis not at thy voice, To get word from this Lochlin race.”

Young Fergus, all armed, went off Those heroes to meet on the way; He mildly inquired, “What people Came over the sea that day?”

Magnus, all bloody and fierce, Son of the red-shielded Bede, Was Chief King of Lochlin—well fitted Proud armies of men to lead.

“What moved thee, thou cruel man, From the kingdom of Lochlin’s shore? Unless thou hast come our heroes To multiply more and more.”

“I vow by thy hand, mild Fergus, Though brave be the Féinn of thy pride; We’ll make no terms with Finn without Bran, And his wife we will take from his side.”

“Ere Bran thou shalt get our heroes Will try all thy strength in the strife, And Finn thou must meet in fierce combat Ere thou canst take captive his wife.”

Since the days of Eve and Helen women have been the cause of much evil and strife; and many of the sore troubles of the Féinn arose from the bewitching charms which their Gaelic maidens and mothers possessed. The chief King of the Lochlins came to the shore of Albin with “ten thousand barks”—the Northmen’s galleys must have been very numerous in those times, our British navy of the present day would be small in comparison—determined to possess himself of the dog and wife of Finn, the Caledonian monarch. In these days this might seem a small _casus belli_ indeed; but it must be remembered that the dog Bran was a most remarkable one; the posthumous poetic honours that have been paid to this canine worthy have far exceeded those that Byron has given his favourite. As to the Caledonian Queen, the elopement of Graine with Diarmad must not be forgotten; indeed, it may help to explain the formidable descent of Magnus on the shores of Albin. To put chivalrous heroes under _geasan_ was then a favourite pastime among Gaelic ladies. And, being the weaker sex, it was well that they should be invested with enchanting or supernatural power that would somehow afford them protection in the midst of the turbulent, ruthless forces by which they were surrounded in those days. The battle and its results are described in thirty verses more. The Norse invaders were worsted; Finn and Magnus met in single combat; “stones and the heavy earth were wakening under the soles of their feet.” At last the unfortunate Magnus was overcome. Though unbecoming a king, he was bound hands and feet; but ultimately he receives kind and chivalrous treatment from Finn; and he repents of his conduct towards him, to whose mercy he said he would trust when he heard the bald Conan—who was “ever drinking”—express a wish to be allowed to sever his head from his body. The author—the ballad is put into the mouth of Ossian of course—concludes with the declaration that he and his father and Gaul performed the greatest feats that day, though they are now “without strength,” compelled to listen to psalm-singing clerics.

A particularly interesting poem—one of the many dialogues between Ossian and Patrick—is called _Ossian’s Prayer_. I translate a few verses of the beginning of Macnicol’s version, which will give an idea of the piece. It is about 150 lines in length. The author makes Ossian a thorough heathen, who prefers the glories of Finian deeds and fame to all the Christian prospects that Patrick can unfold.

_Ossian._ O Patrick of the reading To me a story tell; Say do the Féinn of Erin In Heaven high now dwell?

_Patrick._ Let me tell thee truly, Ossian, To whom fame is given; That thy father, Gaul and Oscar, Can not be in Heaven.

_O._ Sorry be the tale, O Patrick, Which thou art telling me; If Erin’s Féinn are not in Heaven Why should I Christian be?

_P._ Grievous be thy story, Ossian, Fierce thy words have grown; What are all the Féinn of Erin To one hour with God alone?

_O._ I would rather see one battle Waged by valiant Finn Than to see that Lord of heaven And thou cleric chaunting sin.

_P._ Although the humming fly be small A mote beneath its wing Can not be hid unknown to Him Who reigns as mighty King.

_O._ Think you that He was like Mac Cùil, The brave and mighty Finn? Into whose presence all on earth Could freely enter in?

_P._ Ossian, long art thou in slumber; The psalms make thy delight, Since thou hast lost thy strength and fame, And ne’er again can fight.

_O._ If I have lost my strength and fame, And nought of Finian worth remains, Thy cleric rank I slightly prize With all its gloomy strains.

Poor Ossian will not receive the new doctrine of the saint; and his arguments with Patrick are not of a very edifying character. The saint, in order to convey to the bard some conception of the Creator’s omniscience, says that it would not be possible for the smallest midge to enter heaven without His knowledge. But the bard exclaims in reply, that that was very different from Finn, son of Cuhal, in his hospitable hall. Thousands might enter, partake of his cheer, and depart without notice. At last Patrick gets somewhat impatient with his rather unsatisfactory pupil, and requests Ossian to give up his elegiac strains over the departed glory of the Clan Baoisgne, and relate the particulars of some hunt, battle, or adventure. The old warrior-bard is nothing loth, and is consoled for the moment by the recital of the deeds of his perished kinsmen, the Fianna. As usual he ends with a wild burst of sorrow for having survived them all.

“_Ossian and Evir-Alin_” has been a great favourite. In this ballad we have the great poet’s wooing of the beautiful Evir described. He sets out with twelve youths to ask the daughter of Branno “of the silver beakers.” Hitherto the maiden refused the sons of kings and nobles, and even the great gloomy chieftain Cormac, whom she particularly disliked. After necessary preliminary questions the ballad (in Pattison’s translation) proceeds:—

“High is the place, O Ossian! Do men’s tongues to thee assign; If I twelve daughters had,” said Branno, “The best of them should be thine.”

Then they opened the choice and spare chamber, That was shielded with down from the cold; The posts of its door were of polished bone, And the leaves were of good yellow gold.

And as soon as the bright Evir-Alin Saw Ossian, great Fingal’s son, The love of her maiden youth By me, proud hero, was won.

Then we left the dark lake of Lego And homeward took our way; But Cormac, fierce Cormac, waylaid us, Intent on the furious fray.

Eight heroes had followed their Chieftain, And their men behind them stood; The hillside flamed with their armour, Their spears were raised like a wood.

Eight came with Ossian the lofty, All equal to shield him in war.

Then the heroes met face to face, and the strife was fierce and long. Ossian and Cormac at last met in personal combat with the following result:

Five times he dashed on my buckler; Five times I hurled him back, Ere I struck him down on the greensward,— Cormac in conflict not slack.

I swept the head from his shoulders, And held it up in my hand; His troops they fled, and we came with joy To Fingal’s mountain land.

Oscar, the peerless son of Ossian, and the favourite grandson of Finn, is one of the bravest and finest characters among the Fingalians, and his early death greatly affected the hilarity of that happy band of heroes and hunters. The following verses from Gillies’s collection record, instructions and precepts which were inculcated by his royal grandfather; (my own translation):—

“Son of my son,” said the King, Oscar, thou young prince of might, When watching thy glittering blade, ’twas my pride To see thee triumph in the fight. Cleave thou fast to thy fathers’ fame, And keep unsoiled their honoured name.

When Treunmor the prosperous lived, And Trahal, great warriors’ sire, They were victors on every field, Winning fame in the conflict dire. Their names shall flourish in story and verse, Which the bards hereafter shall rehearse.

Oh! Oscar, spare not the armed hero, But the needy and feeble sustain; Like the spring-tide stream rushing in winter Attacking the foes of the Féinn; But gentle as summer’s breathing wind— To all that seek thy succour kind.

Such was the victor Treunmor, And after him Trahal the brave; And Finn, too, befriended the weak From the power of the tyrant to save. I would meet him with welcome hand, And shield him beneath my brand.

These are indeed noble sentiments and precepts from a semi-barbarian monarch such as Finn is supposed to have been. It may fairly be questioned whether this is not one of the more recent productions. One line, “’na aobhar shininn mo lamh”—_in his cause_, &c., reminds us of Christian conceptions. Such a word as _aobhar_, cause, does not, so far as I am aware, occur in the purely heathen poems.

The ballads on the deaths of Diarmad and of Oscar are among the best, and have been great favourites with popular reciters. The _Lay of Diarmad_ seems to have given names to many places in Scotland and Ireland. The names of the heroes of the Féinn in general we find embedded in the nomenclature of the soil, especially the name of Finn, their great leader. This is evidence of the early era in which they lived, as well as of the affection with which the people cherished their memories. The death of Oscar is a very long ballad. What follows is a free rendering of upwards of the first half:—

The feast was over and the morn Shed round its brilliant blaze; The halls of Cairber gleamed afar Beneath the sheen of rays;

The light within lit up the face Of heroes stout and tall, Who started early to their feet To leave that ancient hall.

Brown Oscar from the Albin shore Was there among the rest— Of beauteous form and boldest eye He stood in might confessed.

“But ere we part,” red Cairber said, In accents rude and strange, “Brown Oscar, come from Albin land, Our spear-shafts we exchange.”

“Why so exchange,” young Oscar said, With calmly moving lips, “Thou red-haired Cairber, why exchange, Chief of the port of ships?”

“Not much for me—not much for me,” The frowning Cairber said, “Though every warrior in your isles To me a tribute paid.”

“Whatever, Cairber, thou shouldst ask Of gold or precious thing, All that without disgrace might be Asked by a manly King,

“Were thine at once; but this exchange Of shafts without the heads, With ruthless scorn tears all the garb Of kindness into shreds.

“Hadst thou not known, thou coward prince, That Fingal is not by, Thou hadst not dared to speak such words,— Less loud would be thy cry.”

“Though Fingal and thy father both Were here, with sword in hand, I would have asked, and I should have, All that I now demand.”

“If Fingal and my father both Were here, with sword in hand, Thou wouldst not, if they chose, retain One foot of Erin land.”

“I make a vow,” quoth Cairber Red, “Away to drive the deer From Albin’s sea-girt hills, and bring The spoil to Erin here.”

“I make a vow—a vow ’gainst that,” Quoth Oscar. “With this spear I’ll drive thee back from Albin’s hills To Erin mount and mere.”

Then Cairber roared, “I make a vow; This spear of might possessed, Ere that, fair Oscar, thou shalt see, I’ll plant beneath thy breast.”

“A vow! a vow!” cried Oscar fierce, “Ere that shall happen me, Red Cairber! in thy forehead proud This spear shall planted be!”

Cold fear and rage alternately The other warriors shook, When they had heard the dreadful vows Both heroes undertook.

They saw fierce gloom was gathering On Cairber’s knitted brows; They marked how like the breaking storm The wrath of Oscar rose.

’Twas then a bard upon his harp, Gentle as evening’s breath, Poured forth the numbers that presage A mighty hero’s death.

Then Oscar seized with rage his arms, And cast a glance around, To see where stood his Albin chiefs— The few that there were found.

Great was the host of Cairber there; But Oscar’s friends were few, Still they were brave and undismayed, And well their arms they knew.

The strife began. We heard the shouts That came to us afar, And all the din of deadly clash From the dread scene of war.

Then up we rose and hastened To join the widespread fight; Each joined the battle as he reached With furious delight.

The bitter struggle lasted long, And many fell in death; Our smaller force still smaller grew On that dark fatal heath.

Though Oscar’s sword—his friends oppressed— Was failing in its might, We saw him struggling fiercely on Amid the woful fight, Like a hawk darting on the birds That scattered in their flight!

His course was like the rushing roll Of surges with their roar When winter storms have poured their force Upon the suffering shore.

The Sunbeam of the battle rose— Finn’s standard we did know— Then slowly backward, foot by foot, Retired the treacherous foe—

Scattered like sheep, and fall’n like leaves: The wild pursuit rolled on; And on that field of dread were we In silence left alone.

And there lay Oscar bleeding much Upon the mournful plain; And every living Finian there Had friends among the slain.

The bard Fergus is asked to relate to Finn how the Féinn fared in the conflict. In this part I follow a literal rendering of MacLauchlan’s, modified by Morley:—

“Say, Bard of the Féinn of Erin, How fared the fight, Fergus, my son, In Gabhra’s fierce battle-day? say!”

“The fight fared not well, son of Cumhal, From Gabhra come tidings of ruin, For Oscar the fearless is slain. The sons of Cailte were seven; They fell with the Féinn of Alvin. The youth of the Féinn are fallen, Are dead in their battle array. And dead on the field lies MacLuy, With six of the sons of thy sire. The young men of Alvin are fallen; The Féinn of Britain are fallen. And dead is the king’s son of Lochlin, Who hastened to war for our right— The king’s son with a heart ever open, And arm ever strong in the fight.”

“Now, O Bard—my son’s son, my desire, My Oscar of him, Fergus, tell How he hewed at the helms ere he fell.”

“Hard were it Finn to number, Heavy for me were the labour, To tell of the host that has fallen, Slain by the valour of Oscar. No rush of the waterfall swifter, No pounce of the hawk on his prey, No whirlpool more sweeping and deadly, Than Oscar in battle that day. And you who last saw him could see How he throbbed in the roar of the fray, As a storm-worried leaf on the tree Whose fellows lie fallen below, As an aspen will quiver and sway While the axe deals it blow upon blow. When he saw that MacArt, King of Erin, Still lived in the midst of the roar, Oscar gathered his force to roll on him As waves roll to break on the shore. The king’s son, Cairber, saw the danger, He shook his great hungering spear, Grief of Griefs! drove its point through our Oscar, Who braved the death-stroke without fear. Rushing still on MacArt, King of Erin, His weight on his weapon he threw, And smote at MacArt, and again smote Cairber, whom that second blow slew. So died Oscar, a king in his glory. I, Fergus the bard, grieve my way Through all lands, saying how went the story Of Gabhra’s fierce battle-day.” “Say!”

I take the following lines of the close of this grand ballad from Pattison’s blank-verse translation. Finn was beside his grandson before he breathed his last. Oscar heard the great king’s wailing cry, and looking round on all he sighed and said, “Farewell! I shall return no more.” Finn, who never wept before in sight of man but once, when Bran died, strode a pace away and wept. But—

Then Finn came back; and, standing near my side, He bent again o’er Oscar, while he said:— “The mournful howlings of the dogs distress me— The groanings of the heroes old and grey— The people’s wailing and their blank despair.

O son! that I had fallen in thy stead, In the dire battle with thy treacherous foes, And thou hadst loved to be a chief and leader, And bring the Finians east and west with joy!

O Oscar! thou wilt never rise again! O’er thee, my old heart, like an elk, is leaping! Thou wilt return, thou wilt return no more! ’Twas rightly said, ‘I shall return no more!’”

These are some of the scenes of the great battle of _Gabhra_, the Temora of Macpherson, fought about the year 284 A.D.

Strong-minded ladies in these days clamour for women’s rights; but if men are wise they will, before conceding these, consider what use was made by women in the early days of Finian chivalry of the rights which they then enjoyed. In these Islands in ancient days the gentler sex appears to have possessed some extraordinary powers and to have exercised terrible privileges which were sometimes abused. If a lady put _Geasan_ (obligation) on a knight or chief there was no escape from the execution of her wishes. He had to obey her, however unreasonable the request might be. Thus when the great Finn himself was in the earlier stages of his barbarian youth, before he became the celebrated General of the Féinn, and when he had no better raiment than the skins of the animals he slew for food, he came across one fine morning a grand assemblage of ladies resting on one bank of a great chasm, and a party of gentlemen on the other. One of the former, a proud Princess, insisted in her lover’s case that he should clear that chasm before she gave him her hand; but the poor fellow kept clapping his arms round his body till he could screw his courage to the springing point. Finn understood the conditions, and observed the unfortunate fellow’s predicament, and modestly asked if she would take himself for her wedded lord on his accomplishing the task. She replied that he looked a personable enough man, though marvellously ill clad, and that if he succeeded she would give him the privilege. Finn did succeed, but she laid _Geasa_ on him that he should accomplish the same task every year. This was not the only one that laid _Geasa_ on Finn. Another fair tyrant insisted on his leaping over a dallan as high as his chin, with a similar pillar-stone of the same dimensions borne upward on the palm of his hand. In after days he acknowledged in confidence to his father-in-law, that this was the most difficult feat he had ever performed, and few indeed would be disposed to doubt his assertion. On one occasion Finn nearly failed in one of these exploits; the cause of his failure was thought to be his meeting a red-haired woman on the road, and that it was a Friday morning. It is evident that these Gaelic princesses were a little too exacting, and that it would not do for every one to undertake satisfying their somewhat unreasonable demands. That the laying on of _Geasa_ was attended at times with much discomfort and danger is illustrated in the history of the beautiful but unfortunate Diarmad MacDoon.

Diarmad appears to have possessed one fatal gift—the _ball-seirce_—that of kindling love in all the women he met. It is said that there was a spot of beauty on his forehead which captivated all the ladies that saw him. He was the nephew of the king; and full proud was Finn at times of the deeds of valour which his sister’s son had achieved. He was generally described as the young, the beautiful, the brown-haired Diarmad. He was as brave and gallant as he was handsome, and a universal favourite among the Féinn. But he was soon to come under the influence of the inexorable _Geasa_ which decided “the woful fate of MacDoon.” At the wedding feast of Finn and Gràine, the daughter of King Cormac, the bride lays _Geasa_ on Diarmad to carry her off; and though this was highly repugnant to his loyal feeling, and in direct contravention to his military oath, as well as against his personal interests, he was obliged to comply. With what result the well known ballad, called “The Lay of Diarmad,” describes. There are many versions of this ballad; the one translated here is that found in “The Book of the Dean of Lismore.” It is here entitled “Bàs Dhiarmaid;” or, “_The Death of Diarmad_. “A houdir so Allane M’Royree,” or “_The Author of this is Allan M’Rorie_,” is prefixed. MacRorie was probably a mere reciter. The ballad begins thus:—

Here is Glen-Shee of the elk and deer, Where we hear the sweetest sounds! Where oft on its strath the Féinn Have hunted with eager hounds.

On the fair brows of blue Ben-Gulbin The sun its bright rays has shed, Where Finn oft pursued the chase, And the streamlets ran down blood-red.

Come, harken a little; I sing Of one of these heroes great— Of Ben-Gulbin and generous Finn; Of Diarmad’s sorrowful fate.

In other versions the name of Gràine and her elopement with Diarmad are introduced here, as well as some sharp colloquy between the latter and Finn.

Mournful was Finn on that day That the fair ruddy Diarmad died, When he followed the terrible boar That yet had all spears defied.

’Twas left to bright-armed MacDoon To meet with the dreaded boar; It was Fingal’s deceitful plan That the others should flee it before.

Few were beloved like him— MacDoon of that lovely band! By beautiful women bewailed As he lay with his spear in hand.

Bravely he roused the boar On the hillside where it had lain— The old boar of the sweet Glen-Shee, The fiercest that ever was slain.

There Finn of the ruddiest hue sat down ’Neath Ben-Gulbin’s grassy side; Whence issued the boar for the woodland; Oh, the ill that did there betide!

’Twas the clank of the Finian arms, And the echoing shout of the men, That wakened the slumbering monster: Before them he rushed down the glen.

He attempted to distance the heroes— The old boar of the bristling hide— Which the spear and the shaft of the quiver Of the hunter so often defied.

In another version Finn is here represented as saying to Diarmad—“Son of Doon, dost thou wish to win honour?”—thus the king spoke wrathfully; and added—“Slay that boar by thyself, thou gay victor, which the heroes so long has defied.” Diarmad attempts the task.

Then MacDoon of the keen-edged arms Comes up with the monster fierce, With his strong poisoned spear he tried The side of the boar to pierce.

But his spear broke—shivered in three— On that tough and bristling hide; With his warm and blood-red hand That spear he vainly plied.

Then from its sheath he drew His blade of renown—thin-leaved; And with it MacDoon slew the monster While no hurt he himself received.

Finn is greatly disappointed at Diarmad’s success. He evidently calculated that in his struggle with the boar alone his nephew would receive his death-hurt. This was not the case, and—

Then Finn of the Féinn grew sad, And sat on the side of the hill; It grieved him that brave MacDoon Escaped without wound or ill.

From the first Finn cannot be said to have adopted a very magnanimous plan for punishing his nephew; but jealousy being cruel as the grave, he has formed now a cruel expedient for compassing his death:—

After long silence he spoke— These evil words spoke he— “Diarmad, measure the boar from the snout, Tell how many feet long he be.”

Finn he had never refused— Alas! him no more we meet— He measures the back of the boar— MacDoon of the lightsome feet.

In the other versions it is told that Diarmad’s feet were bare, and that the length of the boar was sixteen feet. Finn denied that he was so long, and insisted on a second measuring.

“Diarmad, measure with care again, The boar _against the hair_;” Mournful it was to see That deed of the hero fair.

He went on that errand sad, And measured the boar again; But he trod on a poisonous bristle, And he felt in his heel a pain.

The hero fell on the field— MacDoon that had no deceit; He lay there beside the boar:— Now, there is the tale complete.

At this part of the relation another version adds that Diarmad, in asking several times for a drink at the hand of Finn, rehearsed how he served him “eastward and westward.” But the king replied that the ill he had done him in one hour outweighed all the good exploits he could tell. “Thou shalt yet get no drink from my shell.” Diarmad then addresses a melancholy farewell to Ben-Gulbin, the hill of his love, and to courtship. He keenly feels his sorrowful plight as his life-blood is ebbing away; and true to his character his last thoughts are, as he dies, of “the maids of the Féinn.” Finn then relents, and pronounces a regretful eulogy over the dead body of Diarmad. In the Dean’s version it is the bard himself that pronounces the praise of the dead, in verses which describe his person and character:—

Pierced to the heart he lies, MacDoon in the battle brave, The suffering son of the Féinn; On this hillock I see his grave.

The blue-eyed hawk of Essroy, The victor in every fight, Pierced by the poisonous bristle— There he lies on the height!

By the jealous design of Finn Fell the bright-souled MacDoon Redder his lips than the cherry, Whiter his breast than the sun.

His tresses flowed golden yellow; Long eyelash ’neath brow so fair; Blue and gray in his eye; Pretty and curled his hair.

Gentle and sweet in his speech Was that champion clothed with might; With elegant hands and a faultless form, And a skin of purest white.

Fair winner of women’s love, MacDoon of the witching eyes; In courtship he’ll ne’er engage, For there ’neath the sod he lies.

Nor with steed nor with hunter shall Diarmad Go forth for the chase again; The loved son of beauty and valour Is left there, alas, in the Glen!

The _Death of Diarmad_, like the _Death of Oscar_, has been a great favourite with reciters. But believers in the authenticity of Macpherson’s “Ossian” regard the former as inferior poetry. The author of the version translated above, Allan Macrorie, lived probably in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Glen-Shee, mentioned in the poem, is a well-known locality in Perthshire, and Ben-Gulbin is a hill in Glen-Shee. But this is not the only place that is said to be the scene of the slaying of the boar and of Diarmad’s death. The district around West Loch Tarbert, Kintyre, also affords topographical indications of the famous hunt having taken place there. Nor can the claims of our friends, the Irish, be forgotten; they also have their _Sliabh Gulbin_.

When some of the ballads are described as _Ossianic_ it is not to be understood that they were composed at the time that Ossian is supposed to have lived, but that the theme is Ossianic. Of this class is a eulogistic poem on Finn in the Book of the Dean of Lismore. Although written nearly 400 years ago it has yet a modern ring about it as compared with many of the other ballads. The earlier versions of these Ossianic ballads were composed probably in Pagan times, but as the Pagan reciters of them were dying off, the minstrels nominally Christian would take their place, and adapt the old ballads to the new state of things. The elder productions would be undergoing continual transformations in the hands of every new class of reciters. While the theme is the same, sometimes the versions are so different that no single verse in the one can be found in the other. It is in this manner that their chronology becomes a puzzle. Anachronisms abound. Ossian, who flourished upwards of two hundred years before, is introduced by the Christian and post-Ossianic reciters as holding converse with St. Patrick.

“Actor hujus Ossane M’Finn;” or _The Author of this is Ossian, the Son of Finn_, is prefixed to the poem of which I am now to give a translation. In the course of the ages, Ossian has had to accept the paternity of many productions; but people took this as a matter of course until the appearance of the celebrated works of James Macpherson 250 years after Sir James Macgregor prefixed Ossian’s name to this poem. The poetry of this piece is not of a very high order, but is interesting as giving the popular conceptions regarding Finn 400 years ago. It was probably composed by an ecclesiastic, the number of which class at the time in the Highlands was considerable. It begins thus:—

For twice three days and one great Finn I did not see; And ne’er before a week such sorrow brought to me. The son of Teigi’s daughter, king of deeds and might, My teacher and my strength, my guidance and my light. Both poet he and chief, a king my love commands; Finn, monarch of the Féinn, the lord of many lands. Leviathan at sea, a lion on the shore, Keen as the air-borne hawk, and wise in art and lore; He’s courteous and just, a ruler firm and true, Full polished in his ways, deceit he never knew. A lofty chief is he in song and in the fight, Resistless to the foe, to friends their fame and might. His skin is like the chalk, his cheek is like the rose, His eye transparent blue, his hair like gold down flows. The trust of all his men, with every charm of mind, Prepared for worthy deed, to women meek and kind. Great champion was he, loved son of field and flood, The brightness of the blades, the tree above each wood. Full generous was the king—good and rich wine he poured From the large green-hued bottle on the festive board.

We never read in the older ballads of such non-primitive things as bottles. _Am botul mor glas_, which the liberal Finn would place on the table, must have belonged to the fifteenth century. The good qualities of Finn are not yet exhausted.

Of noble mind and form and of a winning mien— His people’s Head—he walked with step so firm, serene. In Banva of the hills the fame of war he sought; There battles twice fifteen the royal Fingal fought. Assistance for the weak MacCuhail ne’er withheld, In heart and on his lips no falsehood ever dwelled. Finn never grudged his aid, his people ne’er oppressed— The King above all kings, the sun above the rest. In Erin of the saints before his mighty hand The monsters left the lakes, the serpents fled the land. I never could declare, though mine were endless days, I ne’er could tell one-third of his good deeds and praise.

It is rather curious to find the stereotyped “Erin of the Saints,” in a composition of the fifteenth century. While suggesting the ecclesiastical character of the author, it does not prove that he was a very zealous “saint” himself; for we find that he quietly ascribes to Finn exploits which the Irish ecclesiastical world has all along attributed to St. Patrick. “He cleared the lakes of monsters and the land of serpents.” As usual, Ossian himself is described as _an deigh na Féinne_:—

But sad am I, and Finn of the brave Fianna dead; With him, the princely chief, my pride and joy have fled. Well may my tears outpour, for no delight survives The princes and the chiefs and all their royal wives. I lean on death’s cold arm—I’m like the shaking reed; I’m like an empty nut—I seem a reinless steed. A feeble kern am I, with sorrow sore within— Ev’n Ossian I, the bard, the son of noble Finn.

In his forlorn state the bard now remembers the house and court of Finn, his royal father:—

Since Finn now reigns no more, all that I owned is gone— His house had seven sides—the house of Cuhal’s son; And seven score of shields did hang on every side; There fifty robes of wool had been the king beside— Fifty warriors filled the robes, who were the royal pride. There were ten bowls full bright for drink, where Finn did dine, Ten horns of gold, and ten blue flagons of good wine. How goodly was that house! how grand the home of Finn! Mean grudging hands, false lustful hearts, there ne’er had been. Each man had equal rights among the mighty Féinn; To emulate the King his followers were fain. He was our chief renowned so far, so nobly good, Who never to the meanest man was proud or rude. None empty left his house, good, generous was he; No gifts were e’er like his—gifts scattered wide and free.

In _Cnoc-an-air_, an Irish poem, there is a description of the treasures of the Finians, which were said to have been hidden under Loch _Lene_ (Killarney), that reminds us of the robes of wool in Finn’s house. The Irishman and the Highlander got the conception probably from the same source:—

This is the lake—the fiercest to be seen, That is under the sun truly; Many treasures belonging to the Fians, Are in it doubtless secured this night. There are in the northern side Fifty blue-green coats of mail; There are in the western side Fifty helmets in one pile!

And hundreds of swords, “broad” and “glittering,” and shields, and gold and raiment in plenty. The Scottish author, perhaps because his ideas were cast in a more ancient mould, was somewhat more modest in his description of Finian wealth.

THE NORSE BALLADS.

The Norse ballads constitute another class. The wars between the Féinn and the Lochlins are the theme of many of the ancient Ossianic ballads. It is impossible to say exactly to what age they severally belong. The Vikings, or sea-rovers, began their visits to the Western Isles and Ireland as early as the first century, and continued these visits for more than a thousand years. The name Viking has no connection with King being derived from vic, a bay—vicing, baysman—as Mr Robertson has clearly shown. The erroneous translation _sea-kings_ has been used by several writers. It is the same word as the Gaelic _Uig_, the name of places on the west sides of Skye and Lewis. In English it assumes the form of _Wick_—Inner_wick_. It also means a bay or creek in Gaelic, as found in the words of a poet, “_uigean saile_.” In 794 the Western Isles were ravaged and Iona destroyed. The monastery of Iona was burnt in 802 by these Vikings; and in 806 the family of Iona, sixty-eight in number, were slain. The abbot of Iona then retired to Kells, Ireland, and Iona ceased to be the centre of Gaelic learning, while all relics of Gaelic culture were removed to Dunkeld and other places.

The Gaelic people of Albin and Erin call the Danes and the Vikings Lochlins. The Vikings were originally half Celtic, if not altogether a Celtic race. Indeed the substrata of many of the Germanic tribes were originally Celtic.

The following ballad probably relates to the wars of the eleventh century:—

THE FINIAN BANNERS.

The Norland King stood on the height And scanned the rolling sea; He proudly eyed his gallant ships That rode triumphantly.

And then he looked where lay his camp, Along the rocky coast, And where were seen the heroes brave Of Lochlin’s famous host.

Then to the land he turn’d, and there A fierce-like hero came; Above him was a flag of gold, That waved and shone like flame.

“Sweet Bard,” thus spoke the Norland King, “What banner comes in sight? The valiant chief that leads the host, Who is that man of might?”

“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon His is that banner bright; When forth the Féinn to battle go, He’s foremost in the fight.”

“Sweet bard, another comes; I see A blood-red banner toss’d Above a mighty hero’s head Who waves it o’er a host?”

“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs To good and valiant Rayne; Beneath it feet are bathed in blood And heads are cleft in twain.”

“Sweet bard, what banner now I see A leader fierce and strong Behind it moves with heroes brave Who furious round him throng?”

“That is the banner of Great Gaul: That silken shred of gold, Is first to march and last to turn, And flight ne’er stained its fold.”

“Sweet bard, another now I see, High o’er a host it glows, Tell whether it has ever shone O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”

“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he, “It proudly peers in sight; It won its fame on many a field In fierce and bloody fight.”

“Sweet bard, another still I see; A host it flutters o’er; Like bird above the roaring surge That laves the storm-swept shore.”

“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard, “Young Oscar’s banner, see: Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs The proudest name has he.”

The banner of great Finn we raised; The Sunbeam gleaming far, With golden spangles of renown From many a field of war.

The flag was fastened to its staff With nine strong chains of gold. With nine times nine chiefs for each chain; Before it foes oft rolled.

“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Finn; “And show your deeds of might To Lochlin as you did before In many a gory fight.”

Like torrents from the mountain heights That roll resistless on; So down upon the foe we rushed, And brilliant victory won.

The above set of verses occur in several ballads with considerable variations. It was a sort of national war-song among the Finian leaders in their frequent conflicts with the Norwegians. In the translation several verses are taken from different sources.

Heroic daring and deeds are ascribed by the bard to each of the warrior-chieftains. Brown Diarmad MacDoon is foremost in the fight; the valiant Rayne leaves cloven heads behind him; great Gaul is ever the first to fight, and never turns his back on the foe; Cailte has won his fame on many a field; Oscar bears the proudest name of all the chiefs; and, finally, Finn himself comes before us, his banner, Deo-greine (Sunbeam), gleaming with its spangles of fame over that heroic band, whom he now invites to sweep down on the Lochlins.

The specimens now given of the ancient ballad poetry of the Gael will be sufficient to indicate its character and style. It only remains now to mention in connection with the heroic ballads the names of a few more of the better known ones.

There is a very fine ballad on the death of _Dearg_ or Dargo. Others are the Expeditions or _Imeachd_ of Finn, of _Naoinear_, or Nine, &c., and the Great Distress of the Fingalians—_Teantachd Mor na Féinne_. A Norwegian _Hag_ is the theme of a good deal of composition, while the _Invasion of Magnus_ or _Manus_ is a ballad of considerable length and interest. This was probably the celebrated Magnus Barefoot, so well-known in the Hebrides, and throughout the north-west. From the Orkneys to the Isle of Man and Ireland, along the west coast of Scotland, the Lochlins traversed the seas for centuries and held rule; and well did they and the Highlanders know one another.

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