THE BOOK OF THE DEAN OF LISMORE. (continued 2)

The author of this is Duncan Mor from Lennox. [155] Pity the man who lost his voice, When he is called on to recite, Who cannot speak so fast as needs be, And yet’s unwilling to give up. Who cannot sing an air or tune, And cannot well recite a lay. Who cannot put aside his harp, Yet cannot sing as he would wish. Pity him ever with his “dring, drang,” Trying his verses to recite, When men can neither hear his harp, Nor understand the songs he sings. Pity the man neglects his health, And strives not his vigour to retain. Pity the man who ever strives To have the fruit he cannot reach. Were I to wish to have such fruit, Fruit which I could not reach on high, I’d cut the tree down at the root, Let men be angry if they will. Pity.

The author of this is Gilchrist Taylor. [156] Bless, O Trinity, thy household, King of heaven, place of jewels; Black thy family was not formed, All by thyself in wisdom made. By thee ’twas Adam’s race was shaped The cheek like berries richly red; Thou who blessest place and people Curse them that ’gainst thee fierce contend. There is a pack of cruel hounds, Who the king’s children sorely grieve; I hear the baying of these dogs, Every glen is full of it. Such as war on Adam’s race, Since that they cannot silence keep, Joined together in their evil, Powers of the king of light them smite; Such as war on Adam’s race, Of crafty Lucifer the slaves, Give them no rest, to them give none, King of lights do thou them burn. Mounted on two ugly steeds, When vicious packs abound the most, They furiously commence the hunt, Belching out death on every side. Curse thou their hunt and devastation, Their two steeds so black in hue; Lay them, their backs stretched on the turf, Scatter the heads of this black band. There is a band of cruel hounds Harbouring at Inch Ald Art, They’re horrid brutes, Thou God forsake them, Let bags out of their skins be made. Though many be the skins of wolves, Covering our harps, both small and great, The cold and empty skulls are many, Given us by these fierce hounds. Father of Christ, with speed them strike From Lochaber to Raon Fraoich, Soon let the plague their bodies waste; ’Tis sad that thus I have to speak. Though no reparation for a true hound, For Robert’s son[157] of clustering locks. From Loch Venachar of rich glens, Many’s the ugly head laid low. Though from Ben Gulbin’s sunny side, Many the dogs to Tummel’s stream, Who know to hunt along its side, The eye of Christ is on them all. ’Twas told me when at Inverness, That greyhounds were scattering the pack. Pity the man who’s seized with fear, ’Tis like the falling sickness, sore. Pleasing to witness hounds pursue, Them who would slay the fine grey steeds. May God’s Son with His holy power, Destroy all surly cruel hounds. Smoke every den in Schiehallion, John Stewart of the bounding steeds, Ere I must call a sweet-voiced pack This litter of ugly, snarling curs. By Garry of John Stewart of the white steed, No antlers are seen without the head, While ’mongst the rocky rugged woods, Are seen the grey-skinned pack of hounds. Bless.

The author of this is Gilliecallum Mac an Olla. [158] There is no joy without the clan Donald, No battle when they are awanting; First of the clans in all the earth, Each man of them is a hundred. The noblest clan which you can find, A race as brave as they are peaceful; The clan whose praise does fill the lands, Famed for their faith and godliness. The clan so faithful, bold, and brave, The clan so swift amidst the fight, The clan so gentle among men, And yet in battle none so fierce; The clan most numerous of all Whose number has been ever known. The clan which never vexed the Church, And ever dreaded its reproach. Of all that dwell in Albin green, This is the bravest e’er baptized. The third of every land is theirs, Their bravery is like the falcon’s. The clan most numerous and famous, Of finest form and fairest mould; The clan that has the largest hearts, Most patient and most liberal. They, sons of kings, deserved no gibe When asked in trouble to give help. Noble were they since the time When there was giving and poor ones. The clan for wine and shelter best, The first in prowess and in strength. ’Tis sad how short the length extends Given by him who spins your thread. They were not wicked and rough, Nor were they gentle and weak. In midst of trial and hardships, Not harder than them was the rock. The clan without pride or misdeeds, When the spoil of battle is theirs. ’Mongst them you’d find gentlemen, And common people with them. Pity him who has lost their defence, Pity him who forsakes their protection. There is no clan like the clan Donald, The noble clan of firmest mind. Who is there can number their gifts? Who is there can count their nobles? Without limit, commencement or close, Of excellencies among their gentry. First of all with the clan Donald, There is knowledge which they learn; Last of all, there is among them Polish, generosity, and modesty. ’Tis in sorrow and in grief Understanding and learning are got, By him who them would have. No joy without the clan Donald. Loud was the sound of their thunder, This race so wise and faithful, Though now they be reproached, There is no joy without the clan Donald. This people so great in fame, In courtesy, mind, and firmness, There is no right without them, There is no joy without the clan Donald. The son of his virgin mother, Who hath earned for us freedom from pain, Though he be faithful and true, There is no joy without the clan Donald. There is no joy. Alas! alas! this is the head[159] Which belonged to the blue-armed Conull; The head where understanding was found, Noble it was and most lovely. Alas! alas! this is the eye That dwelt in generous Conull’s head; Round which the eyelid wound, Benevolent it was and manful. Alas! alas! this is the mouth In which no bard did folly find; Its lips so thin, like apples red, Sweet as honey the mouth of Conull. Alas! alas! this is the hand That Conull Mac Scanlan owned; The hand of him so brave in battle, The hand of Conull my first beloved. Alas! alas! this is the side By which our noble side we laid; It was a hound from Mull that came, John did lie upon his side. Alas! alas! this is the foot Which ne’er before a warrior fled; The foot of him in fight most brave, The foot of the shielded son of Scanlan. Alas! success e’er followed Conull, Where’er it was he battle fought; But now that my tale is done, This place is the dwelling of tears. Alas!

The author of this is John of Knoydart. [160] Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre,[161] Though great be thy trouble and pain, I grudge thee not all thou hast suffered, Although it be painful to tell. I grudge not though thy ragged locks Be searched by the winds from the glens. I grudge thee not that thou art bound, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Pity the thought e’er filled men’s breasts, That thy friendship was not hatred; Pity, alas! thou turn’dst not back, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Thou hast the King of Isla slain, Who freely gave his wine and money, Him of the soft and flowing locks, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre; Isla, king of well filled horns, Who with his friends so kindly dealt; Alas! who gashed his soft white skin, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre! Beloved was that liberal hand, Which never grudged his gold or silver, And which in feast or hunt was first, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. It is my prayer to th’ Apostles’ King, He who preserves by His great power, That He from pain may him e’er keep, Thou head of Diarmad O’Cairbre. Thou head.

The author of this is Gormlay, daughter of Flann. [162] Melancholy earth upon the breast of Nial, Melancholy its depth upon his grave; Neither nobility nor fame can save, Since that the King of the North is dead. Whose back is turned upon this joyful world, Now that his death-wound he received. He from the noble race of Nial is traced, The men who proudly governed all this land. I, the gentle, kind, Mac Cuilenan,[163] did leave, With Muireagan mòr I also joyful lived. With Nial I spent a truly happy life; Bright was my honour as with him I drunk, Of feasts and wine I could abundance have; My gold I freely gave the church. If any there be who heaven reach, How could Nial be without heaven? Never have I seen one like Nial. Fair was he all except the knee, Great were his beauty and his fame, Soft were his locks, and grey his eye. Wrath grew upon the mighty deep, The wind in strength blew from the east,[164] Nial then bent him on his knee, Stronger it blew and without fail; It suffered no happiness nor peace. The wind never ceased its sound, Neither fort nor tree was spared, Since that the courteous king is dead. Since Nial[165] Aidh’s son died yesterday, Numbers on numbers sorely mourn; And though cups and horns are filled, Sore is the blow to Conn’s great race. Without him prosperity is joyless, His form my heart with sorrow fills, That I’m till judgment left behind, Is that which fills my heart with grief. Melancholy.

Gormlay, daughter of Flann. [166] Monk, remove thy foot, Lift it off the grave of Nial. Too long dost thou heap the earth On him with whom I fain would lie; Too long dost thou, Monk, there Heap the earth on noble Nial. Thou brown-haired friend, though gentle, Press not with thy sole the earth. Do not firmly close the grave, O Priest, whose office is so sad. Raise off the fair, black-kneed Nial, Monk, remove thy foot. Mac O’Nial of finest gold, ’Tis not of my will thou’rt bound.[167] Leave his stone and his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. I am Gormlay, who order keeps, Daughter I of Flann the bold; Stand not thou upon his grave, Monk, remove thy foot. Monk. Wounded thou hast been, great man,[168] Whate’er the men were thou hast met; Though thou art truly sad and sick, ’Tis joy to us that thou’st got fame. Ten hundred ships from Greece of the Gael, While of them only three were noble, Thou didst attack with sharp-edged arms, Sore was the strife while life did last; That people with their many spears; They live not now who were so pure, Thy six nobles at last they slew, Many their bold deeds at thy side. That of thy wounds thou may’st be healed, I pray for thee, pray thou thyself, To Mary, the mother of the poor, My Pater and my Creed’s for thee. Wounded.

The author of this is Phelim M’Dougall. [169] ’Tis not good to travel on Sunday, Whoever the Sabbath would keep; Not good to be of ill-famed race; Not good is a dirty woman; Not good to write without learning; Not good are grapes when sour; Not good is an Earl without English; Not good is a sailor, if old; Not good is a bishop without warrant; Not good is a blemish on an elder; Not good a priest with but one eye; Not good a parson, if a beggar; Not good is a palace without play; Not good is a handmaid if she’s slow; Not good is a lord without a dwelling; Not good is a temple without a burying ground; Not good is a woman without shame; Not good is a harper without a string; Not good is fighting without courage; Not good is entering a port without a pilot; Not good is a maiden who backbites; Not good is the poverty of a debtor; Not good is a castle without an heir; Not good is neglecting the household dogs; Not good is disrespect to a father; Not good is the talk of the drunken; Not good is a knife without an edge; Not good is injustice in judging; Not good is the friendship of devils For thy son, oh Virgin most honoured; Though he has saved the seed of Adam, Not good for himself was the cross. Not good is a reader without understanding; Not good for a man to want a friend; Not good is a poet without a subject; Not good is a tower without a hall; Not good is a web without fulling; Not good is sport without laughter; Not good are misdeeds when prosperous; Not good is marriage without consent; Not good is a crown without supremacy; Not good is ploughing by night; Not good is learning without courtesy; Not good is religion without knowledge. Not good. I myself, Robert, went[170] Yesterday to a monastery, And I was not allowed in, Because my wife was not with me. I dislike to journey for a year;[171] I dislike the table where a woman sits; I dislike sorrow and sadness; I dislike a great house without joy; I dislike seeing a good man with a bad wife; I dislike a frown upon a prince’s face; I dislike weak drink at a high price; I dislike a noble without courtesy; I dislike war when it is peace, When nothing is allowed to pass; I dislike a rough and cruel chief; I dislike the men who cannot fight; I dislike being long at a tune; I dislike the men who grudge me food; I dislike a jealous woman if unchaste; I dislike the dog who cannot kill a stag; I’m loath to go to Erin in the west, Now that Brian of the tunes is dead; I dislike a widow who is not cheerful; I dislike the man of melancholy mind; I dislike an ill-favoured old woman, Whose tongue is sharp and rapid too; I cannot tell to any man All the things that I dislike. I dislike.

Earl Gerald.[172] Pity the man who overleaps his horse; Let him that likes, my meaning understand, That from myself my means have taken flight; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. May my curse ’mongst women rest, Although for a time I mixed with them; As for men who still are single, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. That man who early is on foot, Cannot but many evils find; Were I to tell what I have seen, ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The man who has got a useless wife, Cannot do much before the foe, The first milch cows that bellow loud; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. The wife who listens to my speech, Who listens to my voice and cry, Just as if wax were in her ears; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Her husband she to wrath provokes, Different her manner with all else, For them she lightly steps about; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Were she to see a weeping eye, With any youth of handsome form, To him she would not run but leap; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Where is the young and sprightly maid, Who would not quietly give her kiss, To any lips that she might meet? ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. Though married from th’ altar and the church, From the good priest’s worthy hand, Still are her way and temper bad; ’Tis best to have nought to do with women. ’Tis best to have nought to do with women, Wrath and annoyance they provoke; He who does not this proclaim Is sure to find a woe himself. Pity.

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

The author of this is the Bard M’Intyre. [173] What is this ship on Loch Inch,[174] Of which we now may speak? What brought this ship on the loch, Which songs cannot o’erlook? I would like much to ask, Who was it brought that ship, Afloat upon that angry loch, Where changes often come? The fierce wind from the hills, And bitter storms from the glens, Oft has the vessel from the shore, Stolen upon the dangerous sea. Stranger, who sawest the ship, On the rough and angry stream, What should hinder thee to tell About her and about her crew? An old ship without iron or stern, Never have we seen her like, The vessel all with leather patched, Not even beneath the waves is’t tight. Her boards are trifling bits of deals, Black patches down along her sides, Useless nails to fix them on Upon her scanty, stinted ribs. What woman cargo is in the black ship Pulling her on betwixt the waves, The cargo heartless and senseless too? Widows of a foolish mind, A boasting, talkative crew, A load vexatious and bad, Quarrelsome and covetous, Of evil minds and evil deeds. Their ways and conversation bad, A band of well-known fame, No substance in what they say, Drunken, singing, with levity, A band ill-shapen, mischievous, Who live by both sides of Loch Inch. In spite of thee and of their ship On the stormy sea’s dun face, No good woman could take that ship, However pressing the constraint. The worst of women go to sea, Others cannot give them help. Let this ship be driven from the loch, Down to the fierce and roaring deep, Let the wind pursue the ship, To the old point of Seananach. There will I leave upon the stream, The ill-favoured, ill-doing ship, Of wicked widows full on the sea, Without a psalm or creed e’er said, What. The fame of the house of Dunolly, little favour where they drive a herd.[175] This brute is much like a dog, greedy aye for stolen flesh.

The author of this is John M’Murrich. [176] Sad to me’s my fate, Though men don’t understand, Suffer not, Son of God, Me to have pain to-day. Little thought the school That such should be my fate, The fate which me o’ertook, ’Tis it has me destroyed. The pain in it I have, Is threefold what I’ve felt, The trouble I have found Is weighted with a stone. For her who caused my grief, My wrath and rage are great. Her skin like froth of waves, Ruddy and soft her hand, Her lips like berries red, My soul she gently seized. Since I slept last night, Sad indeed my state. I thought she was beside me, That I saw her smile. She’s not been since the day, When began my grief. She of curling locks, And colour richly red, Five jewels in a knot, In the maiden’s name. Pity she’s not with me, And others have her not. That I myself might get For evermore that friend. Were I to suffer from, What other men have felt, The spear of great Cuchullin, The horse of white-steed Teague, The purple shield unbroken, Famous all in war; The speed of Mac Erc’s coursers, Though much it is to say, Alas, more sad for me The trouble I endure.

Duncan M’Pherson.[177] Alexander, hast thou left thy sadness, Or is it so that thou canst not? Hast thou without God passed another year, Or dost thou mean to live thus ever? Hast thou not found thy God, Now that thou’rt aged and grey? If sadness be prosperity, Rich are the gifts thou’st got from God. Four men met at the grave,[178] The grave of Alexander the great; They spoke the words of truth, Over the hero of Greece the fair. The first man of them said, “There were yesterday with the king, The world’s great hosts, sad the tale, Though to-day he lonely lies.” “Yesterday the world’s great king Proudly rode upon the earth; But to-day it is the earth That rides upon the top of him.” Then did the third wise speaker say, “Yesterday Philip’s son owned the world; But to-day he only owns Of it all not seven feet.” “Alexander, brave and great, Who won and treasured gold and silver, To-day,” the fourth man wisely said, “The gold it is that treasures him.” The palm among trees was Philip’s son, The moon among the lesser stars, As gold above the finest gems, As among fish leviathan. The lion amidst carrion, The eagle among other birds, As Sion hill amidst the hills, As Jordan amidst other streams. The polished gem ’mongst common stones, The sea amidst all lesser streams, Noble was the fearless man, The man above all other men. The man above all other men, Save heaven’s great and holy King. King he was of herds and boars, Ruler of hosts and heroes too. True was the talk these speakers had, As at the great king’s grave they met. Unlike to women’s empty talk, Were the sayings of the four. Four.

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

Finlay, the red-haired bard, said this. [180] Gael-like is every leap of the dun horse, A Gael she is in truth. It is she who conquers and wins, In all that I’ll now sing. The praise of speed to her limbs, In every fierce assault. Marked, and famous her strength, While quiet at the house of prayer. The birds are they who could, Strive with her in the race. Not false is the fame of that horse, The steed both sturdy and swift, Liker she was to Duseivlin,[181] Than to the beast of Lamacha.[182] They who would view her size and triumphs, Can nowhere find her match. Just like the wheeling of the mountain winds, Is the action of the prancing steed. Hundreds admire her paces, Like one in frenzy passing. Like the point of an arrow this horse, Famous are all her doings. Bands of the great witness her course, As with speed she rushes. Though far before her stands the groom, No blunderer is her rider. Few are the words would tell her praise, Like birds on wing her movements. Her triumphs and paces the same, Whether ’mong rocks or bogs she moves. Before that horse all men do fear, When she comes in the trappings of war. In the troop, the hunt, or the conflict, That horse a noble horse is. That horse is all full of spirit, As fameworthy she follows the banner. That wave-like steed, hardy and keen, Will win for her rider the praise of men. Forth from her stall she takes the lead, That gentle, great, and active horse. She will triumph in speed and slaughter, Till that the day in evening sinks. Ready to treasure the girdle of gold,[183] The field with violence shakes. Startling, rounded, bright, well shod, Gentle, broad-backed, coloured well. A horse of such great fame as this, I long had heard that they possessed. Where was ever found her match, Not he, the beast of Lamacha. Mac Gregor ’s the master of that horse, Prince of the house to poets free. From Banva men do come to praise, To Albion they do come to seek, The man who robs from the Saxon, And e’er puts his trust in the Gael.

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

The author of this is Duncan Mac Cailein, the good knight. [187] Who is now chief of the beggars, Since the famous man is dead? Tears flow fast for the man, For beggary has lost its strength. The orphan is in a piteous case, Beggary’s gone since Lachlan’s death. In every homestead this is sad, That beggary should want for knowledge. If he be dead, I’ve never heard, Of one that could compare with Lachlan, Since God created man at first; It is a source of bitter grief, That without mother or a father, Poor beggary should be so weak. Since that Bretin’s son is dead, Why should I not mourn his loss? There is no man now on earth Who can beg as he could do. Since Lachlan the importunate’s dead, Great’s the grief that is in Erin. Who will now beg a little purse? Who will even beg a needle? Who will beg a worthless coin? Since that rough-palmed Lachlan’s dead. Who will beg a pair of brogues, And then will beg a pair of buckles? Who will beg a shoulder plaid? Whose begging now will give us sport? Who will beg soles for his shoes? Who will ask a peacock’s feather? Who will beg an eye for his belt? Who will mix in any mischief? Who will beg an old felt hat? Who will beg a book to read? Who will beg an early meal? Who is it wears arms with his dress? Who will beg for boots and spurs? Who is it will beg for bristles? Who will beg for sids and meal? Who will beg a sheaf of rye? Who will ask a sporran spoon? Who will gather without shame? Since Lachlan the hero is dead. Who will now afford us sport? Who will beg for maidens’ shifts, Since old shoe’d Lachlan is dead? Sad the fate that he should die, Who will ask men for a rullion? Who will steal the servant’s feather, And who is it can’t tell the truth? Who likes to travel in a boat, And likes his old friends to visit? Who will beg the hen with her eggs? Who will beg a brood of chickens? Who will ask the hen’s overplus, After a handful of money? Who will beg a headless pin? Who can read as he can do? That Lachlan should leave no heir, Is that which mournful makes his death. Who will beg for a hook and line? Who will seek for open doors? Who will beg for unboiled rennet? Who will beg for anything? Who won’t give a penny to the poor, And yet e’en from the naked begs? Who would oppress the very child, And is cruel to the infant? Who would beg for wool and butter, That they may have it, after Lachlan? Who would beg a woman’s collar? Who is it likes a dirty heap? Who would beg from young women, From little dogs and weasels? Who would take the fire from an infant? Who would steal e’en the dead? Who is sick when he is well? Who on his gruel begs for butter? More sad for me than this man’s death, Is that he has left no heir. For fear that beggary should die, And none be found to keep it up. Do not ye forget the man, Men of the earth, do ye, Each of you for himself make rhymes, My malison on him that won’t. If Lachlan died on Monday last, Every man will joyful be. Sad it is that for his death, None there is who will lament. Who is now.

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

The author of this is Duncan M’Cabe. [188] M’Dougall of bright armour, A noble chief’s thy famous son, All that I think is true Of thy fair-formed, prudent child. ’T were better that thy fair head Were now exposed than mine, kind friend. Duncan Carrach[189] is his name, A name that triumphed ever. Duncan of bravest deeds, Remember thy first honoured name; Son of Allan,[190] do not merit, Reproach thy race did ne’er deserve. Since now that thou art so well known, With every reason to esteem thee, To thee is given the foremost place, Since thou the favourite art of all. True it is thou art indeed The man to take the richest spoil. Like a bull that’s fierce for fight, ’Tis thus thou goest to make war. ’Tis thou who traversest Cruachan,[191] Casting thy spear beneath its knolls. Thy fame is as that of the leopard, Thou art Duncan of Durinis. Thou quellest quick thy foe, Thou stainest both hands with blood. Thou cheerest us when we are weary, Thou art the source of all our joy. He is the man whom ’tis easiest In song like mine to praise, Which among heroes I compose,— The generous dragon of Connal.[192] Other fame belongs to him, The art that is in his gun. The bravery and skill of Erin Bound firmly up in all his blows. Whatever skill a king’s son has, That he has, with no defect. The purest speech has come to him, This will in thy son be found. Now I see thee raise the tax, Truly out of every homestead, Noble king of bravest deeds, Descendant of that martial race. Macdougall.

The author of this is John M’Ewen M’Eacharn. [193] A mournful cry amongst Conn’s[194] race, Heavy indeed is now their loss; As every one now follows John, Silent they can’t be at his grave. What grief did ever them o’ertake, The race of Conn ne’er honour lost. For John each man does weep, Necessity leads us to his grave; Sad is the land because of thy death, Son of the noble race from Allan. Great is our grief as thee we mourn, Few are the men that shed not tears. Sorely has it touched us all, Grievous the tale that John is dead. Tidings from the Dun went through the land, The stranger now does o’er us rule. Changeful the world down till John’s death, Now they rise not to the fray; Since then indeed thy race is sad, This grief now has them sorely wounded. ’Tis grief to them that thou art thus, Clan Dougall mourn for their great chief; The conflict of their grief is long, The tale which now is told is grievous; Thou messenger who brought the news, God made thee messenger of evil; Ere men thy tidings did recite, Pity they had not lost their ears. The abundance of my racking grief Has almost my eyesight ta’en away; No feeble mourning is’t for John, Tears for him I cannot shed; Mourning for our buried prince, The death of Macdougall of Dunolly. His was the form of Conn’s great race, Like a nut kernel, fair and rounded; His death has been a grievous breach, The very waves sing his lament. Above the beach,[195] since John has died, No ceasing is there of men’s sorrow; Men speak not even now of joy, Since that this grief has on them seized; Bitter sorrow has them filled, No word of sport, of music none; That way is called the sacred way, That from the beach leads to the grave. So do men thus mourn their loss, And women too, who loved thee well. Shall I from thy soft locks have honour? In place of it I have but ruin. I mourn as on thy grave I stand, All I see makes me lament; Women will not leave thy grave, So truly heavy is their sorrow. Raise up a tomb for our fair prince, Let it be wide as Cruachan’s cell, That men may see by what they do, How heavily on them weighs their grief. The clan with weeping do thee mourn, Their soul is sad, they cannot sleep. Dougall’s race before thy death, Never did fear the face of foe. Chieftain, thy death has come on them, ’Twould be no boast to rule them now. Not few the women at John’s grave, Pouring their tears from day to day; Of women bands even by night, With bare heads gathering on the plain; No wonder is’t that they should mourn, Because of John of brightest fame. No day can pass but hearts are full Of this sad tale, that wakes our mourning. I care not though’t be thus with them, Though they should feel what I don’t like; Thy death for us is ill to bear, Sore the state to which it brings us; I stand amidst the gloom of death, No word is there of wonted song; My heart is truly rent in twain, As we speak of his departure; Never were we thus before, That it is grief to ask, how fares he; ’Tis cause of sorrow that he is absent, I mourn that he is no more with us; Now that he sleeps in his cold grave, ’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell; They cannot cease from shedding tears, Castle and cottage both in sorrow; The rising tide has swept o’er hills, So for John do mourn his comrades; Yet there’s no heaving of the sea, Not of the boisterous sea at Connal;[196] For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn, In all the borders of clan Dougall; The land for thee does seem to weep, Loud is the cry, with much distress, From the musicians of Dougall’s race, The learned men, and leading bards. On John’s grave lies a heavy stone, ’Tis grief to me to tell the story; Far otherwise than Neil[197] would wish, Does every scandal now appear; Have they no care to see his grave, Since that John has overcome them? The race of Conn are now but few, Since death has ta’en away Macdougall; No pleasure in the violin’s sounds, Nor writing poetry without him; Poetry brings no honour now, Since death has seized the son of Mary; Few are the mouths that now can tell, How commanding is her privilege, Now that on their backs are laid, Both the heads of the clan Dougall; That John’s great power I do not find Soon after losing John his father; May God preserve thy noble nature, Who wisdom learned from thy Isla[198] teacher; Horses can’t insure a triumph, Men must leave them, and depart; After the three, our loss is great, My heart, in truth, can find no comfort; Mournful in youth to see such loss, Death has seized two Johns and Alexander;[199] Alexander, whom no restraint could bind, That I of him should also tell; Thy breast was stout to the rushing wave, Thy body now! alas my sorrow; Never do ye seek again That John’s young heir should go to battle; That he should stand ’midst battle’s storm, Lest soon he come to his long grave.

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

The author of this is Eafric M’Corqudale. [201] Jewel,[202] who has roused my grief, Beloved hast thou been of me, Beloved that joyous, generous heart, Which thou hadst until this night. Thy death has filled me with grief, The hand round which I lived so long, That I hear not of its strength, And that I saw it not depart; That joyful mouth of softest sounds, Well was it known in every land. Lion of Mull, with its white towers, Hawk of Isla, with its smooth plains, Shrewdest of all the men we knew, Whom guest ne’er left without a gift. Prince of good men, gentle, kind, Whose mien was that of a king’s son, Guests came to thee from Dunanoir,[203] Guests from the Boyne[204] for lordly gifts. Truth it is they often came, Not oftener than gave thee joy. Shapely falcon of Sliabh Gael,[205] Protection to the bards thou gav’st, Dragon of Lewis of sandy slopes, Glad as the whisper of a stream; The loss of but a single man Has left me lonely, now he’s gone. No sport, no pleasing song, No joy, nor pleasure in the feast; No man whom I can now love, Of Nial’s race down from Nial òg;[206] Among our women there’s no joy, Our men no pleasure have in sport, Just like the winds when it is calm, So without music is Dun Sween.[207] See the palace of a generous race, Vengeance is taken on clan Neil, The cause of many a boastful song, And will till they lay us in the grave; And now ’tis hard to bear, alas! That we should lose on every side. Didst thou, son of Adam, crush Any cluster of three nuts, It is to him thou lovest most The largest third of them thou’dst give. Thus of their husk the topmost nut, Does to clan Neil, ungrudged, belong. The bountiful have often poured Their gifts on the dwelling of clan Neil. The prince, who was the last of all, Is he who me with gloom has filled. In half my purpose I have failed, Jewel, who has roused my grief. Broken my heart is in my breast, And so ’t will be until I die; Left by that black and noble eyelid, Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Mary, mother, foster-mother of the king, Protect thou me from every shaft; And thou, her Son, who all things mad’st. Jewel, who hast roused my grief. Jewel.

The author of this is Dougall Mac Gille glas. [208] Bold as a prince is John[209] in each gathering, ’Twere long to sing his race’s glory; Of this there is no doubt ’mong men, That he is the first of the race of kings. Mac Gregor of the bravest deeds, Is the boldest chief in any land; Between his gold and Saxons’ spoil, Well may he live in ease and peace. Choice for courage of the Grecian Gael, Whose meed of praise shall ne’er decay, Abounding in charity and love, Known in the lands of the race of kings.[210] White-toothed falcon of the three glens,[211] With whom we read the bravest deeds, The boldest arm ’midst fight of clans, Best of the chiefs from the race of kings. When on Mac Phadrick of ruddy cheeks, Wrath in battle’s hour awaked, The men who with him share the fight Are never safe amidst its blows. Grandson to Malcom of bright eyes, Whom none could leave but felt their loss, The generous, gentle, shapely youth, The readiest hand when aught’s to do. The race of Gregor stand round John, Not as a weak one is their blow; The famous race without a fault, Round him like a fence they stand. Clan Gregor who show no fear, Even when with the king they strive, Though brave Gael may be the foe, That they count of little weight. Gael or Saxon are the same, To these brave men of kingly race, Sons of Gregor bold in fight, Bend not before the fiercest foe. Prince[212] of the host of generous men, To Gregor of golden bridles, heir, Pity the men whom you may spoil, Worse for them who you pursue. Chief of Glen Lyon of the blades, Shield and benefactor of the Church, His arm like Oscar’s in the fight, To whom in all things he is like. Kindness mantles on his red cheek, Thy praise he justly wins, ungrudged; Benevolence when to men he shows, Horses and gold he freely gives. Mac Gregor of the noble race, No wonder though bards should fill thy court; To his white breast there is no match, But he so famous ’mong the Feinn. Three fair watches him surround, Never as captives were his men; His arm in battle’s struggle strong, Well did he love to hunt the deer. In mien and manners he was like The king who ruled amongst the Feinn. Mac Gregor of the spoils, his fortune such That choicest men do covet it. Good and gentle is his blue eye, He’s like Mac Cumhail of liberal horn, Like when giving us his gold, Like when bestowing gifts on bards, Like in wooing or in hunt, To the Cu Caird[213] among the Feinn. Fortune attends the race of kings, Their fame and wisdom both are great, Their bounty, prudence, charity, Are knit to them, the race of kings, Wine and wax and honey, These, with the stag-hunt, their delight. Famous the actions of John’s clan, Like to the sons of the Fenian king; John himself was like to Finn, First and chief ’mongst all his men. Though many sought to have Finn’s power, ’Mongst those who fought against the Feinn, On Patrick’s son fortune attends, His enemies he has overcome. Mac Gregor who destroys is he, Bountiful friend of Church and bards. Of handsome form, of women loved, He of Glenstray of generous men. Easy ’tis to speak of John, His praise to raise loud in the song, Giving his horses and his gold, Just as a king should freely give. King of Heaven, Mary virgin, Keep me as I should be kept; To the great city fearless me bring Where dwells the Father of the king. Bold. Fond[214] are men of being high-born, Whatever their wealth may be; Great scorn of the illegitimate, Who seek to approach the king. Hear me, though ye may mock, Ye race of commons and gentles, The number of famous chiefs, Who go to make up my fame. I’m of the blood of clan Dougal, A race of unquestioned right; But brave and bold though they be, ’Tis not of them I’ve my all. My kinsman is Mac Chailein, Who freely gives gold to the bards; Why should I be sorrowful, My native place is in Earla.[215] My native place is in Earla, Clan Donald lie off to the west; My dwelling is with clan Gillean, The men who in battle can fight. Mac Phee of Colonsay, No stranger is he to my race, And Mac Niel of Barray, Of pure and gentle descent. Mac Nee I also remember, And also the powerful Mac Sween, Clan Leod and clan Ranald, Chiefs from whom I descend. Cattanachs and Mac Intoshes, They too are among my friends; The Camerons and clan Gregor, The men from Breadalbane who come. Stewarts, though widely they be Scattered throughout the whole earth, Old, certain, swift-footed the tale, That of them was my father’s grandmother. In Balquhidder and Breadalbane, My friends are numerous found; Kindly men in bringing aid, These are my kindred true. Clan Lauchlan and clan Lamond, Clan Neil, who learn feats of war; Friends of mine are clan Tavish, ’Midst their green hills and their braes. These little vigorous men, Who dwell in the straths of the land, I visit M’Dougal of Craignish, I’ve a friend besides in Mac Ivor. Gillean who has come from Mull, Woman from the race of mariners, Never did compass the earth, The man whom she did not attract. Faithful and steadfast friend, Chief who was kind to Maol Donich, In the liking which this man has, No man more favour could get. Fond.

The author of this is the Baron Ewen M’Omie. [216] Long do I feel my lying here, My health to me is a stranger; Fain would I pay my health’s full price, Were mine the numerous spoils. A spoil of white-haired, heavy cows, A spoil of cows for drink or feasting, I’d give besides the heavy bull, If for my cure I had the price. The herds and flocks of Mannanan,[217] The sword and horn of Mac Cumhail, The trumpet of Manallan[218] I’d give, And the quiver of Cuchullin, Ir, Evir, and Eireamon,[219] And were I to possess them, The harp of Curcheoil,[220] which hid men’s grief, The shield of the King of Golnor.[221] Lomond’s[222] ship of greatest fame, Had I it upon the strand, All I’ve seen I’d freely give, Ere as now I’d long remain. Long to me appears the coming Of Alexander Mac Intosh, That my disease he might drive away, And thus I might no longer lie. Long.

No Author. [223] For the race of Gael, from the land of Greece There is no place where they can rest; Doubtless thou would’st much prefer To raise the Gaelic race on high. Now that thou risest ’gainst the Saxon, Let not thy rising be a soft one; Have your swords with sharpened blades, Let your spears stand by your sides, Let us not forsake our country, Let us fiercely, bravely fight. It is said by the Gael of Banva,[224] Our fathers did the tale repeat, And I have heard there was a time, Long ago, that Innis Aingin[225] Was ruled by the Fomorian[226] race, Who raised from it a heavy tax. Thus for a while the Saxons have Our country burdened heavily; And now each clan is full of fear, And we are plunged in grievous doubt. But now that a gathering’s begun, There’s need that chiefs should rouse them up; For with them, ’tis my opinion, We will share a common fate. Who is the man, whom we can tell, Will from the Saxon save the Gael? Who in our day has won much fame, And whose house is truly noble? Know a man, were he but willing, Of whom we readily might tell, His power in Banva widely known, Men all bound with him to gather. Archibald of the pointed head, Of thee it is that men now speak. Earl of Argyle,[227] I thee beseech, Be as a hero in the conflict; A hero who shall reign supreme O’er Gael from the famous land; Noble, high-born prince of the Gael, Thou’lt in apportioned Albin reign. Hero, who’ll desert no fight, With sword, so long as right remains, Who for the Gael from Greece, subjection Ne’er suffer would at Saxon’s hand. The very roots from whence they grow, Pluck them that thou may’st us deliver; Suffer not a Saxon hence to live, After that thou overcom’st them. Burn all their women, ugly in form; Burn their children, every one; Burn their black huts, burn them all; And crush their enmity to us. Drown their warriors in their streams, When their accoutrements are burnt. Cease not, while a Saxon lives, To drown them weakened in their streams. Remember thou, of ruddy cheeks, The claims we on the Saxon have; Oppression and beggary all thy days, When that their oppression throve. Remember thy own father Colin;[228] Remember Archibald,[229] father to him; Remember Duncan,[230] the prosperous, He who was liberal and friendly; Remember thou that other Colin;[231] Remember Archibald[232] as well; Remember Colin[233] first of all, He who was brave amongst the Gael. Remember that they never gave Their tax from terror of the Saxon; Much more it now belongs to thee To see that thou bear’st not this tax. Now that there is but thy sire’s blood, Of Gael from the famous land, Let the men together come, Let them fill with fear their foes. Let them attack the Saxon now, Wake thee up then, son of Colin, Golden-haired one, war is begun, ’Tis not good to sleep too much. Great.

The author of this is Duncan Mac Dougall Maoil. [234] The history of the secret origin of John Mac Patrick,[235] Why should I conceal it? What belongs to his race is not feeble, The bearing of that race we love. Seldom of a feeble race it is, Among the Gael of purest fame, That inquiry of their origin is made, By the men who read in books. Firm the belief to them and me, During the evening time so dark, That in the blood of noble kings Were the rights of true clan Gregor. Now that I’m by thy green dwelling, Listen, John, to thy family story: A root of the very root we are, Of famous kings of noble story. Know that Patrick was thy father, Malcom father was to Patrick. Son of black John, not black his breast, Him who feasts and chariots owned. Another John was black John’s father, Son of Gregor, son of John the lucky. Three they were of liberal heart, Three beneficent to the Church. The father to that learned John, Was Malcom, who his wealth ne’er hid, Son of Duncan, surly and small, Whose standard never took reproach. His father was another Duncan, Son of Gillelan of the ambush, Noble he was, giving to friends, Son of the famous Hugh from Urquhay. Kennan[236] of the pointed spear, Of Hugh from Urquhay was the father. From Alpin,[237] of stately mien and fierce, Mighty king of weighty blows. This is the fourth account that’s given Of thee, who art the heir of Patrick. Remember well thy back-bone line, Down from Alpin, heir of Dougal. Twenty and one, besides thyself, John the black, not black in heart. Thy genealogy leads us truly To the prosperous Fergus M’Erc. Of thy race, which wastes not like froth, Six generations wore the crown. Forty kings there were and three, Their blood and origin are known. Three there were north and three to the south,[238] After the time of Malcom Kenmore. Ten of the race did wear the crown, From the time of Malcom up to Alpin. From Alpin upwards we do find Fourteen kings till we reach Fergus. Such is thy genealogy To Fergus,[239] son of Erc the prosperous. How many are there of thy race, Must have been from thee to Fergus! Noble the races mix with thy blood, Such as now we cannot number. The schools[240] would weary with our tale, Numbering the kings from whom thou’rt sprung. The blood of Arthur[241] is in thy bosom, Precious is that which fills thy veins; The blood of Cuan, the blood of Conn,[242] Two wise men, glory of the race. The blood of Grant in thy apple-red cheek, The blood of Neil, the fierce and mighty. Fierce and gentle, at all times, Is the story of the royal race. The history.

The author of this is Mac Eachag. [243] Displeased am I with the south wind, Which hinders the coming of John,[244] And that he is kept away out, On his way from the north to M’Leod. Janet’s son, of whitest sails, Well would he like to cross the sea; But the south wind will not listen To John, William’s son of swift steeds. By night or by day as I sleep, From the beach I see to the north, The rushing bark of whitest sails, The bark of him who stays defeat. This is the fame which every man Awards to M’William from Clar Sgith,[245] An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth, One who for aught he did ne’er mourned. This is the eighth day without John, Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye; Like he is in mien and strength To the great house of liberal heart. Cheerful he is, does nought conceal, Such is the fame of sharp-armed John. In battle’s day he takes the lead, Ever ready fame to win. William’s son, my foster child, Son to Janet, royal her race, Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north, All my gloom would disappear.

The author of this is Mac Gillindak, [246] the man of songs. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The author of this is Duncan Og. [277] Seven arrows me assail, Each of the arrows does me wound; Between me and my God they come, Such of my body is the desire. The first one of these is Pride, Which wounds me under my belt, Often of a triumph it has me spoiled, Which otherwise I might obtain. The second arrow is Lust, To whose power I’m such a slave; Since this shaft trait’rously has me pierced, I cannot live beyond its reach. The third of these arrows is one Which pierces ’midst my very joints; Laziness, which suffers not That I the right way e’er should chuse. The fourth arrow is Covetousness, O God, ’tis mournful where it wounds; Deliverance I can never have From this load of earth upon my back. The fifth of these shafts is Gluttony, Which has brought me much reproach; Besides that it pains my self-respect, From it my body is not free. The sixth sore arrow of them all Is Anger, which me from men divides; May Mary stay them when they’re shot, Otherwise I have no help. The seventh shaft does pierce the eye, Envy, which grudges others’ good; A shaft which, however we may feel, Is one which never does us good. When these in his hand the enemy takes, Many they are by’s arms destroyed; He never shoots but what he strikes, And never strikes but what he kills. Son of God, I’ll place a pater, And the apostles’ creed as well, Between me and these wounding arms, With five psalms, or six or seven. Seven.

The author is Murdoch Albanach. [278] ’Tis time for me to go to the house of Paradise, While this wound’s not easily borne, Let me win this house, famous, faultless, While others can tell of us nought else. Confess thyself now to the priest, Remember clearly all thy sins; Carry not to the house of the spotless King, Aught that may thee expose to charge. Conceal not any of thy sins, However hateful its evil to tell; Confess what has been done in secret, Lest thou expose thyself to wrath. Make thy peace now with the clergy, That thou may’st be safe as to thy state; Give up thy sin, deeply repent, Lest its guilt be found in thee. Woe to him forsook the Great King’s house, For love of sin, sad is the deed; The sin a man commits in secret, Much is the debt his sin incurs. This is a sermon for Adam’s race, I think I’ve nothing said that’s false, Though men may death for a time avoid, ’Tis true they can’t at length escape. Thou who hast purchased Adam’s race, Their blood, their body, and their heart, The things we cherish may’st thou assail, However we may them pursue. ’Tis time.

The above Murdoch. That there should be in God’s Son’s heart A sinner like me, how great the tale, And that there should to me be given, On my lips to have the cross of Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, sanctify as thou art wont, My two feet, and my two hands, Sanctify me of thy good will, Even my blood, and flesh, and bones. I never cease committing sin, Because that my body loves it well; May consecration come from afar, Upon my head and on my heart. Glorious great One, save thou me From every grief which me has seized, Ere I’m laid beneath the turf, May my way be plain and smooth. That.

The author of this is Murdoch Albanach. Thou Trinity, do thou me teach, Thou Lord, whose praise all men must sing, Thou Trinity, come on my tongue, Bless it in thy judgment great. Holy Trinity in the heavens, Strengthen thou my spiritual arms; Come to, and dwell in my heart, Thou head of all thy holy race. Guide thou my hand, and teach my heart, Teach my eye, thou King of truth; Come to my voice, move on my tongue, Quicken my ear, and bless my lips. This is the mouth which ye have torn, Which checks men’s conflicts, nought forgets; This is the tongue that ne’er spared speech, Bless it, Beloved of my soul. From thee, O Trinity, alas! O Trinity, Let healing come, speak thou to me; There is, as in the white-wood oak, In me a sinful, corrupt heart. Though sinful, I never man destroyed, Ne’er did I steal, O Son of God; Never did my hand slay man, For Mary’s love, answer thou me. ’Tis true, I’ve made lying refuges, Deceived by lies of men of fame, Building on others’ lie my lie, O King, shall I in this succeed? Thou who in me prayer begett’st, ’Tis no sin to follow thee; ’Twas neither righteous men nor great, But God a refuge found for me. No man in this world can me teach, But only thou, O Lord, alone, None keepeth truth but heaven’s King, To His wisdom none is like, If I am in the way of truth, My tonsure vow requires it all; If, O Trinity, on a lie I rest, Lead me to the way of truth. Earth or clay shall not me cover, But waves of judgment, little the wrath, Nothing else shall be to hide me, But, O King, burning red-flamed fire. Trinity, thou mad’st this world, Both of fire and of earth; Of earth and fire all men are made, So at the end it will be found.