Volume 6 / Part 2 — DUNCAN MACINTYRE.
Reading edition
Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,—the late Dr Stewart of Luss,—who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister.
Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard.
Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.
MAIRI BHĀN ŌG.
MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.
My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary, My life-time love, my own! The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie Was bound to me alone, By covenant true, and ritual holy, Gave happiness all but divine; Nor needed there more to transport me wholly, Than the friends that hail'd thee mine. * * * * * 'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted Was far, but I rivall'd the wind, The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted, That force can never unbind. I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd, While I gain'd a love and a bride, I heard my heart, and could tell each second, As its pulses struck on my side. * * * * * I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me, And said that no salve could save; She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me, For herself to my breast she gave. * * * * * Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee For chasing away, away, My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing, And teaching no more to stray. I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying, All shapely from branch to stem, My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying To cull the fairest from them; One branch of perfume, in blossom all over, Bent lowly down to my hand, And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover, To me, the least of the band. I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in, Where the stream's transparence ran, Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in, Shone bright as the gloss of the swan. Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection With such a prize to my share! My love is a ray, a morning reflection, Beside me she sleeps, a star.
BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT.
Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality—the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,—although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy.
URLAR.
The noble Otter hill! It is a chieftain Beinn,[109] Ever the fairest still Of all these eyes have seen. Spacious is his side; I love to range where hide, In haunts by few espied, The nurslings of his den. In the bosky shade Of the velvet glade, Couch, in softness laid, The nimble-footed deer; To see the spotted pack, That in scenting never slack, Coursing on their track, Is the prime of cheer. Merry may the stag be, The lad that so fairly Flourishes the russet coat That fits him so rarely. 'Tis a mantle whose wear Time shall not tear; 'Tis a banner that ne'er Sees its colours depart: And when they seek his doom, Let a man of action come, A hunter in his bloom, With rifle not untried: A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint, To strike a trusty dint, And make the gun-lock glint With a flash of pride. Let the barrel be but true, And the stock be trusty too, So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew, Shall be purple-dyed. He should not be novice bred, But a marksman of first head, By whom that stag is sped, In hill-craft not unskill'd; So, when Padraig of the glen Call'd his hounds and men, The hill spake back again, As his orders shrill'd; Then was firing snell, And the bullets rain'd like hail, And the red-deer fell Like warrior on the field.
SIUBHAL.
Oh, the young doe so frisky, So coy, and so fair, That gambols so briskly, And snuffs up the air; And hurries, retiring, To the rocks that environ, When foemen are firing, And bullets are there. Though swift in her racing, Like the kinsfolk before her, No heart-burst, unbracing Her strength, rushes o'er her. 'Tis exquisite hearing Her murmur, as, nearing, Her mate comes careering, Her pride, and her lover;— He comes—and her breathing Her rapture is telling; How his antlers are wreathing, His white haunch, how swelling! High chief of Bendorain, He seems, as adoring His hind, he comes roaring To visit her dwelling. 'Twere endless my singing How the mountain is teeming With thousands, that bringing Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming, With his hind, and her gala Of younglings, that follow O'er mountain and beala,[112] All lightsome are beaming. When that lightfoot so airy, Her race is pursuing, Oh, what vision saw e'er a Feat of flight like her doing? She springs, and the spreading grass Scarce feels her treading, It were fleet foot that sped in Twice the time that she flew in. The gallant array! How the marshes they spurn, In the frisk of their play, And the wheelings they turn,— As the cloud of the mind They would distance behind, And give years to the wind, In the pride of their scorn! 'Tis the marrow of health In the forest to lie, Where, nooking in stealth, They enjoy her[113] supply,— Her fosterage breeding A race never needing, Save the milk of her feeding, From a breast never dry. Her hill-grass they suckle, Her mammets[114] they swill, And in wantonness chuckle O'er tempest and chill; With their ankles so light, And their girdles[115] of white, And their bodies so bright With the drink of the rill. Through the grassy glen sporting In murmurless glee, Nor snow-drift nor fortune Shall urge them to flee, Save to seek their repose In the clefts of the knowes, And the depths of the howes Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]
URLAR.
In the forest den, the deer Makes, as best befits, his lair, Where is plenty, and to spare, Of her grassy feast. There she browses free On herbage of the lea, Or marsh grass, daintily, Until her haunch is greased. Her drink is of the well, Where the water-cresses swell, Nor with the flowing shell Is the toper better pleased. The bent makes nobler cheer, Or the rashes of the mere, Than all the creagh that e'er Gave surfeit to a guest. Come, see her table spread; The sorach[117] sweet display'd The ealvi,[118] and the head Of the daisy stem; The dorach[119] crested, sleek, And ringed with many a streak, Presents her pastures meek, Profusely by the stream. Such the luxuries That plump their noble size, And the herd entice To revel in the howes. Nobler haunches never sat on Pride of grease, than when they batten On the forest links, and fatten On the herbs of their carouse. Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming, When the supper-time Calls all their hosts from roaming, To see their social prime; And when the shadows gather, They lair on native heather, Nor shelter from the weather Need, but the knolls behind. Dread or dark is none; Their 's the mountain throne, Height and slope their own, The gentle mountain kind; Pleasant is the grace Of their hue, and dappled dress, And an ark in their distress, In Bendorain dear they find.
SIUBHAL.
So brilliant thy hue With tendril and flow'ret, The grace of the view, What land can o'erpower it? Thou mountain of beauty, Methinks it might suit thee, The homage of beauty To claim as a queen. What needs it? Adoring Thy reign, we see pouring The wealth of their store in Already, I ween. The seasons—scarce roll'd once, Their gifts are twice told— And the months, they unfold On thy bosom their dower, With profusion so rare, Ne'er was clothing so fair, Nor was jewelling e'er Like the bud and the flower Of the groves on thy breast, Where rejoices to rest His magnificent crest, The mountain-cock, shrilling In quick time, his note; And the clans of the grot With melody's note, Their numbers are trilling. No foot can compare, In the dance of the green, With the roebuck's young heir; And here he is seen With his deftness of speed, And his sureness of tread, And his bend of the head, And his freedom of spring! Over corrie careers he, The wood-cover clears he, And merrily steers he With bound, and with fling,— As he spurns from his stern The heather and fern, And dives in the dern[120] Of the wilderness deep; Or, anon, with a strain, And a twang of each vein He revels amain 'Mid the cliffs of the steep. With the burst of a start When the flame of his heart Impels to depart, How he distances all! Two bounds at a leap, The brown hillocks to sweep, His appointment to keep With the doe, at her call. With her following, the roe From the danger of ken Couches inly, and low, In the haunts of the glen; Ever watchful to hear, Ever active to peer, Ever deft to career,— All ear, vision, and limb. And though Cult[121] and Cuchullin, With their horses and following, Should rush to her dwelling, And our prince[122] in his trim, They might vainly aspire Without rifle and fire To ruffle or nigh her, Her mantle to dim. Stark-footed, lively, Ever capering naively With motion alive, aye, And wax-white, in shine, When her startle betrays That the hounds are in chase, The same as the base Is the rocky decline— She puffs from her chest, And she ambles her crest And disdain is express'd In her nostril and eye;— That eye—how it winks! Like a sunbeam it blinks, And it glows, and it sinks, And is jealous and shy! A mountaineer lynx, Like her race that 's gone by.
CRUNLUATH (FINALE).
Her lodge is in the valley—here No huntsman, void of notion, Should hurry on the fallow deer, But steal on her with caution;— With wary step and watchfulness To stalk her to her resting place, Insures the gallant wight's success, Before she is in motion. The hunter bold should follow then, By bog, and rock, and hollow, then, And nestle in the gulley, then, And watch with deep devotion The shadows on the benty grass, And how they come, and how they pass; Nor must he stir, with gesture rash, To quicken her emotion. With nerve and eye so wary, sir, That straight his piece may carry, sir, He marks with care the quarry, sir, The muzzle to repose on; And now, the knuckle is applied, The flint is struck, the priming tried, Is fired, the volley has replied, And reeks in high commotion;— Was better powder ne'er to flint, Nor trustier wadding of the lint— And so we strike a telling dint, Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]
THE BARD TO HIS MUSKET.[124]
Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.
Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal May happen to a Highlan' man; Though he fall in love he soon may feel He cannot get the fancied one; The first I loved in time that 's past, I courted twenty years, ochone! But she forsook me at the last, And Duncan then was left alone. To Edinbro' I forthwith hied To seek a sweetheart to my mind, An', if I could, to find a bride For the fause love I left behind; Said Captain Campbell of the Guard, "I ken a widow secretly, An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd, To put her, Duncan, in your way." As was his wont, I trow, did he Fulfil his welcome promise true, He gave the widow unto me, And all her portion with her too; And whosoe'er may ask her name, And her surname also may desire, They call her Janet[125]—great her fame— An' 'twas George who was her grandsire. She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free, No vexing gloom or look at hand, As high in rank and in degree As any lady in the land; She 's my support and my relief, Since e'er she join'd me, any how; Great is the cureless cause of grief To him who has not got her now! Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite, Altho' she liveth still at ease— An' allow the crested stags to fight And wander wheresoe'er they please, A young wife I have chosen now, Which I repent not any where, I am not wanting wealth, I trow, Since ever I espoused the fair. I pass my word of honour bright— Most excellent I do her call; In her I ne'er, in any light, Discover'd any fault at all. She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound, Without a hidden fault, my friend; In her, defect I never found, Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend. When needy folk are pinch'd, alas! For money in a great degree; Ah, George's daughter—generous lass— Ne'er lets my pockets empty be; She keepeth me in drink, and stays By me in ale-houses and all, An' at once, without a word, she pays For every stoup I choose to call! An' every turn I bid her do She does it with a willing grace; She never tells me aught untrue, Nor story false, with lying face; She keeps my rising family As well as I could e'er desire, Although no labour I do try, Nor dirty work for love or hire. I labour'd once laboriously, Although no riches I amass'd; A menial I disdain'd to be, An' keep my vow unto the last. I have ceased to labour in the lan', Since e'er I noticed to my wife, That the idle and contented man Endureth to the longest life. 'Tis my musket—loving wife, indeed— In whom I faithfully believe, She 's able still to earn my bread, An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive; I 'll have no lack of linens fair, An' plenty clothes to serve my turn, An' trust me that all worldly care Now gives me not the least concern.