[Illustration: Vol. V.]




                 Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition.

                   Series initiated and directed by

                       LORD ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL.

                            --------------

                           Demy 8vo, cloth.

                         _ARGYLLSHIRE SERIES._

                            --------------

                               VOLUME I.

                           CRAIGNISH TALES.

Collected by the Rev. J. MACDOUGALL; and Notes on the War Dress of the
Celts by LORD ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL, xvi, 98 pages. 20 plates. 1889. 5_s._

                                 ---

                              VOLUME II.

                         FOLK AND HERO TALES.

Collected, edited (in Gaelic), and translated by the Rev. D. MACINNES;
with a Study on the Development of the Ossianic Saga and copious Notes
by ALFRED NUTT. xxiv, 497 pages. Portrait of Campbell of Islay, and two
            illustrations by E. GRISET. 1890. 15_s._

    “The most important work on Highland Folk-lore and Tales since
    Campbell’s world-renowned Popular Tales.”--_Highland Monthly._

    “Never before has the development of the Ossianic Saga been so
            scientifically dealt with.”--HECTOR MACLEAN.

  “Mr. Alfred Nutt’s excurses and notes are lucid and scholarly. They
  add immensely to the value of the book, and afford abundant evidence
   of their author’s extensive reading and sound erudition.”--_Scots
                              Observer._

    “The Gaelic text is colloquial and eminently idiomatic.... Mr.
   Nutt deserves special mention and much credit for the painstaking
   and careful research evidenced by his notes to the tales.”--_Oban
                              Telegraph._

                                 ---

                              VOLUME III.

                         FOLK AND HERO TALES.

Collected, edited, translated, and annotated by the Rev. J. MACDOUGALL;
  with an Introduction by ALFRED NUTT, and Three Illustrations by E.
                       GRISET. 1891. 10_s._ 6_d._

                                 ---

                              VOLUME IV.

                              THE FIANS;

                                 OR,

                  STORIES, POEMS, AND TRADITIONS

                                 OF

                    _FIONN AND HIS WARRIOR BAND_.

   Collected entirely from Oral Sources by JOHN GREGORSON CAMPBELL
 (Minister of Tiree); with Introduction and Bibliographical Notes by
ALFRED NUTT. Portrait of Ian Campbell of Islay, and Illustrations by E.
                               GRISET.


[Illustration: THE LATE REV. J. G. CAMPBELL]




               WAIFS AND STRAYS OF CELTIC TRADITION.

                            ---------

                  _ARGYLLSHIRE SERIES._--No. V.

                            ---------

                        CLAN TRADITIONS
                       AND POPULAR TALES

                             OF THE

                  WESTERN HIGHLANDS AND ISLANDS,

                  _Collected from Oral Sources_

                           BY THE LATE
                  REV. JOHN GREGORSON CAMPBELL.
                       _MINISTER OF TIREE._

             SELECTED FROM THE AUTHOR’S MS. REMAINS,
                        AND EDITED BY

              JESSIE WALLACE AND DUNCAN MAC ISAAC,

                      WITH INTRODUCTION BY
                          ALFRED NUTT.

          _PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATIONS._


                            LONDON:
                  DAVID NUTT, 270–271 STRAND.
                              ---
                             1895.




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE

  PREFACE,                                                           vii

  INTRODUCTION: ALFRED NUTT,                                          ix

  Memoir of the late Rev. John Gregorson Campbell. His work as a
  folk-lorist. The present work.


  CLAN TRADITIONS.

  MACLEANS OF DUART,                                                   1

  DEATH OF BIG LACHLAN MACLEAN,                                        5

  MACLEANS OF COLL,                                                    7

  BROWNS OF TIREE,                                                    12

  THE STORY OF MAC AN UIDHIR,                                         18

  STEEPING THE WITHIES,                                               24

  LITTLE JOHN OF THE WHITE BAG,                                       25

  THE KILLING OF BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN,                           26

  THE LAST CATTLE RAID IN TIREE,                                      29

  LOCHBUIE’S TWO HERDSMEN,                                            32

  FINLAY GUIVNAC,                                                     44

  BIG DEWAR OF BALEMARTIN,                                            51

  THE BIG LAD OF DERVAIG,                                             53

  DONALD GORM OF SLEAT,                                               59

  DONALD GORM OF MOIDART,                                             62

  THE BLACK RAVEN OF GLENGARRY,                                       63

  THE OLD WIFE’S HEADLAND,                                            65

  A TRADITION OF ISLAY,                                               67

  FAIR LACHLAN OF DERVAIG,                                            70


  LEGENDARY HISTORY.

  PRINCESS THYRA OF ULSTER AND HER LOVERS,                            74

  GARLATHA OF HARRIS,                                                 80


  STORIES ABOUT THE FAIRIES.

  A HOUSEWIFE AND HER FAIRY VISITOR,                                  83

  THE WISE WOMAN OF DUNTULM AND THE FAIRIES,                          86


  FOLK TALES.

  THE TWO BROTHERS,                                                   91

  THE TWO SISTERS AND THE CURSE,                                      95

  HOW THE DAUGHTER OF THE NORSE KING THINNED
  THE WOODS OF LOCHABER,                                             101

  HOW O’NEIL’S HAIR WAS MADE TO GROW,                                108


  BEAST FABLES.

  THE WOLF AND THE FOX,                                              115

  THE FOX AND THE BIRD,                                              119

  THE WREN,                                                          120

  THE TWO DEER,                                                      123

  THE TWO HORSES,                                                    124

  THE TWO DOGS,                                                      124

  THE CAT AND THE MOUSE,                                             126


  BOY’S GAMES.

  KING AND KITE,                                                     128

  PARSON’S MARE HAS GONE AMISSING,                                   130

  HIDE AND SEEK,                                                     131


  APPENDIX.

  I.--FINLAY GUIVNAC,                                                133
  II.--PORT NAN LONG,                                                133
  III.--A TRADITION OF MORAR,                                        135
  IV.--LETTERS FROM THE LATE CAMPBELL OF ISLAY,                      138




PREFACE.


It has been thought well and due, by those who knew the late J. G.
Campbell of Tiree, to give to the public more tales collected by him,
and his sister has made over the following collection, selected by
herself from among the tales gathered in the course of many years. We
send them forth as a fitting memorial to his memory, and as another
stone added to the cairn lovingly erected by old friends. At the end
will be found a few letters which passed between the late minister and
the late Iain Campbell of Islay, showing the methods of collecting
followed by these two lovers of the folk-lore of their native land, and
which in consequence cannot but prove of interest and value to those
who have followed the steps of the gleaning of folk-tales throughout
the British Isles--we may add throughout the world. These patient
labourers in such fields were the true pioneers of the movement in
Scotland.

Notes, where not otherwise stated, are the author’s or editors’; those
signed A.N. are due to Mr. Alfred Nutt; those signed A.C. to the
undersigned.

  ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL.

_Feb. 11, 1895._




INTRODUCTION.

MEMOIR OF THE LATE JOHN GREGORSON CAMPBELL, MINISTER OF TIREE.

 [_The following Memoir is chiefly from information given by Mr.
 Campbell’s sister, Mrs. Wallace of Hynish, thanks to whose unwearied
 and sympathetic assistance it was that the previous volume in the
 series, ‘The Fians,’ was made ready for and passed through the press,
 and that the present volume has been selected and put together from
 the mass of the material left by the author_].


John Gregorson Campbell was born at Kingairloch, in Argyllshire, in
the year 1836, the second son and fourth child of Captain Campbell of
the _Cygnet_ and of Helen MacGregor, his wife. The fondness for study,
the devotion to his native literature and lore, which were such marked
features of his life, and which earned for him an abiding reputation
as a Gaelic student, would seem to have been his by birthright. His
maternal grandfather was an ardent Gael, as may be judged by the
letters that passed between him and Dr. Mackintosh. On his mother’s
side he was descended from Duncan MacGregor, 13th in direct descent
from the first MacGregor who settled at Roro, in Glenlyon, Perthshire,
whilst through a paternal ancestor he traced back to a race that had
had dealings with the ‘good people,’ and on whom a _bean shith_ had
laid the spell ‘they shall grow like the rush and wither like the fern’
(_fàsaidh iad mar an luachair ’s crìonaidh iad mar an raineach_).

The house of his birth on the shores of Loch Linnhe was small and
lonely, and when he was three years of age his parents removed to
Appin. His childhood was that of many young Highlanders. From earliest
boyhood he attended the parish school in the Strath of Appin, walking
daily with his older sisters the long stretch that separated it from
his father’s home. He loved to recall his early schooldays, and their
memory was ever dear to him. He had learnt more, he was wont to say in
after years, at that school than at all his other schools put together.
And on the hillside and along the valley, traversed twice daily, he
drank in a love for and knowledge of nature in all her manifestations
that remained to him as a priceless possession throughout life. At ten
he was sent to Glasgow for further schooling, passed first through the
Andersonian University, and went thence to the High School, preparatory
to entering College. We have interesting glimpses of him at this
period. He seems to have been a dreamy, quick-witted but somewhat
indolent lad of whom his masters said, ‘if Campbell likes to work
no one can beat him’; hot-tempered too, as Highlanders, rightly or
wrongly, are credited with being. The only Highlander in the school,
he had doubtless much to put up with. His Glasgow schoolfellows had
probably as little liking for Highlanders as Baillie Nicol Jarvie
himself, and many were the petty persecutions he had to endure. He
has himself related how he suffered several hours imprisonment for
fighting another boy ‘on account of my country.’ Like all who are
steadily bilingual from early youth he recognised how powerful an
intellectual instrument is the instinctive knowledge of two languages,
and was wont to insist upon the aid he had derived from Gaelic in the
study of Hebrew and Latin. To one familiar with the complex and archaic
organisation of Gaelic speech the acquisition of these languages must
indeed be far easier than to one whose first knowledge of speech is
based upon the analytic simplicity of English.

From the High School he gladly passed to College, where a happier
life and more congenial friendships awaited him. He had many Highland
fellow-students, and at this early date his love for the rich stores
of oral tradition preserved by his countrymen manifested itself. He
sought the acquaintance of good story-tellers, and began to store up
in his keenly retentive memory the treasure he has been so largely
instrumental in preserving and recording.

After leaving college he read law for awhile with Mr. Foulds. In his
lonely island parish he later found his legal training of the utmost
assistance. Many were the disputes he was called upon to settle, and,
as he has recorded, few there were of his parishioners who needed to
take the dangerous voyage to the Sheriff’s court on a neighbouring
island. At once judge and jury his decisions commanded respect and
acquiescence. At this period, and for some time previously, his
interest in and mastery of Gaelic legendary lore are shown by the fact
that he acted as Secretary to the Glasgow University Ossianic Society,
founded in 1831 by _Caraid nan Gàidheal_, and still flourishing.

His thoughts and aspirations had early turned towards the church, and
in 1858 he was licensed by the Presbytery of Glasgow. But suffering as
he then was from the effects of inflammation of the lungs, the result
of a chill caught in his student days, and the effects of which were
perceptible throughout life, he was forbidden to preach for six months.
The interval, spent in recruiting his shattered health, was profitable
to his growing zeal for folk-lore studies. In Ayrshire or at Blair
Athole he showed himself a keen and sympathetic collector of floating
oral tradition.

In 1860 he accepted the appointment to the united parishes of Tiree
and Coll from the Duke of Argyll, and took up the work which was to
occupy the remaining thirty years of his life. It is to be wished
that a sphere of activity more commensurate with his abilities had
been accepted by him, as when he was offered the assistantship of St.
Columba, Glasgow, and he seems at times to have felt as much. But such
thoughts were certainly no hindrance to the performance of his duty,
interpreted in the largest and most liberal sense. He was the guide and
counsellor of his flock, who turned to him with unfailing confidence
for advice, exhortation, or reproof. An amusing instance of his
parishioners’ belief in his capacity may be cited; a sailor lad from
Tiree got, as sailor lads will, into some row in Spain and was marched
off to jail. He took the matter philosophically, remarking, ‘so long
as the minister is alive I know they can’t hurt me’ (_bha fhios agam
co fad’s a bha ’m ministear beò nach robh cunnart domh_). The esteem
and affection in which he was held by his parishioners were cordially
reciprocated by him. He is reported as saying that nowhere could be
found a more intelligent community than the Duke’s tenantry in Tiree,
and in the preface to Volume IV. of the present series he bears witness
to the knowledge, intelligence, and character of his informants.

We do not go far wrong in conjecturing that the minister’s zealous
interest for the preservation and elucidation of the native traditions
was not the least potent of his claims upon the respect and love of his
flock. How keenly the Highlander still treasures these faint echoes of
the past glories and sorrows of his race is known to all who have won
his confidence. Unhappily it has not always been the case that this
sentiment has been fostered and turned to good account by the natural
leaders of the people as it was by John Gregorson Campbell.

In the guidance of his people, in congenial study, in correspondence
with Campbell of Islay and other fellow-workers, specimens of which
will be found in the appendix (_infra_ 138), time passed. His mother
died in 1890 at the manse, and his health, for long past indifferent,
broke down. The last years of his life were solaced and filled by the
work he prepared for the present series. At last, Nov. 22nd, 1891 he
passed from his labours and sufferings into rest, the rest of one who
had well earned it by devotion to duty and to the higher interests of
his race.

In person Campbell was tall and fair, with deep blue eyes full of life
and vivacity. He was noted at once for the kindliness of his manner,
and for the shrewd causticity of his wit. The portrait which serves
as frontispiece is taken from the only available photograph, and
represents him in middle life.


HIS WORK AS A FOLK-LORIST.

The Gaels of Scotland cannot be accused of indifference to the rich
stores of legend current among the people. From the days of the Dean of
Lismore, in the late 15th century, onwards, there have not been wanting
lovers and recorders of the old songs and stories. Unfortunately, in
the 18th century, a new direction was given to the national interest in
the race traditions by the Macpherson controversy. I say unfortunately,
because attention was thereby concentrated upon one section of
tradition to the neglect of others equally interesting and beautiful,
and false standards were introduced into the appreciation and criticism
of popular oral literature. Valuable as are the materials accumulated
in the Report of the Highland Society, and generally in the voluminous
literature which grew up round Macpherson’s pretentions, they are far
less valuable than they might be to the folk-lorist and student of the
past, owing to the misapprehension of the real points both of interest
and at issue. Two generations had to pass away before Scotch Gaelic
folk-lore was to be studied and appreciated for itself.

To Campbell of Islay and the faithful fellow-workers whom he knew how
to inspire and organise, falls the chief share in this work, belongs
the chief honour of its successful achievement. The publication of
the _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_ was epoch-making, not only
in the general study of folk-lore, but specially for the appreciation
and intelligence of Gaelic myth and romance. No higher praise can be
given to John Gregorson Campbell than that his folk-lore work is full
of the same uncompromising fidelity to popular utterance, the same
quick intuition into, and sympathetic grasp of popular imagination as
Islay’s. His published work has indeed a somewhat wider range than that
of _Leabhar na Feinne_ and the _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_,
as it deals also with those semi-historic traditions, the nearest
equivalent the literature of these islands can show to the Icelandic
family sagas, which Islay excluded from the two collections he issued.
The following is a complete list, so far as can be ascertained, of the
published writings of John Gregorson Campbell, in so far as they relate
to the legendary romance, history and folk-lore of Gaelic Scotland.


  IN THE “CELTIC REVIEW,” (1881–85).

  No.  I. p. 61, West Highland Tale: How Tuairisgeal Mòr was
                          put to death.

   ”   II. p. 115, The Muileartach: a West Highland Tale.[1]

   ”   III. p. 184, West Highland Tale: How Fionn went to the
                          Kingdom of Big Men.[2]

   ”   IV. p. 262, West Highland Tale: MacPhie’s Black Dog.


  IN THE TRANSACTIONS OF THE INVERNESS GAELIC SOCIETY.

  Vol. XIII. (1888) p. 69, Tale of Sir Hallabh O’Corn.

   ”   XIV. (1889) p. 78, Healing of Keyn’s Foot.

   ”   XV. (1890) p. 46, Fionn’s Ransom.

   ”   XVI. (1891) p. 111, The Pigmies or Dwarfs (_Na h-Amhuisgean_).

   ”   XVII. (1892) p. 58, The Fuller’s Son or School of Birds.


  IN THE CELTIC MAGAZINE, VOL. XIII, (1887–88.)

  No.  148, p. 167, Battle of Gavra or Oscar’s Hymn.

   ”   149, p. 202,   do.          do.        do.       (Continued).[3]


  HIGHLAND MONTHLY.

  Vol. I. No. 10. p. 622, Introduction, &c.


  WAIFS AND STRAYS OF CELTIC TRADITION.

  Argyllshire Series, No. I.: The Good Housewife (p. 54–69).

  Argyllshire Series, No. IV.: The Fians: or Stories, Poems, and
Traditions of Fionn and his Warrior Band. Collected entirely from oral
sources. 1891.

In presenting his material to the English reader Campbell may
profitably be compared with Islay. In few ways was the work of the
latter more fruitful than in his mode of rendering Gaelic into English.
It is impossible, for instance, to look at the work done of late by
the distinguished Irish folk-lorists who are adding a new chapter
to Gaelic romance, at the work of Douglas Hyde and W. Larminie and
Jeremiah Curtin, and not recognise how much in point of colour and
tone and smack of the soil their translations excel those of the
pre-Campbell generation. Islay may, at times, have pushed his theory of
idiomatic fidelity too far, occasionally where he aims at a rendering
he achieves a distortion, but as a whole the effect of strange, wild,
archaic atmosphere and medium is given with unerring--one would call
it skill, did one not feel that it is the outcome of a nature steeped
in the Gaelic modes of conception and expression, and bold enough to
invent the English requisite to give an adumbration of them. For indeed
the speech of the _Popular Tales_ is a distinctive variety of English,
deserving study both from the philologist and the artist in words.
Islay himself never handled this speech to better effect than did John
Gregorson Campbell in the fine tale, for instance, of Sir Olave O’Corn
(_Gaelic Soc. of Inverness_, Vol. XIII.), or in the _Muileartach_
(_Waifs and Strays_, Vol. IV.), though as a rule he keeps closer than
Islay to the ordinary standard of English expression. Readers of
this volume cannot fail to note the exceeding skill with which the
pithy, imaginative turns of thought, so plentiful in the original, are
rendered into English. The reader is at once taken out of nineteenth
century civilisation, and, which is surely the first thing required
from the translator, by the mere sound and look of the words carried
back into an older, wilder, simpler and yet, in some ways, more
artificially complex life. The difficulty of rendering Gaelic into
English does not lie in the fact of its possessing a rude simplicity
which the more sophisticated language is incapable of reproducing, but
rather in that, whilst the emotions and conceptions are close to the
primitive passions of nature in a degree that our civilisation has
long forsworn, the mode of expression has the richness of colour and
elaborate artificiality of a pattern in the Book of Kells. To neglect
the latter characteristic is to miss not only a salient feature of the
original but to obscure the significance of a dominant factor in the
evolution of Gaelic artistry.

That Campbell, like Islay, felt the paramount necessity of endeavouring
to reproduce the formal characteristics of his Gaelic text is certain;
like Islay, he too, had the true scholar’s regard for his matter.
To put down what he heard, to comment upon what he found, was his
practice. It seems obvious, but many collectors neglect it all the
same. Nor in his essays at interpretation is he other than in full
sympathy with his subject. He not only understands but himself
possesses the mythopoeic faculty, and if this is endowed with a wider
knowledge, a more refined culture than belonged to the Gaelic bards
who first gave these songs and stories their present shape, or to
the peasants and fishermen who lovingly repeat them, it differs in
degree only, not in kind. It may be doubted that the framers of the
_Muileartach_ consciously embodied the conceptions which Campbell has
read into the old poem (_Waifs and Strays_, IV. pp. 131–135), but I
think it certain that he does but give shape with the precision of a a
higher culture to ideas which, with them, never emerged from the stage
of mythic realisation.


THE PRESENT WORK.

Most of the matter contained in the present volume had been partially,
if not definitely, prepared for press by the author. The choice and
arrangement are largely due to his sister, Mrs. Wallace, his devoted
fellow-worker. Still it must not be forgotten that we have here a
collection of posthumous remains which have not enjoyed the benefit of
the author’s final shaping and revision. But it has been judged best by
the editors of the series to preserve these remains substantially as
they were left, with a minimum of indispensable revision. The volume
may lose in other respects, but it is, at all events, the work of the
author and not of his editor friends. The latter have felt that regard
for the genuineness of Mr. Campbell’s text was the first of their
duties towards his memory.

This volume thus represents the contents of Campbell’s note-books
rather than provides such an ordered collection of material, bearing
upon a particular section of Gaelic folk-lore, as he has furnished in
the preceding volume of this series. But for this very reason it yields
better evidence to the wealth and variety of Gaelic popular tradition.
A large portion of the book is local legendary matter, and is closely
analogous to what the Icelandic Sagas must have been in one stage of
their development, a stage overlaid by the artistry of a greater school
of prose story tellers than ever took the sagas of Gaelic Scotland in
hand. Professor York Powell has well analysed the phase through which
such stories as those of Burnt Njal or Egil Skallagrimm’s son must have
passed before they reached the form familiar to us.[4] He describes the
popular narrator working up a mass of local, fairly authentic detail
about his hero, running it into a conventional mould, and then fitting
the result into a scheme of wider historic scope. The Gaelic matter
preserved alike by Mr. Campbell in this volume and by Mr. MacDougall
in the first volume of the series has not got beyond the local anecdote
stage, though, as in the variant forms of the tale of the Grizzled
Lad and MacNeill (p. 5, _et seq._), we can see the conventionalizing
process at work, accentuating certain details, discarding others, with
the view of transmuting the blurred photographic variety of life into
the clear-cut unity of art. But the process is rudimentary. It is
strange that this should be so considering the wealth of conventional
situations that lay ready to the hand of the Gaelic story teller in
the highly elaborated sagas of Cuchulainn and of Finn, for the purpose
of moulding the achievements of historical Campbells, MacLeans and
MacNeills, into a satisfactory artistic form. Such convention as is
apparent in these scraps of sagas is related to that of the folk-tale
rather than to that of the great heroic legends. An interesting example
is afforded by the story of Mac an Uidhir. This may well have a basis
of fact, indeed Campbell cites an actual analogue, but it has been
run into the shape of an ordinary separation and timely-recognition
folk-tale. Other instances will present themselves to the reader and
afford instructive study of the action and reaction upon each other of
folk-life and oral narrative legend.

Any fresh addition of moment to the considerable recorded mass of
Scottish local historic tradition increases the wonder that material
of such vigour and interest, full of the clash of fierce primitive
passion, rich in character, should have had so little literary outcome.
The stuff is not inferior to that of the Icelandic tales, but instead
of a first-rate contribution to the world’s literature we have only a
chaos of unworked up details. Yet during the time that these implanted
themselves and took shape in the popular memory, Gaelic story-tellers,
elaborating and perpetually readapting the old mythic and heroic
traditions of the race, were producing narratives of rare and exquisite
charm. Perplexity is intensified if, as Professor Zimmer maintains,
the Norsemen learnt the art of prose narrative from the Irish and
developed the great school of Icelandic story telling on lines picked
up in Gaeldom. Certain it is that the Irish annals, relating the events
of the 3rd to 9th centuries, which assumed their present shape sometime
in the 10th to the 12th centuries, contain a large amount of historic
narrative that is closely allied in form and spirit to the contemporary
Scotch Gaelic sagas. There is the same directness of narrative, the
frequent picturesqueness of incident, the pithy characterisation;
there is also the same failure to throw the material into a rounded
artistic form, and, most curious of all resemblances, the conventions
at work distorting historic fact are those of the folk-tale rather
than of the national heroic epos. I would cite in this connection
certain episodes of the Boroma[5] (in itself an admirable example of
the failure of Gaelic story tellers to work up into satisfying form
very promising historical material) such as that of Cumascach’s visit
to Brandubh, or again many passages in the stories about Raghallach and
Guaire. The whole subject is, as nearly everything else in the record
of Gaelic letters, fraught with fascinating perplexities. The present
writer can but here, as he has so often done before, make a big note of
interrogation and trust that Gaelic scholars on both sides the water
will consider the problem worth study, and succeed in solving it.

I note those points which interest me as a student of tradition in
general, and of Celtic tradition in particular. For most readers these
scraps of local history derive their chief value from the vivid light
they flash back upon the past, from the evidence they yield of the
wild, fierce--I had almost written savage--life from which we are
separated by so few generations. Some there may be to mourn for the
past. Not a few Highland landlords will possibly regret the good old
days when the MacLean planted his gallows in the midst of the island of
Tiree, and the last comer with his rent knew what awaited him (p. 13).
Truly a more effectual means of getting in the money than by writ which
the sheriff cannot execute.

The remainder of the volume comprises matter more upon the usual
folk-lore lines; much, familiar already but valuable in the good
variant form here recorded, much again novel, like the curious tale
of the Princess Thyra and her lovers. Taken in conjunction with the
author’s previous volume in this series on the Finn tradition as still
living in the Western Highlands, the whole offers a faithful picture of
the imagination, memory, and humour of the Gaelic peasant playing round
the old-time beliefs, stories and customs handed down to him from his
forefathers.

  ALFRED NUTT.

I append a list of the chief informants from whom Mr. Campbell derived
the material contained in Vol. IV. and V. of the Argyllshire series of
_Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition_.

  Malcolm MacDonald, Scarnish, Tiree.
  Malcolm MacLean, Kilmoluaig, Tiree.
  Hugh MacDonald,      do.      do.
  John MacLean, (bard), Balemartin, Tiree.
  Hugh Macmillan, (tailor), Tobermory.
  Angus MacVurrich, Portree, Skye.
  Duncan Cameron, (constable), Tiree.
  Allan MacDonald, Mannal, Tiree.
  Donald Mackinnon, Balevoulin, Tiree.
  John Cameron, (_Iain MacFhearchar_), Balevoulin, Tiree.
  Archibald Mackinnon, (_Gilleasbuig ruadh nan sgeirean dubha_), Tiree.
  Donald Cameron, Ruaig, Tiree.
  Donald MacDonald, Mannal, Tiree.
  Malcolm Sinclair, Balephuil, Tiree.
  John MacArthur, (tailor), Moss, Tiree.
  Duncan MacDonald, Caolis, Tiree.
  Neil MacLean, (the elder), Cornaig, Tiree.


  NOTES:

[1] Reprinted The Fians. p. 131–158.

[2] Reprinted The Fians. p. 175–191.

[3] Reprinted The Fians, p. 28–48.

[4] Folk-Lore, June, 1894.

[5] The _Boroma_, the story of the tribute imposed upon Leinster by
Tuathal Techtmar in the second century and remitted in the sixth
century, has been edited and translated by Mr. Whitley Stokes, (_Rev.
Celt._) and by Mr. Standish Hayes O’Grady in _Silva Gadelica_.




CLAN TRADITIONS.




MACLEANS OF DOWART.


The first MacLeans, Wily Lachlan (_Lachunn Lùbanach_), and Punctilious
Hector (_Eachann Reanganach_), came to Dunolly to MacDougall. He sent
them provisions and made his men watch to see if they were gentlemen.
It was inferred they were, from their paring cheese, or, throwing the
remains of their food to the dogs. On leaving Dunolly they came to Aros
in Mull. This word Aros is the one regularly used to denote a royal
residence or palace, and the Lords of the Isles claiming an independent
sovereignty, their residence in Mull came to be called Aros, a name
which it still retains. Their residence in the north was Duntulm,
and in the Sound of Mull, Aros and Ardtornish. The view from the old
castle of Aros up and down the Sound is very commanding, and that from
Ardtornish is equally so. The MacLeans on coming to Aros found _Peddle
Mòr_ (a south country ploughman to _MacCónnuill_ of the Isles) who sent
them food, but gave no knife and fork, telling them to put hen’s bills
on (_guib-chearc_) to take it. On coming to him they found him bending
to repair a failing in the plank board (_fàillinn na fliuch-bhùird_),
or keel board, of a galley (_birlinn_) with which he was to go to meet
his master.

The Lords of the Isles to make their estate appear greater employed,
from the name, evidently a south countryman at agricultural work, hence
the name Peddle which is not of Highland origin. They struck off his
head and went themselves to meet MacCónnuill whom they took prisoner,
and brought to MacDougall. He however would take nothing to do with
the captive. At the advice of an old man they then returned with their
prisoner to Aros, and got him pledged to give his daughter to one of
them. Lachlan married the daughter and got Dowart.

It is said by some that Hector was the oldest of the two brothers, and
that when MacCónnuill the Lord of the Isles was out pleasure-sailing
with his daughter, the brothers overtook his galley and seizing him
said “The omen of your capture has overtaken you” (“_Tha manadh do
ghlacaidh ort_”). He had no ransom to offer but his daughter and
lands. Lachlan took the daughter, and with her he got the lands of
Dowart. The other got the lands of Lochbuy. MacCónnuill gave for food
to the child born of the Dowart marriage Little Hernisker with its
twenty-four islands (_Earnasgeir bheag le ’cuid eileanan_). Afterwards,
at Ardtornish, the fourth or fifth descendant of Dowart asked the then
Lord of the Isles for a livelihood (_màthair bheathachaidh_). He got
the reply, “Jump the wall where it is lowest” (“_Leum an gàradh far
an ìsle e_”) which led to Ardgour being taken from MacMaster, who was
known at the time to be no favourite with the Lord of the Isles, and
the attack made upon his land was readily commuted into a chartered
possession. The tradition is as follows:

The Lord of the Isles was lying sick at Ardtornish. The MacCónnuill,
now commonly called MacDonald, claimed a jurisdiction independent of
the Scottish Crown till about 1493 A.D. or thereabouts, and many if not
all the chiefs of the Western Highlands and Islands paid him court.
Among others MacMaster, chief, or proprietor, of Ardgour, came to pay
his respects at that time. Ventilation was not then so much regarded
in the case of the sick as it is now, and MacMaster, being offended at
some breath from the sick chamber, said _Fùich, fùich_, an expression
of disgust and offence. Unfortunately for himself the inadvertent
expression was made a handle of, and was never forgiven to MacMaster
by the Lord of the Isles. In consequence, when the Laird of Dowart,
who was married to a near relative of his, came to ask for a means of
livelihood (_màthair bheathachaidh_) to the child born of his marriage
with the kinswoman of the Lord of the Isles, the potentate said to
him, “Jump the wall where it is lowest” (_Leum an gàradh far an ìsle
e_). The youth or young man being now of age to shift for himself, a
company of men and a boat was given him by his father, and he made for
Ardgour. A battle was then fought and MacMaster was defeated. One of
MacMaster’s sons, who was surnamed the Fox (_An sionnach_), possibly
because weakness often seeks to protect itself by wiliness and deceit
or any other artifice that will give protection. In these stormy days
any such means were more excusable. The Fox made his way to go across
at Corran to the mainland after the battle. His father’s fisherman
was then fishing in the neighbourhood of the ferry at Red Bay (_Port
Dearg_), and the Fox called to him to throw him across to the other
side. The fisherman who rejoiced in the cacophonous name of Carrascally
(_Mac-a-Charrusglaich_), was deaf to his cry, and he only said that
the cuddie fish was taking well (“_Gu ’n robh gabhail mhaith air na
cudainnean_”) or that he lost his oars, and the young MacMaster had
to hide himself in the adjoining wood. When the MacLeans came to the
place, Carrascally said that there was a fox of the MacMasters still
hiding in the wood, and the MacLeans pursued him. The cairn, or heap of
stones, is still shown where the Fox was overtaken and slain.

Some say it was MacMaster himself, and not his son, who was flying
after the defeat by the MacLeans, and was refused to be ferried by the
fisherman, and that his son who was called the Fox, and had committed
some fraud when abroad, was caught in Inverscaddel wood and was stabbed
by MacLean.

The fisherman, who was rascally in more than name, came to MacLean and
made claim to having done good service in having refused to help the
fugitive; and in having pointed out that he was still in the wood.
MacLean upon this put up three oars and made a gallows with them,
on which he hanged the fisherman, or Carrascally, at the hangman’s
cove (_Port-a-chrochaire_), saying if he had treated his master
as he said he had done, it might be his turn another day, and the
fisherman’s cunning recoiling upon himself has passed into a proverb
“The officiousness, or discretionary power of MacCarrascally chasing
MacMaster’s Fox,” (“_Meachanus Mhic a’ Charrasglaich ruith Sionnach
Mhic a’ Mhaighstir_”). The MacLeans have ever since retained Ardgour,
and have been esteemed for their position as Highland proprietors.
Their title in Gaelic is _Mac-’Ic-Eoghain_ (the son of the son of
Hugh). The son of the son of, or grandson, (_Mac-’Ic-_) being the word
used in the Highlands of Scotland as the patronymic of Chiefs, instead
of the O, or Grandson, used in Ireland, as O’ Donnell, O’ Brian, O’
Meagher, &c. Thus, the son of the son of Patrick (_Mac-’Ic-Phàdruig_)
denotes Grant of Glenmoriston; the son of the son of Alexander
(_Mac-’Ic-Alasdair_), the Chief of Glengarry; son of the son of Hector
(_Mac-’Ic-Eachuinn_), MacLean who had once Kingairloch. The title of
some Chiefs is only son of (_Mac_); as, Lochiel is known as the son of
Dark Donald (_Mac Dho’uil Duibh_). The leading Highland Chief is known
as _Mac Cailein_ (the son of Colin). The House of Argyll derives its
Gaelic title from Colin, who was slain in a clan feud at the battle on
the mountain known as the String of Lorn (_An t-Sreang Lathurnach_)
when the ford, known as the Red Ford (_Ath Dearg_), ran red with blood.




DEATH OF BIG LACHLAN MACLEAN,

CHIEF OF DUART,--

(_Lachunn Mòr Dhuart_).


The Chiefs of Duart were among the most powerful and influential chiefs
in the Highlands. Their power was absolute, bearing the control of
neither King nor Parliament, and there are many stories shewing that
they were very unsparing in visiting with their vengeance, and even
taking the lives of those who offended them.

A very notorious sea-robber and land plunderer of whom there are many
tales in the Isle of Skye raised a _creach_, or cattle-spoil, from
MacDonald Lord of the Isles, who then occupied a fort on the site of
the present manse of Kilchoman in Islay. He managed also to circulate a
report that it was the MacLeans from Mull who were the depredators. At
that time MacLean, Duart, was ambitious to be overlord of a great part
of Islay, and _Lachunn Mòr_ came with a band of followers to Gruinard
beach in the neighbourhood of the fort.

It is said that before leaving Mull, he was standing on the roof of
Aros Castle which overlooks the Sound of Mull and on its being pointed
out that an expedition to Islay would be very dangerous to his men,
he said, that he did not care though there should not be a MacLean in
Mull except those descended from himself. Neither he himself nor his
men came back from the ill-fated expedition. After landing at Gruinard
beach (_Tràigh Ghrunnard_) he was met by the MacDonalds. A little man,
known in tradition as the Black Elf (_Dubh Sith_) and (_Ochd-rann
bodaich_), or eighth part of a man--[In Scotch the eighth part would be
the lippie used for measuring grain and meal. According to the table to
be found in old Reckoning Books a boll consists of two pecks and each
peck of four lippies. This makes each lippie equal to an eighth part
of a boll],--offered his services for the battle to MacLean, but the
haughty Chief rejected the offer with disdain. The Black Elf then went
to MacDonald, who accepted his offer; and during all the current of the
heady fight the dwarf was observed to follow MacLean for an opportunity
to kill him with an arrow. An opportunity having at last occurred by
MacLean lifting his arm, an arrow was launched and MacLean was pierced
on the side, and fell with a deadly wound. Having lost their Chief the
MacLeans were routed with loss, and those who escaped from the battle,
having taken refuge in a neighbouring church, were destroyed by the
MacDonalds, who set the church on fire. The body of Lachunn Mòr was
taken on a sledge, there being no wheeled vehicles in those days, to
Kilchoman burying-ground. Some say that the person who took him was his
wife, and others say it was his foster-mother. His head from the motion
of the sledge nodded in a manner that made the boy who accompanied her
laugh. She was so much offended at his ill-timed merriment that she
took a sword and killed him on the spot. The site of this tragedy in
Benviger is still pointed out and the place where Lachunn Mòr himself
was buried is known to the people of the place although no headstone
marks it.




MACLEANS OF COLL.


The Laird of Dowart was on his way to gather rent in Tiree, and sent
ashore to Kelis (_Caolas_), Coll, for meat (_biadhtachd_). The woman of
the house told MacLean was not worth sending meat to, and Dowart kindly
came ashore to see why she said so. She said it because he was not
taking Coll for himself. Three brothers from Lochlin had Coll at the
time, Big Annla (_Annla Mòr_) in Loch Annla, another in _Dun bithig_ in
Totronald, and the third in Grisipol hill. She had thirty men herself
fit to bear arms. Dowart went to Loch Annla fort late in the evening
alone, and was hospitably received. Annla’s arrows were near the fire,
and Dowart gradually edged near them till he managed to make off with
them. This led to a fight at Grimsari and is perhaps the reason why
Dowart encouraged _Iain Garbh_ to make himself master of Coll.

Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) was the fourth MacLean,--others say the first
of Coll. When nine or twelve months old, his mother, having become a
widow, had married MacNeill of Barra, _Iain Garbh_ was sent by his
step-father to Barra, in charge of a nurse (_ban-altruim_). This woman
was courted by a Barra-man, whom, as her charge was a pretty boy, she
at first refused. Her lover, however, got word that _Iain Garbh_ was to
be killed at MacNeill’s instigation, and told her. The three fled, in
a boat with two oars, from Barra during night. An eight-oared galley
(_ochd ràmhach_), with a steersman set off in chase. At Sorisdale in
Coll, beyond Eilereig, in the borderline (crìch) between Sorisdale
and Boust, there is a narrow sound, for which both boats were making,
and the little one was almost overtaken. It was overtake and not
overtake (_beir‘s cha bheir_). The little boat went through the sound
(_caolas_) safely, but the oars of the large boat were broken. Hence,
’The Sound of Breaking Oars’ (_Caolas ’Bhriste-Ràmh_) is the name of
the Sound to this day. The little boat put to sea again, and was lost
to sight. The Barra men went to every harbour near, “The Wooded Bay”
(_Bàgh na Coille_) &c., where they thought it might come, but they
never saw it again. It is supposed it went to Mull. There is no further
mention of the Barra man or the nurse. Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) went
to Ireland, and when well grown told the woman with whom he stayed
that he had a dream of a pile of oaten cakes (_tòrr de bhonnaich
choirce_) and a drip from the roof (_boinne snithe_), had fallen and
gone right through them. The woman said the dream meant he was a laird
of land (_ceannard fearainn_) and would get back his own. On this he
came to Mull, and having got men, of whom seven were from Dervaig,
the baldheaded black fellow, (_gille maol dubh_) afterwards known as
Grizzled Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) being one of them with him, went to
Coll. His companions vowed to kill whatever living (_beò_) they fell
in with first, after landing in Coll. Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) had a
mark on the forehead by his having fallen on the edge of an iron pot.
His foster-mother (_muime_) was gathering shellfish (_buain maoraich_).
He went to speak to her, when he came behind her as she stumbled, and
she exclaimed, “God be with MacLean” (“_Dia le Mac-’illeathain_”), “My
loss that MacLean is not alive” (“_Mo sgaradh nach bu mhairionn do
Mhac-’illeathain_”). When pressed to explain herself she said, “Conceal
what I said: many an unfortunate word women say” (“_Dean rùn maith orm:
is ioma facal tubaisdeach their na mnathan_”), and at last he told her
his story. It had been long foretold that he would return. The Mull men
came up, and the Grizzled Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) was going to kill the
woman, according to the vow. Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) told who she
was, and her life was spared. She informed them that MacNeill sent a
servant every day from Grisipol House, where his headquarters were, to
Breacacha for news. If all was well, the messenger was to return riding
slowly with his face to the horse’s tail; if any one returned with him,
a friend was to walk on the right of the horse, a stranger (_fògarach_)
on the left; and she said that he had just left on his way home. Stout
John (_Iain Garbh_) and his companions left the Hidden Anchorage
(_Acarsaid Fhalaich_) and went to the top of the place called Desert
(_Fàsach_). They there saw the rider of the white horse at Arileòid.
Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) promised reward to any one who would
intercept him, before he reached Grisipol. The Grizzled Lad (_Gille
Riabhach_) said he would do so, if he got Dervaig, his native place,
rent free. MacLean promised this, but the lad said, “Words may be great
till it comes to solemn oaths” (_Is mór briathran gun lughadh_), made
him swear to the deed. The Grizzled Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) set off, and
above the Broad Knoll (_Cnoc Leathan_) saw the horseman at the township
of Hough. When at the Stone of Moaning (_Clach Ochanaich_), on the top
of Ben Hough, he saw him past Clabbach. He made for the road, near the
present Free Church Manse, and lay down, and pretending to be a beggar
began to hunt through his clothes. Where the Little Cairn of the King’s
Son (_Carnan mhic an Righ_) stands, the horseman came up, was pulled
off his horse and killed. The lad then waited till his companions came
up, and proceeded to Grisipol with two on each side. It was dinner
time, and his servant the Black Lad (_Gille Dubh_) brought word to
MacNeill of the party coming. His wife, looking out of an opening, said
one of the party coming looked like her son. MacNeill exclaimed, “War
time is not a time for sleep” (“_Cha-n àm cadal an cogadh_”), and went
out to give battle. In the fight the Grizzled Lad (_Gille Riabhach_)
was hard pressed by the Black Lad, (_Gille Dubh_), and sideways jumped
the stream that runs past Grisipol House at the place still known as
the Grizzly Lad’s leap (_Leum a’ Ghille Riabhaich_) to avoid the blow
of the battle-axe. The axe stuck in the ground, and before it was
recovered, the Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_), jumping back, threw off
the Black Lad’s (_Gille Dubh_) head. Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) was hard
pressed by MacNeill himself, and both were out in the sea at the foot
of the stream.

“Disgrace on you MacLean, though it is enough that you are being
driven by the son of the skate-eating carl” (“_Miapadh ort, a Mhic
’illeathainn, ’s leoir tha thu gabhail iomain roimh Mhac bodach nan
sgat_”), said the Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) coming up to them, and
then calling to MacNeill, “I am not in a mood to deceive you, there
they are behind you” (“_Cha bhi mi ’m brath foille dhuit, sin iad agad
air do chùlthaobh_”), and when MacNeill turned round the Grizzly Lad
(_Gille Riabhach_) threw off his head with the axe. The MacNeills fled
and were beset and killed in the Hollow of bones (_Slochd-nan-cnàmh_)
in the lower part of Grisipol Hill (_Iochdar Beinn Ghrisipol_). They
then returned to Grisipol, and MacNeill’s widow, Stout John’s (_Iain
Garbh’s_) mother, held up her child a suckling (_ciocharan_), that
Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) might spare him and acknowledge his own
half-brother. He was for sparing it, but the Grizzly Lad (_Gille
Riabhach_) told him to put the needle on the ploughshare (_cuir an
t-snathad air a’ choltar_). The child was killed.

An additional if not a different account is:

Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) first of Coll, when a boy, was obliged to
fly from Coll to Dowart, and his mother married MacNeill of Barra.
When he came of age, and was for making good his claim to his native
island, in raising the clan he came to a widow’s house in Dervaig. She
said her other sons were away, or they would be at his service, and
she had only a big stripling of a grizzly looking lad (_Stiall mòr de
ghille riabhach_) if he choose to take him. He took him, and it was
well for him he did. It is said that this family of whom the Grizzly
Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) was one, and whose services were at MacLean’s
command, were Campbells. MacNeill kept a man with a white horse at
Arinagour, and if the MacLeans were heard to land in the island, he
was to ride off at full speed to Breacacha. If anything was wrong the
messenger was to turn his head to the horse’s tail when he came in
sight of Breacacha. The Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) took across the
hill, where there is now a straight road, and intercepted this rider.
On hearing from him that MacNeill was at Grisipol, he suddenly leapt
behind him on the horse, and killed him with his dirk. He rode back to
his own party, and then slowly to Grisipol where the MacNeills were at
dinner.

MacLean and his men were faint and weary for want of food. They had not
tasted anything since they left Mull. They entered a tenant’s house and
asked food. The man had nothing for them, once he had enough, but since
the MacLeans had left the island, he had come to grief and poverty. He
said to Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) his heart warmed to him, he was so
like his ancient masters. On learning who they were he gave all the
milk he had to them.

At the fight at Grisipol, the Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) was hard
pressed by MacNeill’s body servant, who was armed with a battle-axe.
On the margin of the stream, as the axe was raised to strike down, he
leaped backwards, and upwards, across the stream, and the place of
the leap is still known as the ‘Grizzly Lad’s leap’ (_Leum a’ Ghille
Riabhaich_). The axe went into the ground, and before MacNeill’s man
could defend himself the Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) jumped back and
threw off his head.

Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) himself was hard pressed by MacNeill, and
driven to the beach. The Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) came to his
rescue. MacNeill’s wife cried out to Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) her son
by her first marriage, that his enemies were coming behind him. The
Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_) called out to him to watch his enemies
in front, and he would watch those behind.

MacNeill and his men were killed. The Grizzly Lad (_Gille Riabhach_)
said he would take to flight and pretend to be one of the MacNeills,
of whom another party was coming to the rescue from Breacacha. He fled
and made signals to the MacNeills to fly. They fled to a cave near the
Hidden Anchorage (_Acarsaid fhalaich_) where their bones are still to
be seen.

When Stout John (_Iain Garbh_) entered Grisipol house, his mother
stood before him with a child, his half brother, on her shoulder.
She told him to look at his young brother smiling at him. Stout John
(_Iain Garbh_) was for sparing the infant but the Grizzly Lad (_Gille
Riabhach_) warned him, the child if spared to come of age would avenge
his father’s death, and he himself stabbed the infant with his dirk on
his mother’s shoulder.




BROWNS OF TIREE.

(_Clann-a-Bhruthain_).


The Browns of Tiree at the present day are called _Brunaich_, sing.
_Brunach_, evidently a word not of native origin, and likely an
adaptation of the English Brown. Brown as the name of a colour is an
English word but not Gaelic, the Gaelic for it being _donn_, hence
as a clan name many affirm that the Brown of the present day is a
corruption or modification of _Bruthainn_ certainly the older name,
and till very recently, the name given to a sept or portion of the
Browns. There are also many who maintain that the oldest form of all is
_Mac-’ill-duinn_. Other explanations are also put forward in behalf of
the origin of the name, but none of them are satisfactorily conclusive.
The following story of how the Browns came first to Tiree is a
tradition as like to be true as any other. It was heard from a native
of the island, well acquainted with the traditions of his countrymen.

The wife of MacLean of Dowart was a daughter of the Lord of the
Isles. Her father on visiting her at Aros had found her destitute of
table-linen, and on her being spoken to on the subject, she said that
there was no place on the estate where lint could be grown. Her father
then gave her the island of Tiree as a good flax-growing country, that
she might not be open to that reproach any longer. In this way the
island of Tiree remained in the possession of the Dowart family till
the forfeiture of the clan towards the end of the seventeenth century.
The MacLeans seem to have ruled the island with a rod of iron. There
is still shewn the hillock called the Bank of the Gallows (_Bac na
Croiche_), where the man who came in last with his rent at collection
time was hanged. A party of strong men called ‘MacLean’s attributes’
(_buaidheanan Mhic-’illeathain_) but more correctly oppressors and
bullies, were kept in the island to overawe the people.

This wife of Dowart, with her galley and men, was at Croig in Mull,
awaiting for a passage across to Tiree. When the men were getting the
galley in order, a big strong man was observed making his way to the
boat. His appearance was that of a beggar, with tattered and patched
garments (_lùirichean_). He quietly asked to be allowed a passage with
them. The master of the boat gruffly refused, saying, that they would
not allow one like him to be in the same boat with their mistress, but
the beggar said that his being there would make no difference, and
asked the favour of getting a passage from her. She gave him permission
and he seated himself at the end of the boat furthest from her to avoid
giving trouble to her. The day was becoming boisterous; it was not
long till the master said that the wind was becoming too high, and the
day unlikely. A heavy sea was shipped wetting the Lady of Dowart, and
the beggar said to the master, “Can you not steer better than that?”
The master said “Could you do better?” The beggar replied “It would not
be difficult for me to do better than that at any rate. Show me the
direction where you wish to go,” and on it being shewn to him he added
“I think you may go on that you will make land.”

“What do you know?” the other said, “it is none of your business to
speak here.”

The Lady then spoke, and said to the beggar, “Will you take the boat
there if you get the command of it?” He said he would, and she gave
orders to let him have the command. He sat at the helm and told them
to shorten sail, and make everything taut, and now, the boat did not
take in a thimbleful of water. They made for Tiree, and the place come
to was the lower part of Hynish, at the furthest extremity of the
island. The first place of shelter which the beggar saw, he let the
boat in there. The little cove is still known as the Port of the Galley
(_Port-na-Birlinn_) on the south side of _Barradhu_ where the present
dwellings belonging to the Skerryvore Lighthouse are. The company
landed safely, and on parting the Lady of Dowart told the beggar man
to come to see her at Island House, where the residence of the Dowart
family was at that time, and which is still the proprietory residence
of the island. The name Island House is derived from its present site
having been formerly surrounded by the water of the fresh-water lake
near it. It communicated with the rest of the island by means of a
draw-bridge, but there being now no necessity for this safeguard the
space between the house and the shore has been filled up, and the
moated grange has become like ordinary dwelling houses. The stranger
wandered about for some time, and then went to the Island House and was
kindly received. After a day or two, he thought it would be better to
get a house for himself, and the Lady of Dowart said that she would
give him any place that he himself would fix upon. Apparently the
island was not much tenanted then, and according to the custom of the
time, he got a horse with a pack-saddle on, and on the ridge of the
saddle (_cairb na srathrach_), he put the upper and lower stones of a
quern (_bràthuinn_), one on each side of the horse, secured by a straw,
or sea-bent rope, and wherever the rope broke it was lucky to build the
house there. The beggar-man’s quern fell at Sunny Spot (_Grianal_), now
better known as Greenhill. He built a bothy there, and a woman came to
keep house for him. By her he had a son, whom he would not acknowledge.
When the child was able to take care of itself she went again to him
with it that she might be free. He still refused to receive the child
and told her to avoid him. She then thought as she had heard from
him before where he came from, that she would go with her son to his
relatives in Ireland. When she arrived there the child’s grandfather
received her very kindly. She stayed with him till her son had grown to
manhood (_gus an robh e ’na làn duine_). As she was about to return the
grandfather said to his grandson, “Which do you now prefer, to follow
your mother, or stay with me?” The lad said he would rather follow his
mother, and risk his fortune along with her. They came back to Tiree
again, and the son would give no rest till they went to see his father.
When they reached the bothy the mother said “you will surely receive
your son to-day though you would not acknowledge him before.” But he
would not any more than at first. His son then took hold of him, and
putting his knee on his breast, said, “before you rise from there you
will own me as your lawful son, and my mother as your married wife.”
He did this and was set free. They then lived together and built a
house, and houses, and increased in stock of cattle. One wild evening
in spring, when they were folding the cattle, they observed a stout
looking man of mean appearance coming from Kilkenneth, still a township
in that part of the island, and making straight for the house.

“I never saw a bigger man than that beggar,” said the son.

“He is big,” the father said, “I well know what man it is; he is coming
after me, and I will lose my life this night, I killed his brother, but
it was not my fault, for if I had not killed him, he would have killed
me.”

“Perhaps you will not lose your life to-night yet,” said the son, “be
kind to him, and when he has warmed himself, ask him to go out with us
to kill a cow, for the night is cold.”

The stranger came in and was made welcome. The old man then said since
there was a stranger, and the night chilly, they better take a cow and
kill it. They went out and brought in the cow. The young man said to
the stranger, “Which would you rather, take the axe, or hold the cow’s
horn?” (_Co dhiu b’ fhearr leis an tuath na ’n adharc_). The stranger
chose to hold the horn, and the blow by which the beast was felled was
so sudden and unexpected that the stranger fell with it. The youth
immediately fell upon him and kept him down, saying, “You will only
have what you can do for yourself, till you tell why you came here
to-night (_Cha bhi agad ach na bheir thu g’ a chionn gus an aidich thu
’de thug so an nochd thu_). He told word for word how he came to avenge
his brother’s death. (_Dh’ innis e facal air an fhacal mar thainig e
thoirt mach éirig a bhràthair_).

“You will not leave this alive” said the young man, “until you promise
not to molest my father while you remain in the country.” The stranger
vowed, if released he would not offend anyone. He was allowed to
remain and they passed the night cheerfully and peacefully (_gu sona
sàmhach_). The stranger returned the way he came. The father and son
then settled together, and are said according to tradition, to have
been the first Browns in Tiree.

Another version of the story is, that the first settler in Greenhill
was a Campbell, and that he was the maker of those underground
dwellings (_tighean falaich_) which still exist on that farm; curious
habitations, which are unlike any building now in use, and worthy of
closer examination by antiquarians. It is said that there are buildings
with similar entrances exposed by sand blowing and covered with a great
depth of earth in Tra-vi at the distance of two miles or more further
south.

There is a precipice on the west side of Kenavara hill called
Mac-a-Bhriuthainn’s leap (_Leum Mhic-a-bhriuthainn_) which one of this
sept of Browns is said to have jumped across backwards, and which no
one has since jumped either backwards or forwards. The one who took
the jump is said to have been chased by a wild ox, which pushed him
over the hill, and if he had not been a man of steady eye and limb, the
fall would have ended in sure destruction. The place where he leapt
was a ledge in the face of a precipice where the slightest overbalance
or weakness, would have precipitated him several hundred feet into a
dangerous and deep sea. No trained tightrope dancer ever required more
sureness of eye and limb than must have been brought into action in
this leap.

In the top of the same hill (Kenavara) there is a well, Briuthainn’s
Well (_Tobar Mhic-a-Bhriuthainn_), which is said to have its name from
the first who came to the island having, in his wanderings, subsisted
on its water and wild water-cress.




THE STORY OF MAC-AN-UIDHIR.


The name Mac-an-Uidhir is not borne by any person now living, so far
as the writer is aware. Like many other names it may have been changed
into MacDonald, or some other clan-name. When a person changed his name
to that of some other clan, or powerful chief, he was said to accept
the name and clanship (_Ainm ’sa chinneadhdas_). This name must, at
one time, however, have been common. The ford between Benbecula and
South Uist is called “The ford of the daughter of Euar” (_Faoghail Nic
an Uidhir_), and Nic-an-Uidhir is also named by the Lochnell bard as a
sister of Headless Stocking (_Cas-a’-Mhogain_), a well-known witch, who
lived so long ago as when Ossian the poet was a boy (_giullan_).

    “Did ever you hear mention
    Of Rough Foot-gear daughter of Euar?
    She was young in Glenforsa,
    When Ossian was a young boy;
    She was going about as a slip of a girl
    With Headless Stocking her sister.
    I am a wretched creature after them
    Not knowing what became of them.”

    (“An cuala sibhse riamh iomradh
    Mu Chaiseart Gharbh, Nic an Uidhir?
    Bha i òg an Gleann Forsa
    Nar bha Oisean ’na ghiullan;
    Bha i falbh ’s i ’na proitseach
    Le Cas-a’-Mhogain a piuthar.
    ’S mise an truaghan ’nan déigh
    ’S gun fhios gu de thainig riu.”)

The person of whom the following story is told, lived at Hynish in
the island of Tiree, and had become engaged to a young woman in the
neighbourhood. Between the espousal and marriage, the engaged couple
went with a party of friends for a sail to Heisker, near Canna.
The men of the party went ashore seal-hunting and one of the young
woman’s disappointed suitors took advantage of the opportunity to get
Mac-an-Uidhir left behind, and coming back to the boat told that the
intending bridegroom had been drowned. By this lie he hoped to make the
bride despair of seeing her intended any more, and by renewing his own
attentions, to get her to consent to accept himself. She, however, not
believing that he was dead, said that she would marry no one for a year
and a day from the date of his alleged drowning. [Heisker means high
rock,[6] and this one, near the island of Canna, is called the High
Rock of Windlestraws (_Heisgeir nan Cuiseag_). It has no one living on
it. At the present day a few young cattle are grazed upon it, and a
boat comes for them in spring from Canna, which lies to the N.E. It is
not otherwise visited except once or twice a year by seal-hunters.]

At first, Mac-an-Uidhir subsisted on birds and fish eaten raw; after
his powder and shot were expended, he had to keep himself alive upon
whelks, or whatever he could get along the shore, principally whelks.
This sort of shellfish is said to keep a person alive though he should
have no other means of subsistence, till he becomes as black as the
shield or wing of the whelk (_co dubh ri sgiath faochaig_). The
abandoned and castaway youth lived in this way for three quarters of a
year; but at last he got away from the islet, and for the last three
months of the year was making his way home. He arrived on the night
on which the marriage of his intended to his unscrupulous rival was
to take place. He went to the house of his foster-mother, who did not
know him, his appearance through his privations having becoming so much
changed, and, he having asked to be allowed to remain for the night,
she said she was alone, and could not let a stranger like him stay. She
also told of the festivities in the neighbourhood, and said that he had
better pass the night there. He asked the occasion of the festivities:
she told him how her foster-son had been drowned, and supplanted, and
that this was the night of his rival’s marriage, saying, “If they are
happy I am sad, another one being in the place of my foster-son” (_Ma
tha iadsan subhach tha mise dubhach dheth, fear eile bhi dol an àite
mo dhalta_). She then added, “this time last year, he perished when he
went with a party to hunt seals in Heisker; his intended vowed that she
would not marry for a year, in the hope of his returning, as she had
not been quite satisfied that he had been drowned, and to-night the
time is expired.” “Let us go” he said, “to see them.”

“You may go,” she replied, “but they are near enough to me as it is.”
He then asked her if she did not recognise him, and told who he was,
but she refused to believe him, saying her dear child (_mo ghràdh_)
could not be so much altered in the time. He put the matter out of
question by asking if she would know her own handiwork, and shewing
what was left of the hose (_osain_) she had given him, to convince her.
When she saw the labour of her own hands (_saothair a làmh fhéin_),
she joyfully welcomed him, and went with him where the marriage party
were. Those who were there were surprised to see her arrival, knowing
the sad state in which she was at this time of year, through the loss
of her foster-child. They, however, received the stranger as well as
herself with the utmost kindness. The bride made the remark, when the
stranger turned his back, that he was like Mac an Uidhir but when his
face was towards her he appeared like a stranger whom she had never
seen before; but that her heart warmed towards him. The custom was then
gone through of the stranger drinking out of the bride’s glass, and
Mac-an-Uidhir when doing this, slipped a ring into the glass, which,
she immediately recognised as that of her first lover. The whole matter
was then upset, and the party for whom the preparations were made were
dispersed, and the bride followed the fortunes of her first lover.

Of a song made by the foster-mother to Mac-an-Uidhir, when he was
reported to have been drowned, and was looked upon as dead, the
following verses have been preserved. In the translation the literal
words are given, but no attempt is made at reducing them to the rhyme
which is essential in English poetry.

    “Thou good son of Euar
      Of generous and noble heart
    At one time little I thought
      It would ever happen
    That you would be drowned
      And your boat return empty
    While its irons would last
      And repair was not needed
    While its stern-post stood,
      Its sides and prow,
    While yards would hold out,
      Or a fragment of its oak.
    Your well ordered new plaid
      Is on the surface of the grey waves
    Your head is the sport of the little gull
      And your side of the big gull;
    Your sister is without brother
      And your mother without son
    Your bride without husband
      And poor me without god-son.”

    Ach a dheagh Mhic an Uidhir
      ’G an robh an cridhe fial farsuinn
    Bha mi uair ’s beag shaoil mi
      Gu ’m faodadh sid tachairt
    Gu ’m biodh tus’ air do bhàthadh
      ’S do bhàta tighinn dachaidh
    Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn
      ’S nach iarradh i calcadh
            Thùg horoinn O.

    Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn
      ’S nach iarradh i calcadh
    Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-earluinn
      Agus tàthadh ’s a saidhean
    Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan
      Agus bloidhean d’a darach
            Thùg horoinn O.

    Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan
      ’S bloidhean d’a darach:
    Tha do bhreacan ùr uallach
      Air uachdar nan glas thonn
    ’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn
      ’S fuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig
            Thùg horoinn O.

    ’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn
      ’S fhuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig:
    Tha do phiuthar gun bhràthair
      ’S do mhàthair gun mhac dheth
    Do bhean òg ’s i gun chéile
      ’S truagh mi fhéin dheth gun dalta.
            Thùg horoinn O.

There is quite a modern instance, perhaps about the beginning of this
century, of a native of the islet of Ulva, near Mull, having been
driven during a snowstorm to _Heisgeir-nan-Cuiseag_ (High Rock of
Windlestraws) and passing the winter there alone till he was taken off
early in the following summer. He, too, must have subsisted on whelks
and what he could get along the shore. He was going home from Tiree.

Anxious to be at home at the New-year O.S., he, with a companion,
left Tiree, and before going far a snowstorm came on, and the wind
increased in violence till they were driven they did not know where.
The companion got benumbed and died in the boat. It could only be said
by the survivor that they passed very high rocks on some island.

The boat was cast ashore on Heisker, and the poor man left in it had to
pass the winter as best he could, without food or shelter.

The islet is too distant from Canna for him to have been observed by
any signal he could make.


  NOTES:

[6] The islet near North Uist, on which the Mona Light house is built,
is called the High Rock of the Monks, _Heisgeir nam Manach_.




STEEPING THE WITHIES.


There is an expression in Gaelic “It is time to steep the withies”
(“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad_”), meaning, it is time for one to
leave or make his escape from the company he is in. This expression
is said to have arisen in this way. A little undersized man and good
archer was sitting on a stool by his own fireside, when enemies intent
on securing his person came in to the house. He sat quietly, but
his wife going backwards and forwards through the house, and being
ready-witted, when she understood the character of the intruders,
gave a slap on the ear to her husband saying, as if he were merely
the herd boy, “It is time to steep the withies” (“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi
bogadh nan gad_”). He immediately left the house, and she managed to
put his bow and arrows out at the window. He having stationed himself
in a favourable locality did not allow a single one of his enemies to
leave the house without killing them with his arrows, one by one as
they came out at the door. Regarding the truth of this story it is
noticeable, that uniformly throughout the Highlands the expression, “It
is time to steep the withies” (“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad_”),
means, not that it is time to prepare for action, but that it is time
for one to make himself scarce. A story of the same kind is told of
King Alfred the Great, that he escaped from his enemies in somewhat
the same way. In olden times the harnessing of animals for carrying
burdens, ploughing, etc., was done by means of withies made of willow,
sea-bent,[7] or other accessible material, iron being scarce and
difficult to procure, and these withies had to be steeped before work
with them was commenced. It required a good deal of acquaintance with
the work before the horse was fully equipped with pack-saddle, creels,
and other equipments for which withies were necessary, and the only
means available. The names of some of these withies still survive _e.
g._ the _Gad-tarraich_ is the Gaelic name still in use, although the
material is leather, and not withies, to denote a belly-band.


  NOTES:

[7] Tough Grass growing by the shore.




LITTLE JOHN OF THE WHITE BAG.

(_IAIN BEAG A’ BHUILG BHAIN_).


This doughty little archer was attached to the family of the
MacLachlans of _Coruanain_, or little Lamb-dell, near Fort-William, on
the borders of Inverness-shire and Argyleshire. He derived his name
from his carrying a white bag of arrows, which he was very skilful in
the use of. In far off and unsettled times, when a foray or _creach_
was being taken from _Coruanain_, one of the raiders, having met
little John, said, “Little John of the White Bag, I will mount the
hill side quicker than you” (_Iain bhig a’ Bhuilg Bhàin, bheir mise am
fireach dhiot_). In a struggle it is always an advantage, even when
other things are even, to have the higher position on a hill side.
Little John replied, “The hand of your father and grandfather be over
you, White Stirk, I will put the Brankes (or Iron Gag) on you (”_Làmh
d’ athair ’s do sheanair ort, a Ghamhain Bhàin cuiridh mise biorach
ort_“). The _biorach_, branker, was a spiked iron gag, or instrument
set with pointed iron pins, fixed round the head of calves to keep
them from sucking. The expression “The hand, &c., be over you” was a
common expression, meaning much the same as the English “Look out,”
or “Take care of yourself.” Saying this, Little John let fly an arrow
which struck the other in the forehead, toppled him over, and put an
end to the discussion.




THE KILLING OF BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.

(_AONGHAS MOR MAC’ILL’-EOIN_), BIG ANGUS, SON OF JOHN, AT COR-OSPUINN
IN MORVEN.


In Ardnamurchan, where the district of Kintra commences, there is a
streamlet that falls into Loch-Moidart, which lies along the north of
Ardnamurchan, called _Faoghail Dhòmhnuill Chonalaich_. This streamlet
derives its name from Donald MacDonald, or MacConnell, having been
slain there under the following circumstances. Tradition is uniform
as to the incident which gave its name to the place, and as to the
circumstances under which the murder was committed. Donald was the
heir to the chieftainship of Ardnamurchan, but his uncle, Big Angus,
wishing to secure the estate for himself, waylaid his nephew at the
ford mentioned, which is very difficult to jump across when the tide
is in, as he was on his way to be married to a daughter of the then
Chief of Lochiel. While Donald was jumping across the ford, one of
Big Angus’s men shot an arrow in his face, so that when he touched
the ground on the other side, he staggered and reeled. Before he fell
prostrate Big Angus said that he would wonder if his nephew would dance
as merrily at his marriage with the daughter of the One-eyed Chief of
meat-broth (_saoil an dannsadh tu co cridheil sin air banais nighean
Cham-na-eanraich_). The meaning of this nick-name given to the Chief of
Lochiel is a covert allusion to the cattle-lifting of Lochiel. Before
the introduction of tea, extract of meat was largely made use of, and
even meal was mixed with it for those in strong health, but weak, and
even chicken broth, was given to those who were in delicate health.
Some say that the Chief referred to was _Ailein nan Creach_ (Allan the
Cattle-lifter), who derived his name from the number of cattle-spoils
that he lifted. Lochaber being a wild and remote district was not
unnaturally a place to which cattle forays were taken when people
sought “the beeves that made the broth” in other localities.

In Gregory’s History of the Western Islands _Dòmhnull Conalach_ is
called John, probably from the Chiefs of Ardnamurchan being known as
Mac-’ic-Iain, the son of the son of John, and mention is made of his
murder. Several families who have in recent times come to Coll from
Ardnamurchan call themselves Johnstones.

Big Angus himself had a house near Strontian strongly fortified
according to the ideas of those days. It was surrounded by a deep ditch
(_Tigh daingean dige_) and what is now called a moated Grange. On
hearing that Lochiel with a strong band of followers was on his way to
avenge the death of the young Chief of Ardnamurchan, Big Angus fled,
but he was closely pursued by the avengers. Having come to Cor-ospuinn
in Morven he looked behind him, when the sun was rising, to see if his
pursuers were coming. Lifting his helmet and shading his eyes with his
hand when looking intently sunwards, one of the pursuers, a little
man, remarked, “Would not this be a good opportunity for killing
him?” Another answered, “It is not your trifling hand that would slay
the powerful man.” (_Cha ’n i do làmh leibideach a leagadh an duine
foghainteach_). The little man replied, “Would not an arrow do it”
(_Nach deanadh saighead e_), saying this, he launched an arrow which
struck Big Angus in the forehead and killed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

  NOTES:

BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.

(_Aonghas mór Mac ’ic Eoin_)

 The incidents of this story occurred about 1596. The house of the
 redoubtable Angus was at _Ath na h-éilde_ (Ford of the Hind (deer)),
 opposite _Druim-nan-torran_ (The Ridge of Knolls), near _Sròn an
 t-sìthean_, Strontian, the Promontory of the Fairy Dwelling. He had
 a bad wife, who was continually urging him to make himself Chief of
 the clan, and it was at her instigation that he waylaid his nephew at
 Kintra. On hearing that the Chief was to be married to the daughter
 of Lochiel, his wife warned big Angus that he would yet be reduced to
 draw the peat creels (_tarruing nan cliabh mòine_) for his nephew.
 Angus was the first to be at Kintra, at the river, and the first to
 cross. The guests were assembled at Lochiel for the marriage of Donald
 MacDonald, when word was brought of his having been slain. Immediately
 the assembled guests with their followers set off to take vengeance,
 and, finding Big Angus’s house deserted, they tied tinder (_spong_[8])
 to an arrow and set the moated house on fire. The place where Angus
 was slain in Morven is still called _Leac na Saighead_ (The Ledge
 of the Arrow), and the archer was _Iain Dubh Beag Innse-ruith_
 (Little Black John of Inch-rui). Big Dugald MacDonald (_Dughal mòr
 MacRaonuil_), of Morar had his hand similarly fastened by an arrow to
 his forehead.

[8] Amadon--made from a fungus. A.C.




THE LAST CATTLE RAID IN TIREE.


It seems to have been a kind of raid or robbery to which the island of
Tiree was particularly liable. Plunderers and pirates, having chosen
a suitable day when the seas about the island were at rest, and the
cattle could be easily got on board the galley, or _birlinn_, carried
on depredations far and wide on the island. Once the cattle were got
by them on board the galley, they looked upon themselves as safe from
pursuit.

There are two traditions in existence of the island having been so
visited, and their fate will illustrate the manner in which, in
unsettled times, such expeditions were conducted. The last foray of the
kind was not successful, but the cattle and sheep were collected for
taking away. The people got warning in time, and the cattle-lifters had
to make their escape, leaving their booty behind them.

The last successful foray was in the days of the Tanister of Torloisk,
and seems to have been only sometime previous to or about the ’45.
The account which tradition gives of it is that the Tanister, or
second heir (_proximus haeres_), of Torloisk in Mull was called Malise
MacLean. His first name is somewhat peculiar, and not common among
the MacLeans or any other West Highland clan, and was given to him in
this manner. The heir of Torloisk was a promising healthy boy, but the
succeeding children of the then chief were dying young. The Chief was
then advised by the sages of his race to give to his child the name of
the first person whom he met on the way to have the child baptized.
The first person encountered was a poor beggar man who had the name
of Malise. A name given in this way was known as _ainm rathaid_, or
road name, and was deemed as proof against evil. The father gave this
name to the child who survived and became Tanister. Being without the
prospect of an estate the Tanister thought he would come to Tiree, and
piece by piece get an estate for himself. He came to have the half,
third, or other share of the town-ship of _Baile-meadhonach_, now
called Middleton, in Tiree, and married, and his descendants are still
known.

One day, a galley, with sixteen men on board (_Bìrlinn ’s sea fir
dheug_), came to Soraba beach. The men landed and collected every live
animal that was about the place. At the time, the Tanister happened
to be fishing at the rocks in Kenavara Hill, and on coming home soon
after and hearing what had been done, he called to his neighbours
asking them what they meant to do, were they going with him to turn
the raid (_creach_). They all refused for fear of being killed, as the
freebooters were a strong party. He said, “I will not do that; I prefer
to fall in the attempt (_tuiteam ’s an oidhirp_), rather than let my
cattle be taken.” He took with him his sword and followed the spoilers.
When he came to the end of the pathway and within sight of the galley,
he stood before the creach. The freebooters told him to leave the road
or he would feel the consequences (_Gu ’m biodh a’ bhuil dha_). He
answered, “I will not leave, and the consequences will be to you, until
I get my own.” He got this as he seemed determined, and when he had
got it, he asked also the cow of a poor woman from the same township
as himself, and having got this also, he said they might do with the
rest what they liked. The plan of the robbers was to drive the cattle
to the beach, where the galley was, and throwing them down and tying
their forelegs together (_ceangal nan ceithir chaoil_), place them on
bearers, or planks, and put them in the boat. When they had done so,
they made off, and no one knew whence they had come or whither they
went. This was the last successful raid of the kind raised in Tiree.

Subsequent to this creach, and in the time of Mr. Charles Campbell
being Minister of Tiree, several galleys, or _bìrlinnean_, each with
its complement of men, and in addition each with a pretending minister
and his man, made their appearance on the coast of Tiree. In those
days every minister took his man along with him, and in this case
each minister but one took his man from the boat. Wandering open-air
preachers were in those times called hillock ministers (_ministearan
nan cnoc_), and the one to whom the story refers was to officiate at
_Ceathramh Mhurdat_, or Fourth Part, called Murdat, now embraced in the
farm of Hough,[9] and which was then thickly populated. Having sent due
intimation round of his service, most of the people were drawn to hear
him. His man was left behind to give him warning of any disturbance of
the expedition which might occur. After he had been speaking for some
time his man came in. The islanders had become aware of the nature of
the invasion. The sheep and the horses were gathered at the back of the
hill of Hough, and a band of the cattle-lifters had surrounded them for
to drive them to the shore. A number who had not got to the preaching
had observed this, and following them, took the sheep and horses from
them. Immediately, the minister’s man ran with all possible speed to
warn the preacher at Murdat. When he came to where the sermon was,
the preacher concluded, and handing the book to his man, venturing to
think that the people would not understand him, said, as if reading
a line, “MacLellan, beloved friend, where did you leave the _Shockum
sho?_”--_i.e._, the booty. (_Mhac-’ill-fhaolain, a dhuine ghaolaich,
c’ àite an d’ fhàg thu an ’seogam seoth’?_). The incomer taking the
book, and as if intoning the psalm, said, “Matters are worse than we
thought; they have taken from us the plaintive bleaters” (_’s miosa tha
na mar a shaoil: thug iad uainn an ’cirri-mèh’_): _cirri-mèh_ is but
an imitation of the bleating of sheep, and is found used in different
localities as a pet or ludicrous name for sheep.

The people sang along with the precentor. They did not know but that
the words may have been part of the psalm, when one who was smarter and
more ready-witted than the rest got up and said, “We have been long
enough here, these men are robbers, and not ministers.” The service
was concluded, the people going to look after their cattle, and the
minister and his man making their way with all speed to where the
galleys lay. Before the people could overtake them, they got on board
and made off, leaving their booty behind, and glad to escape with their
lives.


  NOTES:

[9] Pronounced Hoch.




LOCHBUIE’S TWO HERDSMEN.


This tale was written down as it was told by Donald Cameron, Rùdhaig,
Tiree, more than twenty-five years ago, and to whose happy and
retentive gift of memory it is a pleasure to recur. He had a most
extensive stock of old lore, and along with it much readiness and
willingness to communicate what he knew. In this the ludicrous element
is natural, and the events seem to follow each other as a matter of
course, so that the tale, so far as probability is concerned, may be
true enough. It is one of the few tales to which a date is attached,
and so far as history can be consulted the state of the country at
that time makes it probable enough. Loch Buie is a district lying to
the South of the Island of Mull, pleasantly situated. The tale runs as
follows:--

In 1602 Lochbuie had two herdsmen, and the wife of one herdsman went
to the house of the other herdsman. The housewife was in before her,
and had a pot on the fire. “What have you in the pot?” said the one who
came in. “Well there it is,” she said, “a drop of _brochan_ which the
goodman will have with his dinner.”

“What kind of _brochan_ is it?” said the one who came in.

“It is _dubh-bhrochan_,” (see note 1) said the one who was in.

“Isn’t he,” said she, “a poor man! Are you not giving him anything but
that? I have been for so long a time under the Laird of Loch Buie, and
I have not drank _brochan_ without a grain of beef or something in it.
Don’t you think it is but a small thing for the Laird of Loch Buie
though we should get an ox every year. Little he would miss it. I will
send over my husband to-night, and you will bring home one of the oxen.”

When night came she sent him over. The wife then sent the other away.
The one said, “you will steal the ox from the fold, and you will bring
it to me, and we will be free; I will swear that I did not take it from
the fold, and you will swear that you did not take it home.”

The two herdsmen went away. In those days they hanged a man, when
he did harm, without waiting for law or sentence, and at this time
Lochbuie had hanged a man in the wood. The herdsmen went and kindled a
fire near a tree in the wood as a signal to the one who went to steal.
One sat at the fire, and the other went to steal the ox.

The same night a number of gentlemen were in the mansion (2) at Loch
Buie. They began laying wagers with Lochbuie that there was not one in
the house who would take the shoe off the man who had been hanged that
day. Lochbuie laid a wager that there was. He called up his big lad
MacFadyen (see note 3), and said to him was he going to let the wager
go against him. The big lad asked what the wager was about. He said to
him that they were maintaining that there was no one in his court who
could take the shoe off the one who had been hanged that day. MacFadyen
said he would take off him the shoe and bring it to them where they
were.

MacFadyen went on his way. When he reached, he looked and saw the man
who had been hanged warming himself at a fire. He did not go farther
on, but returned in haste. When he came they asked him if he had the
shoe. He told them he had not, for that yon one was with a withy basket
of peats before him, warming himself. “We knew ourselves,” said the
gentlemen, “that you had only cowards.”

The lameter, who was over, said, “It is a wrong thing you are doing in
allowing him to lose the wager. If I had the use of my feet, I would go
and take his leg off as well as his shoe before I would let Lochbuie
lose the wager.”

“Come you here,” said the big lad, “and I will put a pair of feet that
you never had the like of under you.” He put the lameter round his
neck (lit. the bone of his neck), and off he went. When they came in
sight of the man who was warming himself the lameter sought to return.
MacFadyen said they would not return. They went nearer to the man who
was warming himself. The one that was at the fire lifted his head and
observed them coming. He thought it was his own companion, the one who
had gone to steal the ox, who was come. He spoke and said, “Have you
come?” “I have,” said MacFadyen. “And have you got it?” “Yes,” said
MacFadyen. “And is it fat?”

“Whether he is fat or lean, there he is to you,” and he threw the
lameter on to the fire.

MacFadyen took to his heels (lit. put on soles) and fled as fast as
ever he did. Off went the lameter after him. He put the four oars on
for making his escape. The one at the fire rose, thinking there were
some who had come to pry upon himself, and that he was now caught. He
went after the lameter to make his excuses to the Laird of Loch Buie.
The lameter was observing him coming after him, feeling quite sure
that it was the one who had been hanged.

MacFadyen reached, and they asked him if he had taken the shoe off
the man. He said they did not; that he asked him if the lameter was
fat, and that he was sure he had him eaten up before now. The lameter
came, and that cry in his head for to let him in, for that yon one was
coming. He was let in. The moment this was done, the one who had been
on the gallows knocked at the door, to let him in. Lochbuie said he
would not.

 Editor’s Note:

 The translation of lines 6 and 7 renders the Gaelic idiom exactly.
 Translated more freely into English it would run, “and the lameter
 came, and with yon terrified cry demanded admittance, saying that the
 hanged man was coming after him.”

“I am your own herdsman.” They now let him in. He then began to tell
how he and the other herdsman went to steal the ox, and that he thought
it was the other herdsman who had returned, and it was that made him
ask if he was fat. Lochbuie and his guests had much sport and merriment
over this all night. They kept the herdsman till it was late on in the
night telling them how it happened to him.

The one who went to steal the ox now came back and reached the tree
where he left the other herdsman, but found no one. He began to search
up and down, and became aware of the one dangling from the tree.

“Oh,” said he, “you have been hanged since I went away, and I will be
to-morrow in the same plight that you are in. It has been an ill-guided
object, and the tempting of women that sent us on the journey.”

He then went over and took the man off the tree to take him home. He
went away with him and never got the like, going through hill, and
through mud and dirt, till he came to the house of the other woman. He
knocked at the door. The wife rose and let him in.

“How have things happened with you?” “Never you mind, whatever; but,
alas! he has been hanged since we went away.”

The wife took to roaring and crying.

“Do not say a word,” he said, “or else you and I will be hanged
to-morrow. We will bury him in the garden, and no one will ever know
about it. And now,” he said, “I will be returning to my own house.”

The one that was in Loch Buie thought it was time for him now to go
home. He knocked at his own door. His wife did not say a word. He then
called out to be let in.

“I will not,” said the wife, “for you have been hanged, and you will
never get in here.”

“I have not yet been hanged,” he said.

“Be that as it may to you,” she said, “you will never come here.”

The advice he gave himself was to go to the house of the other
herdsman. He called out at that one’s door to let him in.

“You will not come in here. I got enough carrying you home on my back,
and you after being hanged.”

There was a large window at the end of the house. He went in at the
window. “Get up,” he said, “and get a light, and you will see that I
have not been hanged any more than yourself.” When he saw who he had,
he kept him till morning, till day came. They then talked together,
telling each other what had happened to them on both sides, and thought
they would go to Lochbuie, and tell him all that occurred to them. When
Lochbuie heard their story, there was not a year after that but he gave
each of them an ox and a boll of meal.




LOCHABUIDHE ’S A DHA BHUACHAILLE.


Ann an 1602 bha dà bhuachaille aig Lochabuidhe, ’s thàinig bean an
darna buachaille gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile; agus bean-an-tighe
stigh roimpe ’s poit aice air teine; “Dé th’ agaibh anns a’ phòit?”
ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh. “Ma ta,” ars’ ise, “deur de bhrochan
a bhios aig an duine le ’dhìnneir,” “’Dé,” ars’ an té a thàinig a
stigh, “an seòrsa brochain a th’ ann?” “Tha,” ars’ an té a bha stigh,
“dubh-bhrochan.”[10] “Nach esan,” ars’ ise, “an duine truagh? Nach
’eil thu ’toirt da dad ach sin? Tha mise an uiread so de ùine fuidh
thighearna Lochabuidhe, ’s cha d’ òl mi brochan gun fhionnan-feòla
no rud-eiginn ann. Saoil nach beag do thighearna Lochabuidhe, ged a
gheibheamaide damh ’s a’ bhliadhna; nach beag a dh’ ionndrainneadh
e e? Cuiridh mise an duine agam fhéin a nall an nochd ’s bheir sibh
dhachaigh fear de na daimh.”

’N uair thàinig an oidhche chuir i nall e. Chuir a’ bhean an so air
falbh an duin’ eile. Thuirt an darna fear, “Goididh tusa an damh
thar na buaile, ’s bheir thu thugamsa e, agus bithidh sinn saor;
mionnaichidh mise nach d’ thug mi thar na buaile e, ’s mionnaichidh
tusa nach d’ thug thu dhachaigh e.”

Dh’ fhalbh an dà bhuachaille. ’S an àm sin chrochadh iad duine tra
’dheanadh e cron, gun fheitheamh ri lagh no binn; ach anns na lathan
bha tighearna Lochabuidhe an déigh duine ’chrochadh stigh ’s a’
choille. Dh’ fhalbh iadsan ’s dh’ fhadaidh iad teine aig craoibh ’s a’
choille, mar chomharradh do ’n fhear a chaidh a ghoid. Shuidh fear aig
an teine ’s chaidh am fear eile a ghoid an daimh. Air an oidhche fhéin
bha mòran de dhaoin’-uaisle ’s a’ Mheigh[11] aig tighearna Lochabuidhe.
Bhuail iad air cur gheall ri tighearna Lochabuidhe nach robh duine ’s
an tigh aige a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an
diugh. Chuir tighearna Lochabuidhe geall riù-san gu ’n robh. Ghlaodh e
nuas air a ghille mhòr Mac Phaidean.[12] Thuirt e ris an robh e brath
an geall a leigeadh air. Dh’ fharraid an gille mòr c’ ar son a bha ’n
geall. Thuirt e ris, gu ’n robh iad ag ràdh nach robh duine ’n a chùirt
a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Thuirt
Mac Phaidean gu ’n tugadh esan dheth a’ bhròg ’s gu ’n tugadh e thuga
ann an sud i.

Dh’ fhalbh Mac Phaidean air a thurus. ’Nuair a ràinig e sheall e ’s
chunnaic e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh ’deanamh a gharaidh. Cha deach
e na b’ fhaid’ air aghaidh, ’s thill e le cabhaig. ’Nuair a ràinig e
thuirt iad ris, an robh a’ bhròg aige. Thuirt e riu nach robh, gur
h-ann a bha ’m fear ud ’s làn cléibh de mhòine air a bhialthaobh ’s e
’deanamh a gharaidh. “Dh’ aithnich sinn-fhéin,” ars’ na daoin’-uaisle,
“nach robh agad ach an gealtair.” Thuirt an clàraineach[13] a bha
thall, “Is ceàrr an rud a tha thu ’deanamh, an geall a leigeadh air;
na ’m biodh comas nan cas agam-fhéin dh’ fhalbhainn ’s bheirinn a’
chas dheth co math ris a’ bhròig mu ’n leiginn an geall air tighearna
Lochabuidhe!”

“Thig thusa so,” ars’ an gille mòr, “’s cuiridh mise dà chois nach
deachaidh riamh ’n leithid ortsa fothad.” Chuir e ’n clàraineach mu
chnàimh ’amhaich, ’s dh’ fhalbh e leis. ’Nuair thainig iad ’an sealladh
an duine a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh, dh’ iarr an clàraineach tilleadh.
Thuirt Mac Phaidean nach tilleadh. Dhlùthaich iad ris an fhear a bha
’deanamh a gharaidh. Thog am fear a bha aig an teine a cheann, ’s
mhothaich e dhoibh-san a’ tighinn. Shaoil leis gur h-e a chompanach
fhéin, am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh, a bha air tighinn. Labhair
e ’s thuirt e, “An d’ thàinig tu?” “Thàinig,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S
am bheil e agad?” “Tha,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e reamhar?”
“Biodh e reamhar no caol agad, sin agad e!” ’s e a’ tilgeadh a’
chlàraineich mu ’n teine.

Chuir Mac Phaidean na buinn air, ’s theich e co làidir ’s a rinn e
riamh. Leum an clàraineach air falbh as a dhéighinn, chuir e na ceithir
raimh[14] orra gu teicheadh. Dh’ éirich am fear a bh’ aig an teine,
agus dùil aige gur h-e feadhainn a thainig a dh’ fharcluais air fhéin
a bh’ ann, ’s gu ’n robh e nis a sàs. Dh’ fhalbh e as déighinn a’
chlàraineach, dhol a ghabhail a leithsgeul do thighearna Lochabuidhe.
Bha an clàraineach ’g a fhaicinn a’ tighinn as a dhéighinn, ’s e
làn-chinnteach gur h-e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh a bh’ ann.

Ràinig Mac Phaidean. Dh’ fharraid iad dheth an d’ thug iad bròg bharr
an duine. Thuirt e nach d’ thug, gu ’n dubhairt e ris-san an robh
an clàraineach reamhar, ’s gu ’n robh e cinnteach gu ’n robh e air
’itheadh aca roimhe so.

Ràinig an clàraineach ’s an glaodh ud ’n a cheann, esan a leigeadh
a stigh, gu ’n robh am fear ud a’ tighinn. Leigeadh a stigh e. Am
buileach a bha e stigh, bhuail am fear a bh’ air a’ chroich ’s an
dorus, esan a leigeadh a stigh. Thuirt fear Lochabuidhe nach leigeadh.
“Is ann a th’ annam,” ars’ esan, “am buachaille agaibh fhéin.” Leig iad
’an so a stigh e. Bhuail e so air innseadh dhoibh mar chaidh e-fhéin
’s am buachaille eile a ghoid an daimh; gu ’n do shaoil esan gur h-e
’m buachaille eile a bha air tilleadh leis an damh, gur h-e ’thug air
a dh’ fheòraich an robh e reamhar. Bha spòrs is fearas-chuideachd
anabarrach aig tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s aig ’uaislean air a so fad
na h-oidhche. Chum iad aca am buachaille gus an robh e ro-fhada dh’
oidhche ’g innseadh naigheachd mar a dh’ éirich dha.

Thàinig so am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh. Ràinig e ’chraobh aig an
d’ fhàg e ’m buachaille eile ’s cha d’ fhuair e duine. Bhuail e air
siubhal sìos ’s suas; mhothaich e ’n slaod ud nuas ris a’ chraoibh.
“O,” ars’ esan, “tha thusa air do chrochadh bho ’n a dh’ fhalbh mise,
’s bithidh mise am maireach air an ruith air am bheil thu fhéin. ’S
e an turus mi-shealbhach, ’s buaireadh nam ban, a chuir sinne air an
turus.”

Ghabh e null ’s thug e’ n duine bhàrr na croiche g’ a thoirt dachaigh.
Dh’ fhalbh e ’s cha d’ fhuair e leithid dol roimh mhonadh ’s roimh
pholl ’s roimh eabar riamh; mu dheireadh ràinig e tigh na mnatha bha ’n
duine air a chrochadh aice. Bhuail e ’s an dorus; dh’ éirich a’ bhean
’s leig i stigh e. “Ciamar a dh’ éirich dhuibh?” ars’ a’ bhean. “Is
coma leatsa co-dhiù, mo thruaighe! tha e air a chrochadh o ’n a dh’
fhalbh sinn.”

Chaidh a’ bhean gu glaodhaich agus gu caoineadh. “Na abair guth,” ars’
esan, “air neo bithidh tu fhéin ’s mise air ar crochadh am màireach.
Tiodhlaicidh sinn anns a’ ghàradh e, ’s cha bhi fios aig duine am feasd
air. Nis (ars’ esan), bithidh mise falbh dhachaigh thun mo thighe féin.”

Ach smaointich am fear a bha ’n Lochbuidhe gu ’n robh an t-àm aige
tighinn dachaigh nis. Bhuail e ’s an dorus aige fhéin. Cha dubhairt a
bhean guth. Ghlaodh e so a leigeadh a stigh. “Cha leig,” ars’ a bhean,
“’s ann a tha thu air do chrochadh; cha tig thu so am feasd!”

“Cha ’n ’eil mi air mo chrochadh fhathast,” thuirt esan.

“Biodh sin mar a dh’ fheudas e dhuit,” ars’ ise, “cha ’n fhaigh thu
stigh so am feasd.”

Is e ’chomhairle a smaointich e air, dol gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile.
Ghlaodh e ’s an dorus aig an fhear ud, a leigeil a stigh. Thuirt am
fear ud, “Cha tig thu stigh an so; fhuair mise gu leòir ’g ad thoirt
dachaigh air mo mhuin ’s tu air do chrochadh.” Bha uinneag mhòr air
ceann an tighe ’s ghabh e dh’ ionnsuidh na h-uinneig. Thàinig e stigh
air an uinneig. “Eirich,” ars’ esan, “’s las solus ’s gu ’m faic thu
nach do chrochadh mise na ’s mò na ’chrochadh tu-fhéin.”

’Nuair chunnaic e gur e a bh’ aige, chum e aige e gu maduinn, gus an
d’ thàinig an latha. Chuir iad an so an guth ri chéile a dh’ innseadh
dhaibh mar a dh’ éirich dhaibh thall ’s a bhos; gu ’n rachadh iad gu
tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s gu ’n innseadh iad dha na h-uile dad mar a dh’
éirich dhaibh. ’Nuair chuala tighearna Lochabuidhe mar a dh’ éirich
doibh, cha robh bliadhna tuilleadh nach tugadh e damh do na h-uile fear
dhiubh, ’s bolla mine.


  NOTES:

[10] _Dubh-bhrochan_ is a thin mixture of oatmeal and water, without
meat or vegetables. This seems to have been a popular drink in olden
times. When the Lord of the Isles kept state at Duntulm Castle in Skye,
no one was admitted into the potentate’s body-guard unless he could
take the vessel (diorcal), containing the liquid, with one hand from
his companion, take his own mouthful, and pass it on to the next. In
the Island of Mull, adjoining the Sound, and opposite Ardtornish, once
the seat of the Lords of the Isles, there is a place, probably deriving
its name from some fancied resemblance to this dish, called Loch
Diorcal.

[11] Moy Castle is situated near the modern mansion-house of Lochbuie,
and the reference appears to be to it in the Gaelic text. (Ed.)

[12] MacFadyens were said by one of the clan, of whose judgment and
intelligence the writer has cause to think very highly, to have been
the first possessors of Lochbuie, and when expelled, that they became
a race of wandering artificers, (_Sliochd nan òr-cheard_--the race of
goldsmiths), in _Beinn-an-aoinidh_ and other suitable localities in
Mull. The race is a very ancient one, but it has often been noticed
that they are without a chief.

[13] _Clàraineach_ means one on boards. A person losing the use of
his limbs, and going on all fours, with boards or pieces of wood
below his hands and knees, and with which he could more easily drag
himself over the ground. When placed sitting, he could not move. In
olden times the defects of humanity, which are now relieved by many
means, were left entirely to chance or very simple aids, and were the
objects of malevolent persecution, rather than of charitable or kindly
consideration.

[14] _Na ceithir ràimh_ (the four oars)--fled upon all fours. (Ed.)




MAC NEIL OF BARRA, AND THE LOCHLINNERS.


The Lochlinners came to Barra at one time and they put Mac Neil to
flight. He escaped to Ireland, where he remained. When his sons
grew up, they heard themselves continually twitted as strangers,
and called “Barraich.” They resolved to find out the reason of this
treatment, and one day, while at dinner, they demanded from their
father an explanation of their being called by such an uncommon name
as “Barraich” (Barraidhich); but he replied that the mention of that
name caused him the deepest sorrow, and forbade them ever to mention
it in his hearing again. “We will never eat a bite nor drink a drink
again,” they said, “till we know what the word means.” He then
explained the name and told them all that happened to him and how he
had to suffer indignity and scorn as long as his powerful enemies
the Norsemen held his lands. His sons on hearing the cause of their
father’s banishment resolved to try every means in their power to
recover their inheritance. They began to fit out a galley (_bìrlinn_),
and when it was completed with masts, sails, oars, crew and compass,
and in readiness to go away, their father gave them the point to Barra
Head, and said, that if the man he left at Barra was still there, and
whose name was Macillcary (Mac’ille-charaich), he would direct them
straight to the place where they were to go to in search of their
enemies. Thus it happened (_’s ann mar sin a bhà_). They found the man
and told him who they were and the purpose for which they came. He bade
them steer for Castle Bay (_Bàigh-a’-chaisteil_) and a light on the
right-hand-side as they entered. They reached the house where the light
was, but could get no entrance. They climbed to the roof, and looking
through an opening saw a poor old man who was weeping bitterly. They
called to him that they were friends, and on admitting them he told
them how that day he had been paying his rent to the Lochlinners and
wanted a few marks of it, for this they threatened him that if he did
not return with the balance of the rent, he would receive next day at
noon a certain number of lashes. The Mac Neils then told their errand,
and the old man joyfully showed them the most direct and secret way to
the Castle, in which was a well of pure water whose source was unknown.
They took the castle, and went on to Kinloch (Ceannloch), and cleared
Vaslam as well. They then sent word to their father, who came with a
band of followers to their help, and others, native born, whom he had
formerly known, and on whose friendship he could rely, as soon as the
tidings of his return reached them, joined his band. An unacknowledged
son whom he had left, came among the rest to his assistance. This son,
from the circumstance, was known as Mac-an-amharuis (the son of doubt).
When he put forward his claim, Mac Neil replied, “If you are a son
of mine, prove it by clearing Eilean Fiaradh, before morning, of my
enemies.” “Give me the means then,” Mac-an-amharuis answered, “and I
will not leave the blood of one of the race in any part or place (_’s
cha’n fhàg mi fuil fìneig dhiubh ’an àite na’n ionad_).” Mac Neil gave
him his own sword, and that night while the Lochlinners, who had been
carousing heavily, slept soundly, he made his way and got secretly in
to the castle which stands on an inlet before Eoligarry castle, eight
miles from Castle Bay, and killed the inmates where they lay. It is
said that their bodies are still to be seen when a violent storm drifts
the sand hither and thither over the fort (_tigh-dìon_) where they were
slain. From that day Mac Neil had his own rights.




FINLAY GUIVNAC.


At the time MacLean of Dowart was proprietor of Tiree, this man,
_Fionnladh Guibhneach_, was living near a small bay, _Port-nan-long_,
in Balemartin, on the south side of the island (_air an leige deas_).
There was no other joinersmith but himself, or rather, there was none
to equal him in skill in the five islands (_anns na còig eileanan_).
Balemartin and Mannal were in those days one farm-holding, and there
were few people in the township. The change-house (_tigh-òsd_) was at
the streamlet Gedans (_amhuinn Ghoidean_), between Island House, the
proprietor’s residence, and the shore. At this time, also, there was
fosterhood (_comhaltas_) between MacLeod of Dunvegan and MacLean of
Tiree, by which they were bound to give proof of friendship for each
other at whatever cost or whenever there was occasion on either side,
and MacLeod, being in need of Finlay Guivnac’s service, came with his
boat (_bìrlinn_) to Tiree for him. He landed at _Port-nan-long_ (the
creek of sailing ships), and on reaching Island House was heartily
welcomed by MacLean. When he asked for Finlay, he was told that he had
not been at Island House for some days, “and it is not a good day when
I do not see him,” MacLean said. MacLeod said he came to take Finlay
with him for a year’s service; that all care would be taken of him,
and if no misfortune or mischance befell either of them, he himself
would bring him home at the end of the year. When MacLean heard this
he said they would go in search of Finlay. They went, and as they were
crossing the common (_an clar macharach_), between the house and the
streamlet, they met Finlay, who, having recovered from the attack of
ill-humour, was, as was usually his daily custom, on his way to Island
House. MacLeod asked after his health, and if he was yet able to do
as good work as ever. Finlay said that in place of getting weaker as
he got older, he was daily gaining in strength and vigour (_neart’s
tàbhachd_); he was more active in walking, and could see better than
he had ever done. MacLeod said he was surprised to hear that, as in
Skye people were failing in strength and activity as they became
older, “and it is curious that it is different with you.” Finlay said
he knew he was better now at walking and was gaining his eyesight, as
formerly he could jump over Sorabai stream, but now he walked to the
ford to get across; and when he was younger, if he saw a person, it
was as one, but now it was as two and three. They took Finlay with
them to the change-house. When pledging MacLean’s health, MacLeod, as
was customary, said, “Wishing to get my wish from you, MacLean” (_Mo
shainnseal ort, Mhic’illeathain_).


“You are welcome to have your wish freely gratified” (_’S e beatha le
sainnseal_),[15] MacLean replied. “My wish is that I may get Finlay
with me,” MacLeod said. In returning the compliment MacLean said, “My
wish is that I may keep Finlay to myself.” “But I do not ask to keep
him always,” MacLeod said. They then settled the wages, and agreed
between them that Finlay should go to Dunvegan, on the west coast
of Skye, for a year’s work, and lest he should be kept longer than
that time, MacLean was to go with him. When Finlay went home and told
his wife about the journey he was to take, she said to him, “You are
very foolish to go so far away, when MacLean is giving you a good
livelihood.” “I must go at any rate, and you must come with me,” he
said, and told her how he was not to remain in Skye, and that MacLean
himself was going with him to make sure he would not be kept there,
and that she was to go with them. “How can I do that,” she said, “when
MacLean will not allow a woman in the same boat with him?” “I will put
you in a hogshead,” he said, “and when we reach Dunvegan there will
be feasting and enjoyment, and when the nobility of MacLeod (_maithibh
Siol Leòid_) are gathered, you will come in among the company as a poor
woman, and I will manage the rest in such a way as that you may perhaps
earn more than myself.” She consented to this, and he put her at night
with sufficient provision in the boat. They reached Dunvegan safely
(_le deadh shoirbheachadh_). Finlay’s wife got away unnoticed from
the boat, and waited at a house near till the festivities began. When
the crew and those who came in the boat reached the castle, there was
much rejoicing; an abundant feast was provided, and company gathered,
and the usual customs when tables were spread and guests invited, were
observed. Among those who came to the gathering was a dependent of
good position, who, through some trifling cause, had lost the favour
of MacLeod. Finlay observed that he kept aloof from the company, and
having ascertained the cause, advised him to pledge MacLeod’s health,
and at the same time make his grievance known. He took the advice, and
said,

    “Esteemed was I in MacLeod’s house
    When justice sat in his land,
    And I am a forgotten son to-night
    At the time of drawing in to wine (drinking),
    But this to you, son of Dark John,
    Who came in to-day or yesterday,
    I am the son of a hero
    Who was here in the past,
    Though I cannot to-day
    Get the hill for my cattle.”

    (“Bu mhùirneach mise ’an tigh Mhic Leòid
    ’Nuair shuidh a’ chòir ’n a thìr,
    ’S mac dì-chuimhnicht’ mi ’n nochd ’n a theach
    ’An àm tarruing a steach gu fion,
    Ach sud ortsa, mhic Iain Duibh,
    A thàinig stigh an diugh no ’n dé,
    Mise mac suinn a bh’ ann riamh
    Ged nach fhaigh mi ’n diugh an sliabh g’ am spréidh.”)

“Good youth,” MacLean said, “go you to Mull and I will give you land
(_fearann_) there.” He said,

    “I was a hero’s son last year,
    But I am a son of sorrow this year;
    If I am put under a third weight,
    I will be a son of Mull next year.”

    (“Bu mhac suinn mi an uiridh,
    Ach mac mulaid mi ’m bliadhna;
    Ma chuireas iad orm tuille treise,
    ’S mac Muileach mi air an ath-bhliadhna.”)

“MacLeod’s own lands are not yet exhausted,” MacLeod said, and he
restored him to his former place and privileges, and he never had to go
to Mull or anywhere else for land.

During this time Finlay kept looking for his wife’s appearance, and
whenever he saw her in the doorway he called out to her, “Poor woman!
what has brought you here? It must be some pressing need that made you
come among the nobles of the Clan Leod to-night. Tell your story, and
sure am I they will one and all be willing to give you help, and that
they will not let you away as empty-handed as you have come.” She said
she was a poor woman who was bringing herself through life honestly as
she best could, with help from those who took notice of her poverty and
gave her charity, and that she came to the nobles of the Clan Leod,
as they were gathered at this time, to try if they would help her.
“Let your countrymen do as they like,” Finlay said, “I will give you a
calving cow (_mart-laoigh_).” MacLean looked at him in astonishment,
and it was no wonder, when he heard him give away the only cow the
poor woman in Balemartin had to the northern wife (_do ’n chaillich
thuathaich_). Everyone of the nobles present gave her a similar gift,
till she had the nine cows. When the company left, and MacLean had an
opportunity of speaking to Finlay, he said to him, “What made you give
the only cow you had to the northern wife?” “Do you know who the wife
is?” Finlay said. “What do I care what wife she is or was,” MacLean
said. “It was just my own wife who was there and got all the cows, and
you need not give her yours till you return home,” Finlay said. “And
how did you bring her here?” MacLean asked. “Ods! MacLean,” he said,
“just in the big hogshead at your feet in the galley.” “No death will
ever happen to you but to be hanged for your quirks” (_cha tig bàs
ortsa ’m feasd ach do chrochadh le d’ raoitean_), MacLean said, and
he advised him to send the cattle to Mull, till they could be ferried
to Tiree. Finlay took the advice, and sent his wife and the cows to
MacLean’s place at Benmolach, on the north-west side of Mull, and she
got them to Balemartin, where MacLean on his return home sent her his
own gift.

Finlay began his work and went on diligently with it that he might
be ready at the end of the year to return home, and MacLeod came
frequently where he was, more to hear what he had to say than to see
the progress he was making with his work. One day, happening to find
him at his breakfast, and observing that Finlay began at the back with
a shape of butter (_measgan-ìme_) that was set before him, MacLeod
asked him when he had finished, why he did not begin at the front of
it. “I took it just from back to front as was wont at MacLean’s table,
where the measures were round (_far nach biodh na measgain ’n am
bloidhean_)” On another occasion MacLeod found him paring a remnant of
cheese (_cùl càise_), and asked him when he had learned to pare cheese.
“Since I came to MacLeod’s Castle,” he said: “it was not the custom
to put a remnant on the inviting, merry, bountiful table in MacLean’s
house (_air bòrd fiughaireach, aighearach, fialaidh Mhic’illeathain_).”

When the year had expired, MacLean, as had been agreed on, went to
bring Finlay home. He was cordially received by MacLeod and was
enjoying, after his journey, the usual hospitalities prepared for
guests of his rank, when he heard the sound of Finlay’s hammer: “My
loss! (_mo chreach!_),” he said, “I have too long delayed going
where Finlay is.” When he reached him, he said, “Excuse me, Finlay, I
have been rather a long time of coming where you are.” “I know that,
MacLean,” he said,

    “The object of my contempt is the small table
    Where meanness would be (found):
    The object of my praise was the well filled table
    Where proud heroes sat.
    You did not take in Finlay Guivnac
    Nor remember him till the last.”

    (“B’e mo laochan am bòrd suaile
    Air am bitheadh na laoich mheamnach:
    Cha d’ thug thusa stigh do ghobhainn Guibhneach,
    ’S cha do chuimhnich thu e gu anmoch.”)

MacLean then asked after his welfare during the year, and said among
other things, he would like to hear what were his opinions of the women
of the MacLeod country since his coming among them. “Well, I will tell
you that,” Finlay said,

    “If all the women of the Clan MacLeod,
    Small and great, old and young,
    Were gathered in one body,
    It would be one right one I would make out of them.”

    (“Ged bhiodh mnathan Sìol Leòid,
    Beag is mòr, sean ’s crìon,
    Air an càradh ’an aona bhodhaig
    ’S e aona bhean chòir a dheanainn dhiubh.”)

“They will not be well pleased with your words.” “They will be better
pleased with my words than I have been with their ways,” Finlay said;
“I see it is time to return to Tiree,” MacLean said.

When Finlay went to get payment from MacLeod before leaving, and as
they were conversing together after settling between them, MacLeod
said he would lay a wager that the peats of Tiree would not burn so
well as the peats of Skye. “What is your opinion, Finlay?” MacLean
asked; “Shall I accept the wager?” “Well, as a matter of indifference
I will wager they will not burn as well as those of the White Moss
in Tiree (_Leòra! cuiridh mise geall uach gabh iad co maith ri mòine
Bhlàir-bhàin ’an Tireadh_),” Finlay said, and the wager was laid. “I
will try another wager,” MacLeod said, “that our dogs will thrash the
MacLean dogs.” This wager was also accepted, and MacLeod came to Tiree
with them, bringing peats and dogs with him in the galley. On putting
the wagers to the test, the Skye peat when kindled lighted brightly
with a great flare, but was soon burnt out. MacLean then asked if they
would try the Tiree kind now. As none had been brought by the servants,
and as it had previously been agreed on between them, MacLean asked
Finlay to go for them himself. Finlay said perhaps it would not be the
best that he would bring in. He went out, and gathering an armful of
peats took and steeped them one by one (_fòid an déigh fòid_) in a cask
of oil. When MacLeod saw them he said, “O man, how wet they are! (_O
dhuine, nach iad a tha fliuch_).” “The wetter they are, the livelier
they will burn (_mar a’ s fliuiche ’s ann a’ s braise iad_),” Finlay
replied, putting them on; and when they took fire they nearly burned
the house. “Did I not say they would burn better than those of Skye,”
Finlay said to MacLeod, “and you have lost the wager.” “Undoubtedly I
have,” the other replied. Next day the dog fight (_tabaid chon_) was to
be tried. Finlay rose early and gave his dogs the strongest “crowdie”
(_fuarag_, a mixture of milk and meal), and though they were smaller
when the fight began, MacLeod’s dogs could not hold one bout with them.
“It is surprising,” MacLeod said, “when one of my dogs is as big as two
of MacLean’s dogs.” “You need not be at all surprised,” Finlay said,
“those here are of the race of dogs that were in the land of the Fians
(_so sìolachadh nan con a bh’ aca ’s an Fhéinn_), and no other kind
need try their strength against them.” “If you were in the land of the
Fians, you came back, and no one need lay a wager with MacLean so long
as he has you with him.” MacLeod bade them farewell and returned home
(_Dh’ fhàg e beannachd aca ’s thill e dhachaidh_).


  NOTES:

[15] _Sainnseal_ means the giving of a free gift, or handsel.




BIG DEWAR OF BALEMARTIN, TIREE.


He was John MacLean, a native of Dowart in the island of Mull, who
fled to Jura.[16] He is said to have been the first man from that
island who settled in Tiree, and on that account was known as Dewar
(_Diùrach_).[17] He and his seven sons were alike powerful and strong
men. They held the township of Balemartin (on the south side of Tiree),
including Sorabi, where a burying ground is, and where there was at one
time a chapel to which was attached the land of Sorabi garden. At this
time the people in the island were paying rent or tax (_cìs_), but it
was found impossible to make big John Dewar submit to pay the tax. The
first time any attempt was made to compel him to pay it, he took with
him his seven sons to Island-House, the proprietor’s residence, and put
them on the sward in front of the house (_air dòirlinn an eilein_),
saying, “This is the payment I have brought you, and you may take it or
leave it.” Another attempt to enforce payment from him ended as told in
the following account:--

One day when he and his sons were ploughing, two of the sons being at
Sorabi, as there were few people in the neighbourhood, and his sons
were at some distance from him, he had to go himself to the smithy to
repair the ploughshare (_a ghlasadh an t-suic_). It was the beginning
of summer, and he left the horses in the plough, eating the wild
mustard (_sgeallan_) in the field where he was ploughing, grass and
other herbage being scant. While their father was away at the smithy,
the sons who were at Sorabi, on taking a look seawards, observed a boat
(_bìrlinn_) coming in towards the shore. It kept its course for the
small bay of boats (_port nan long_), in Balemartin, and had on board a
very strong man called “Dark John Campbell” (_Iain Dubh Caimbeul_), who
was sent to collect the tax from those in the island who were unwilling
to pay it. He had an able crew with him in the boat. They landed,
and when they reached the place where Dewar was ploughing, the first
thing they did was to seize the horses in the plough (_na h-eich a bha
’s an t-seisreach_), to take them away in the boat as payment of the
tax. When they were almost ready to be off, Dewar came in sight on his
return from the smithy. On seeing the unwelcome strangers he quickened
his steps to intercept them, and took hold of the horses to take them
back. Campbell drew his sword, bidding him be off as fast as he could
or he would put his head beside his feet. Dewar drew his own sword and
said, “Come on and do all you are able.” The fray began between them,
and Dewar was driving Campbell, Inveraray, backwards until he put him
in among the graves (_lic_) in the burying-ground, and it so happened
that Campbell stumbled on MacLean’s cross and fell backwards. Before
he could raise himself Dewar got the upper hand of him. On seeing him
fall, his men were certain that he must have been killed, and they
went away with the horses to the boat and put off to sea. “Let me
rise,” Campbell said, “and I will give you my word that I will never
come again on the same errand.” “I will,” Dewar said, “but give me
your oath on that, that it will be as that (_gu ’m bi sin mar sin_).”
Campbell gave his word, “and more than that,” he said, “I will send you
the value of the horses when I reach Inveraray.” “You will now come
with me to my house,” Dewar said, “and you need not have fear or dread;
your house-quarters and welcome will not be worse than my own, till you
can find a way of returning home.” In the course of some days Campbell
got away, and he never returned again to “bullyrag” or intimidate any
one. On reaching Inveraray he was as good as his word. He sold the
horses and sent the price to Dewar, who was never compelled to pay the
tax.


  NOTES:

[16] The cause of John Dewar’s flight to Jura is said to have been
occasioned by his having given information to MacLaine of Lochbuie
which was injurious to MacLean of Dowart, in a dispute that occurred
between them.

[17] Several of John Dewar’s descendants are at the present day in
Tiree. They are known as _na Diùraich_, one family who are descended
from the elder of his sons being cottars in Balemartin.




THE BIG LAD OF DERVAIG.


Contemporary with John Dewar of Balemartin, Tiree, the Big Lad was
living at Dervaig, Mull, with his father, Charles, son of Fair Neil
of Dervaig. This lad, as he grew up to manhood, became noted for his
great strength and prowess, as well as for his handsome person. At
the same time he was reckless and foolish. Despising his father’s
reproofs and heedless of his counsel, advice or admonitions, he went
on in his mad career until at last he purloined money from him, with
which he bought a ship and went sailing away, none of his friends knew
whither. After some years he returned home, broken-down in appearance,
empty-handed, and a complete “tatterdemalion,” having wrecked his ship
on the coast of Ireland, and lost all the wealth he had accumulated to
repay his father, who was now dead. The grieve (_an t-aoirean_) had the
land, and he went where he was. The grieve told him about his father’s
death, and advised him to go to his father’s brother, Donald, son of
fair Neil, who had Hynish, Tiree, at that time, and whatever advice
he would get from him, to follow it, and he (the grieve) would give
him clothing and means to take him there, on condition of being repaid
when he returned. As there was no other way open to him of redeeming
his past errors, he agreed to the grieve’s conditions and went to
Tiree to his uncle, by whom he was coldly received. “What business has
brought you, and where are you going when you have come here?” “To ask
advice from yourself,” he said. “Good was the advice your father had
to give, and you did not take it; what I advise you to do is, to go
and enlist in the Black Watch, and that will keep you out of harm. You
will stay here to-night, and I will give you money to-morrow morning
to take you to the regiment,” his uncle said. His uncle was married
to a daughter of MacLean, Laird of Coll. Her husband did not tell her
of his nephew’s arrival, as he was displeased at his coming. When the
Big Lad was leaving the house next morning, she saw him passing the
window and asked who the handsome-looking stranger was. On being told,
she made him return to the house, gave him food, drink, and clothing,
and on parting, money to take him on his way. He returned to Dervaig,
paid the ploughman his due, and went off to the wars. At the first
place he landed, said to be Greenock, a pressgang was waiting to seize
whoever they could get to suit the king’s service, and on seeing this
likely man they instantly surrounded him, to carry him off by force.
He turned about and asked what they wanted with him. They said, “To
take you with us in spite of you.” When he understood their intentions
he opened his arms to their widest extent and drove all those before
him, eighteen men, backwards into the sea, and left them there floating
to get out the best way they could. He then made his way till he
enlisted in the Black Watch, then on the eve of leaving for America,
where it remained for seven years. During that time the Big Lad (_an
Gille mòr_) won the esteem and commendation of his superiors in rank,
by his exemplary conduct and good bearing, as well as the admiration
and affection of his equals, to whom he was courteous and forbearing.
When the regiment was returning to England, the officers frequently
spent their leisure time, on board of the man-of-war that brought it
home, playing dice. One day, when they were at their games, the Big Lad
was looking on, and he saw a young man, one of the English officers,
insolently, but more in jest than in earnest, striking on the ear the
colonel of the regiment, who, the Big Lad knew, was a Highlander. When
he saw the insult was not resented, he said in Gaelic to the Colonel,
“Why did you let him strike you?” (_C’ ar son a leig thu leis do
bhualadh?_). “You are, then, a Highlander,” the colonel said to him,
“and you have been with me for seven years without telling me that you
are.” “If you would do what I ask you, I will make you one that he will
not do the same thing to you again,” he said to the colonel.

“What do you want me to do?” the colonel said. “That you will write out
my discharge when we reach London,” he said. “But a soldier cannot get
his discharge without an order (stamped) under the crown,” the colonel
said. “Write what you can for me and I will not plead for more,” he
said. “Anything I can write will not do you any good,” the colonel
said. “Write that itself,” he said; and he got it written. Next time
the play was going on, the Big Lad looked on, and when he saw the same
one striking the colonel again, he went to him and asked why he did
it. The reply he got was that soldiers were not allowed to question
their officers. “This is my way of excusing myself,” the Big Lad said,
giving him a blow he had cause to remember all his life, if he ever
recovered from it. The soldier was sentenced to be severely punished,
but on arriving in England, he deserted--though desertion of the army
is not a custom of Highland soldiers--and became a fugitive. The great
esteem in which he was held prevented any one from hindering his
flight. He got ashore at night among the baggage, and harbour lights
not being numerous in those days, he could not easily be seen making
his escape. Whenever he got his foot on land he set off, and during the
remainder of the night he ran on flying from pursuit. In the day-time
he hid himself under hedges and haystacks, and next night fled on. On
the following day he was becoming exhausted, and he ventured to ask
food at a wayside house. As his appearance was that of a poor soldier
he got scanty fare, but he asked with civility for better food, and
it was given to him. While he was taking it two strangers came in to
the same room with him, and seeing his table well supplied while their
own was poorly furnished, one of them said, “It is strange to see a
Highland soldier with good food, while we have next to nothing,” and
he went over and swept away all the meat from the soldier’s table to
his own. The soldier called the mistress of the house and asked her who
the men were. She said they were travellers, and she asked them why
they took the meat from the soldier’s table, and told them if they had
in a civil manner asked better food for themselves they would have got
it, instead of raising a quarrel. The soldier said he would settle the
quarrel; and finding a large iron hoop (_lùbach mhòr iaruinn_) at hand,
he straightened it (a fathom in length) and flung it round the head of
the one nearest to him, then twisted it in a noose and put the other
one’s head in the remainder. He then drew them both out after him, and
left them on the high road. “Now,” he said to them at parting, “you can
travel on, for you will not come out of that tie till you are put in
a smithy fire (_teallach gobhainn_).” He returned to pay the hostess,
who said to him, “You do not appear to have much money.” “I have seven
day’s pay of a soldier left, to pay my way,” he said. “Good youth,” she
said, “here is double the amount to you, to take you on your journey,
and I am sufficiently repaid by your ridding my house of disagreeable
guests.” He took the gift thankfully, and turned his face northwards,
to come to Scotland (_Albainn_). The next evening, he saw a fine house,
to which he went in the dusk, and asked permission to warm himself. He
was allowed to enter, and while standing with his back to the fire,
the daughter of the house saw the handsome stranger, and she told her
father. He desired food to be given to him, and that he was to be sent
where he was. When she went with this request, the soldier asked who
her father was. She said he was a nobleman (_àrd-dhuin’ uasal_). “A
soldier is a bad companion for a nobleman,” he said. He went with her
and saw her father, a grey-haired man in a chair, looking about him.
The soldier was asked to sit down. After conversing some time, the old
man said, “Young man, I have a daughter here who gives me much trouble
to keep her in company. If you can play cards (_iomairt chairtean_),
take my place at the table; there is a money reward (_duais airgid_)
for every game won.” “I have no money,” the soldier replied. “I will
lend you some,” she said. The play went on till he won six games, one
after another. He then wanted to stop playing, and offered her back
all the winnings, but she would only take the sum she lent him, saying
the rest was rightly his own. He was to remain there that night, and
was not to go away in the morning without telling them. Being afraid
of pursuit, he went away at daybreak. He had not gone far when he
knew that a horseman was coming after him. He waited to see if he was
sent to get back the money he had won at the card table; but it was
a messenger with a request to him from the nobleman to return to the
castle. When he appeared the nobleman chid him for leaving the castle
unknown to him, and told him how his daughter had fallen in love with
him, and had resolved never to marry any one else. The soldier said,
“A soldier is a poor husband for her.” The nobleman was convinced that
he was not a common soldier whatever circumstances had placed him in
that position, and said he preferred his daughter’s happiness to wealth
or rank. He remained with them and married the daughter; and when he
laid aside the soldier’s dress, there was not his equal to be seen
in the new dress provided for him. He was esteemed for the dignity
of his demeanour as much as he was admired for his fine appearance,
and he lived, without remembrance of his past misadventures, in the
enjoyment of happiness and prosperity. In those days news travelled
slowly, newspapers appearing only once or twice a year in populous
villages, and they did not reach remote places. In one which came to
the nobleman at this time, there was an account of two men tied in
an iron rod (_ann an slait iaruinn_) who were being exhibited at a
market town in England. He went with the nobleman and his friends to
see this wonder, the two who were in the union (_an dithis a bha ’s a’
chaigionn_). Whenever the men saw the Highlander they said to him “If
you were dressed in the kilt, we would say you were the man who put us
in this noose.” “If you had been more civil,” he said to them, opening
the coil, “when you met me, you would not to-day be fools going through
England with an iron rod round your necks.” On this he was cheered
by the people, and if he was held in esteem before, he was much more
on his return home, where he remained and became a great man (_duine
mòr_), beloved and esteemed to the end of his life.




STORY OF DONALD GORM OF SLEAT.


Donald Gorm was at one time in the Island of Skye with his galley and
crew. When returning home to Uist, the day they set out happened to
become very stormy, and stress of weather obliged them to return and
make straight for Dunvegan, the nearest place of shelter they could
reach, where Donald Gorm was not very willing to go if he could in
any way avoid landing there, since he had killed MacLeod of Dunvegan
in a quarrel[18] which had arisen between them; but there was no
alternative. On observing the boat coming and in danger of being lost
MacLeod and the men of Dunvegan went to the shore to meet them, and
when they were safely landed gave them a kindly reception. MacLeod took
them with him to his castle and provided hospitably for them. Donald
Gorm was invited to MacLeod’s own table, but refused, saying, “When
I am away from home, like this, with my men, I do not separate from
them but sit with them.” MacLeod said, “Your men will get plenty of
meat and drink by themselves, and come you with me.” “I will not take
food but with my men,” he said. When MacLeod saw that Donald Gorm was
resolved not to be separated from his own men, and being unwilling to
let him sit with his, he asked in preference Donald Gorm’s men to his
own company. When dinner was over, drinking commenced, and MacLeod
becoming warm said to Donald Gorm by way of remembrance, “Was it not
you who killed my father?” “It has been laid to my charge that I killed
three contemptible Highland lairds (_trì sgrogainich de thighearnan
Gaidhealach_), and I do not care though I should put the allegation
on its fourth foot to-night;” Donald Gorm said, drawing his dirk:
“There is the dirk that killed your father; it has a point, a haft
(_faillein_), and is sharp edged, and is held in the second best hand
at thrusting it in the west.”[19] MacLeod thought he was the second
best hand himself, and he said, “Who is the other?” Donald Gorm shifted
the dagger to his left hand, raised it, and said, “There it is.”
MacLeod became afraid and did not revive any other remembrance. When
Donald Gorm was offered a separate room at night, he said, “Whenever
I am from home I never have a separate bed from my men but sleep in
their very midst until I return to my own house again.” They told him
that his men had a sleeping-place provided for them, and that he would
be much better accommodated by himself in the room prepared for him.
When they saw he could not be persuaded to alter his determination of
passing the night with his men, they made beds for himself and men in
the kiln (_àth_).[20] The men, being wearied, slept without care, but
Donald Gorm did not close an eye. He had a friend, somehow, in his
time of need (_caraid éiginn air chor-eiginn_), in the place, who came
secretly to the kiln where he and his men lay, and called to him, “Is
it a time to sleep, Donald?” (_An cadal dhuit, a Dhòmhnuill?_) “What
if it is?” (_’Dé na ’m b’ è?_), he answered from within the kiln. “If
it is, it will not be” (_na ’m b’ è cha bhì_), said the one outside.
“Waken men, and rise quickly,” he said to his company. They got up at
once and with all speed went out, shutting the door of the kiln behind
them when they were all through to the outside. They fled straight to
the shore and launched their boat; and fortunately for them the wind
had calmed and they were able to put out oars and row the galley some
distance from the shore before their flight was observed. They had not
gone far to sea before they saw the kiln on fire. “In place of your
father and grandfather you have left yourself without a house, and
Donald Gorm is where you cannot reach him,” Donald Gorm said, and he
got safely home to his own house without hurt or injury (_gun bheud gun
mhilleadh_).


  NOTES:

[18] The quarrel in which MacLeod was killed was caused, it is said,
by Donald Gorm’s having repudiated his wife, who was a daughter of
MacLeod, in order to marry MacKenzie of Kintail’s sister, and MacLeod
resenting the insult attacked Donald Gorm, who killed him and his two
sons by throwing them over precipices in the Coolin hills in Skye
where the skirmish took place. A different version of this incident is
given in an early account of the “Troubles in the isles betwixt the
Clan Donald and the Seil Tormot, the year 1601,” and is to the effect
that the feud was carried on by “Sir Rory MacLeod of the Herries,”
brother-in-law of Donald Gorm MacDonald of Sleat, the reprisals being
fierce and frequent until the MacLeods were beaten at “Binguillin,”
where a brother of Sir Rory and other chief men of his party were taken
prisoners by Donald Gorm, but on a reconciliation taking place they
were set at liberty. (See Gregory’s History of the Western Highlands
and Isles, p. 295).

[19] In regard to the story and incident of the dagger, there was a
song made, of which the writer has only been able to get the following
verse:--

    This is the dirk that killed your father,
    And it has not refused you yet,
    Farewell to you from the side of the channel.

    “Holoagaich h-ol-ò
    Sud a’ bhiodag a mharbh d’ athair,
    ’S cha do dhiùlt i ri thusa fhathast;
    Soraidh leat o thaobh a’ chaoil.”


[20] Kiln (_àth_) here mentioned was in a thatched house about 17 feet
long and 10 wide, the breast being about 5 feet deep, one being built
in every township for preparing corn for grinding. Some peacefully
disposed, observant old men (_bodaichean sicire foirfe_) built kilns
in their own barns, to avoid being hindered or disturbed by their
neighbours at their work.




DONALD GORM IN MOIDART.


The wife of the laird of Moidart (_Bean Mhac ’ic Ailein Mhùideart_)
once took great umbrage at Donald Gorm. He came to Mac ’ic Ailein’s
house, dressed, as was his custom, in a suit of cloth of dun (natural)
coloured sheep’s wool, with a stout oaken cudgel in his hand. The
laird’s wife happened to be the first person he met, and without any
preliminary word he asked, “Is the lad Mac ’ic Ailein at home?” (_Bheil
am balach Mac ’ic Ailein a stigh?_) “No, he is not, at this time,”
she answered indignantly resenting his superciliousness. The next
question he asked was, “Will it be a long time before he comes home?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You will tell him when he returns home, that
I was asking for him here, and that The Herd is the name I get (_gur
e am Buachaille a their iad rium_).” Mac ’ic Ailein came home soon
afterwards, and his wife told him about the bold man who was enquiring.
At her husband’s request she described the stranger’s appearance and
dress, and how “The Herd” was the name he got. “Did you ask him in?”
her husband asked. “No,” she said, “he was so impertinent.” “None but
me will pay the penalty for that,” he said, “for he was Donald Gorm of
Sleat” (_Dòmhnull Gorm Shléibhte_). Mac ’ic Ailein desired a horse to
be saddled, and he rode at full speed after, and overtook, Donald Gorm
at the inn. After much entreaty he was persuaded to return to Mac ’ic
Ailein’s house. On their arrival his wife made ample apology, and the
friendship was not broken.

Mac ’ic Ailein had to hold MacConnel, the Herd of the Isles (_Mac
Chonnuill Buachaille nan Eileinean_) stirrup at every feast and fair.




THE BLACK RAVEN OF GLENGARRY.


The boundary line between the estates of Glengarry and Kintail was, for
ages, a winding river (_amhuinn cham_, literally “crooked river”) which
often overflowed its banks, changed its course, and made encroachments
on the land, sometimes on one side and as frequently on the other,
causing disputes and quarrels, in regard to their respective rights and
limits, between the proprietors of the estates which it separated; the
tenantry (_an tuath_) on each property taking the part of their chief
when the strife ran high. In order to put an end to the quarrelling
the Chief of Glengarry (_Mac ’Ic Alasdair_) at this time insisted on
a straight line being drawn to mark the boundary between them, but
MacKenzie of Kintail would not give his assent to any proposal for
changing the old line which followed the course of the river, and the
feud broke out afresh (_bha an tabaid air a bonn a rithist_). Glengarry
had three sons, and in the skirmish that took place on that occasion
the two eldest sons were killed. The youngest having been left at home
on account of his youth, escaped the fate of his brothers. He became
known afterwards as the Black Raven of Glengarry. When he grew up to
manhood his father said to him one day, “An insulting message (_fios
tàmailteach_) has been sent to me from Kintail about the boundary line,
and I must accept the challenge and gather the men, and you must go
with us.” “If it is fighting you have in view,” said the Raven, “you
must do it yourself, for me; my two dear brothers were killed through
your foolish quarrels, and I would have been killed also if I had been
old enough to be with them at the time, but since I can now understand
how trifling the cause is, I will let yourselves be fighting.” His
father could only gather his men and go to the contest without him.
When they were out of sight, the Raven put on his best suit of armour
and took several turns round the hill to elude the notice of any
straggler who might have been left, and then set off at his utmost
speed to get in advance of his father and men. Before evening closed
he was at the head of Loch Duich, where he passed the night. Next day
he procured a plaid of MacKenzie tartan which he wrapped round him to
disguise the red badge (_suaicheantas dearg_) of Glengarry, and made
his way to the enemy’s headquarters at Donan Isle (_Eilean donnan_),
where the Kintail men were rapidly gathering to the fray. It was
customary in those days to set a large long table (_bòrd mòr fada_)
supplied with abundance of food and drink for the entertainment of the
men who assembled from far and near. The Chief sat at the head, and
every man on taking his place stuck his dirk (_biodag_) in the edge
of the table in front of him before sitting down. The Black Raven got
in among the men unnoticed, and when the Chief of Kintail came in, he
said to the man who was beside him, “I wish to sit next to Kintail.”
His appearance did not betray him, and no one objected to his request,
but when he was taking the seat beside the Chief, he threw MacKenzie
backwards on the ground and put his foot upon him to keep him down,
and the point of his dirk resting on the breast of the prostrate man.
His plaid having slipped aside, the red (_an dearg_) was exposed, and
in an instant a hundred dirks were ready to riddle him (_g’ a dheanamh
’n a chriathar-tholl_); but he said, commanding them, “The moment I am
approached, your Chief will be a dead man.” “If I fall,” he said to the
Chief, “it will be on the hilt of my own weapon, and you will never
rise--its point is on your breast, and any attempt to take my life
imperils yours. I did not come here for war but for peace, and unless
you will consent to lay aside all animosities, and solemnly promise
never to renew this quarrel, your life is forfeited. I have only to
press the hilt of this dagger, on which my hand rests, and whatever
fate awaits me you will have no more power to do harm.” Kintail agreed
to make peace, and gave his oath twice on the cold iron of the dirk on
his breast that he would faithfully keep his promise. The Black Raven,
after sharing in the hospitalities provided for the occasion, returned
home, the Chief and men of Kintail accompanying him part of the way.
When he met his father with his band of fighting men, he told them to
return home, that he had done alone more than they had ever been able
to do with all their boasting and fighting; he had put an end to their
fighting, and got a guarantee for a lasting peace without one drop of
bloodshed, and henceforth if he found any one among them making or
renewing the quarrel, he would give the Chief of Kintail full liberty
to treat them as he saw proper.

The friendship then made between the Chieftains was ever afterwards
steadily maintained by them, and the Raven became one of the most
distinguished men in the service of his country at that time.




CAILLEACH POINT, OR THE OLD WIFE’S HEADLAND,


Is one of the stormiest and most dangerous headlands on the west coast
of Scotland. From base to top it is rocky, and for a considerable
distance on each side.

It faces the Island of Coll, and commands a view of the Point of
Ardnamurchan, from which it is distant about seven or eight miles. At
its base there is a strong tidal channel which has never been known to
be dry at the lowest ebb tide. From its highest point the spectre of
“Hugh of the Little Head” is said to cross on horseback to Coll to
give warning, as he is wont to do, to any descendants of the house of
Lochbuie of their approaching end. Hugh is said to have had his head
cut off by a broad sword in one of the clan skirmishes of old times. He
has his head in a blaze of fire, and the tracks of his horse seen on
the snow shew only three legs, and the terror of children and credulous
people is increased by his being said to drag a chain after him. To the
south of the Point there is a cave, which becomes accessible only when
the tide has half fallen. Its Gaelic name is _Uamh Bhuaile nan Drogh_.
Wild pigeons tenant it, and are seen emerging when the tide has fallen.
The cooing sound of the birds heard under water seems to have led to
the name, which means, the Cave of the Cattle-fold of the fairies, and
it is noticeable that the word _Drogh_ denotes that it first received
its name from a Teutonic source, very possibly from the race that came
ultimately to tenant the Orkney islands. It is said, however, that
Dutchmen possessed the fisheries on the west coast of Scotland, and
it has been suggested that the word _Drogh_ is from Dragnet, which
they kept in the cave. The tides which sweep past this point render it
more difficult and dangerous to get past in a head wind than even the
Point of Ardnamurchan, of which the dangerous character is well known.
To the north of the Point in the direction of Croig in Mull, there is
an indentation which is called _Achlais na Caillich_ (the old woman’s
oxter or armpit) where salmon nets are set. It has been characterised
as not the armpit of a smooth woman (_Achlais na mnà mìne_) and the
story which is said to have given its name to the Headland, is, that an
old woman was gathering shell-fish in the neighbourhood when the tide
began to make, and the woman finding no other means of escape made a
last effort by climbing up the rocks. When at the top, and almost out
of danger, she said “I am safe now, in spite of God and men” (_Tha
mi tearuinte nis ge b’ oil le Dia ’s le daoine_). She was converted
into a stone forming part of the rock distinctly to be seen from the
highest point of _Cailleach_. It is said that the figure of the old
woman was very distinctly to be seen at first, and hence the name of
the Headland, but time has done its own work and the figure is not now
so unmistakable. Even the origin of the name is only known to those who
are natives of the neighbourhood.

On one occasion, the writer being himself ensconced under the side deck
of a smack, then plying to the island, heard a Tiree boatman, who was
conversing with a minister from the south of Argyleshire, and had no
fancy for the overly pious talk of the too-zealous stranger, remarking
that there was an old woman here and when she gave a snort, she could
be heard over in Coll. [“_Tha Cailleach an so ’s trà nì i sreothart
cluinnidh iad ’an Cola i._”] The minister said that that was most
extraordinary, and as it now began to rain the boatman began to exhort
him to go below, and professed much regard for the minister’s health.
At last he got rid of him.




A TRADITION OF ISLAY.


The western isles according to tradition were thinly inhabited for a
long period of years, after the defeat and expulsion of the Norsemen.
These invaders had left few of the natives alive and the land remained
desolate. The first man then who took possession of the country was
powerful John MacConnal who was called, the shepherd of the isles,
and the first of the lords of the isles (_Iain mòr Maconuil ris an
abairteadh buachaille nan eileanan, b’e ceud tighearna nan eileanan_).
He had seven sons, among whom, when they came of age, he began to
divide his possessions, but the Highlands and isles being too limited
in his opinion for division among so many, he went away to Ireland
with one of his sons, to overthrow one or more of the five kings by
whom that country was then governed, and put his son in possession of
any territory he might acquire in the contest, leaving his eldest son
in Islay, which was the first of the isles possessed by him. In this
enterprise he succeeded in seizing that part of Ireland then under the
authority of the Earl of Antrim, and gave it to his son, whose nephew
came from Islay, when some years had passed, to see him in Antrim. This
nephew during one of those visits fell in love with a noblewoman of the
country whom he asked in marriage. His proposal being agreed to, he was
requested, as was then the custom, to name the dowry he wanted with
her. His request was 700 men who had nicknames (_far-ainmeannan_) to
take with him to Islay. In those days, it is said, that great men and
nobles only had pseudonyms and he took this method of getting these and
their followers to repeople the isles, and their descendants are yet to
be found in many parts of the country as well as in the islands.


NOTES:

 Islay is separated from the island of Jura by the sound of Islay and
 lies west of Cantyre in Argyleshire. Its extent is 25 miles long and
 17 miles broad. The south west point is called the Rhinns (_an roinn
 Ileach_). The island is hilly and penetrated by an arm of the sea,
 Lochindaal, which is 12 miles long and 8 miles broad. There are good
 crops grown on the island and cattle are reared and fish is abundant
 on its coasts. A small quantity of various kinds of ore is found
 throughout the island, but its distilleries are its chief industry at
 the present day. It was in former times the chief residence of the
 Lords of the Isles, and the ruins of castles, forts, and chapels are
 numerous and interesting as records of a past age.

 The Beatons or Bethunes and MacLarty are said to have been among
 those who came from Ireland with _MacConuil_. The latter being
 descendants of grey haired Niel (_Nial Liath_) who was interpreter
 (_fear-labhairt_) for Maconnal, hence the name. It is told of Niel,
 that being at one time surrounded by his enemies in a battle, he was
 commanded to deliver his sword. “If I do,” he said, “it will be by the
 point” (_ma liubhras, ’sann an aghaidh a ranna_), and cleaving his way
 through them he escaped and joined his companions.

 After his settlement in the western island MacConnal (_Iain Mòr
 MacConuill_) is said to have divided his possessions among his
 seven sons by sending one of them John (_Iain_) to Glencoe, hence
 the patronymic Clan of the son of John of Glencoe (_Clann ’ic Iain
 Ghleann-a-comhunn_), another son Ronald (_Raonull_) was sent to
 Keppoch (_a’ Cheapaich_), one Allan (_Ailean_) was sent to Moidart
 (_Mùideart_). These were settled on the mainland in the counties of
 Argyle and Inverness, while the island of Skye was given to another
 son, Grim Donald of Sleat, (_Dòmhnull gorm Shléibhte_). Another son
 got the smaller isles, and another went to Ireland and became Earl of
 Antrim while the heir remained in Islay and held the adjacent islands
 as well as portions of the mainland. Of the 700 who returned with
 his son from Antrim to people the islands after the expulsion of the
 Norsemen, 22 were heads of families. The person from whom the writer
 heard this, now above 70 years of age, was certain that Beaton or
 Bethune was one of the names, but he had forgotten the others.




FAIR LACHLAN, SON OF FAIR NEIL OF DERVAIG.

(_Lachunn fionn mac Neill bhàin, Fear Dhearbhaig._)


At the time when Lachlan Kattanach was Chief of MacLean (_ri linn
Mhic-’illeathain Lachunn Cattanach na gruaige_), his wife (_a
bhantighearna_) dreamt about an Irish chief of the name of William
O’Power (?) (_Uilleam O’ buaidh_) and in the same way, at the same
time, this Irish Chief dreamt about her. It happened then that they
began to communicate with each other. (At that time more trade was
carried on with Ireland by these Western Isles than with any other
place.) One day MacLean discovered that his wife was keeping on a
correspondence, unknown to him, with the Irish Chief, and was much
distressed about this injury to his honour. In order to test his wife’s
affection for her secret lover, he went to her with a penknife in his
hand and said, “There is a present _O’ buaidh_ has sent you.” She
looked at the knife and said,

    “My darling who sent me the knife
    I weary at his delay in coming across the sea,
    And may I not enjoy health
    If I do love it better than the hand that holds it.”

    (M’ eudail ’chuir thugam an sgian
    ’S fhada leam a thriall thar muir,
    ’S na ’n a mheall mi mo shlàint’
    Mur docha leam i na’n lamh ’sa bheil).

MacLean was then convinced of his wife’s disgrace, and went away
and sent for his kinsman, Fair Lachlan (_Lachunn fionn_) who was
then at Hynish, and who, on receiving a message from his Chief, went
immediately to Island House. On reaching, MacLean said to him, “I sent
for you to go to Ireland; you are a clever man and you have seven sons,
go and bring me the head of O’Power, and any crime you may commit,
or any injustice you may from this time do to any one, will be over
looked by me (_tha thu ’n ad dhuine tapaidh ’s seachdnar mhac agad,
falbh ’s thoir g’ am ionnsuidh ceann Uilleam O’ buaidhe ’s aona chron
na anaceart sam bith nì thu theid a mhathadh dhuit leamsa_). Next day,
_Lachunn fionn_ with his sons set off in the galley, and before sundown
he was in Islay. The following day he was in Ireland, and asked the
first person he met for the man he was tracing (_a bha e air a luirg_).
“If you wish to see him,” the person said, “he is coming this way, in
a coach drawn by two white horses, and no one in Ireland has that but
himself.” The old man then went on to try and meet him, and after going
a short distance he saw him coming towards him to meet him (_chaidh
an sean duine air aghaidh feuch an tachradh e air, ’s an ceann ceum
na dhà chunnaic e e tighinn ’na choinneamh ’s ’na chòmhail_). When he
came near, O’Power (_O’ buaidh_) commanded him to stop, and said, “I
see you are a stranger in the place?” “Indeed,” he replied, (_seadh
ars’ esan_). “Whence have you come?” the Chief asked, (_Co ás a thàinig
thu?_). “I came from Tiree,” he answered. “Do you know the lady of
MacLean there?” “I know her well,” he said. “Will you bring her a
message from me?” (_An toir thu fios uam g’ a h-ionnsuidh?_) “I will,”
he said, (_bheir, ars’ esan_). The chief there and then put the message
in order, and put his head out of the coach to deliver it, but the
other, while taking it with the one hand, struck off his head with the
other hand. (_Sin fhéin chuir e ’n teachdaireachd air doigh ’s chuir e
mach a cheann g’ a toirt dà, ’s ’nuair bha e ’ga gabhail leis an aona
laimh thilg e dheth an ceann leis an laimh eile_). The man-servant was
stupified (lit. went astray), (_chaidh an gille air seacharan_), and
Fair Lachlan got an opportunity (_fhuair e fàth_) of taking the head
with him to the galley with which he set sail (_leig e ri cuain di_)
and was in Islay on his return journey that evening. Next day after
(_maireach ’na dheighinn sin_) he was in Tiree, and went early in the
day to Island House (_do ’n eilean_). Finding, on reaching, that
MacLean and his wife were at breakfast, he went in where they were and
put the head of the Irish Chief on the end of the table, with the face
towards MacLean’s wife. She looked at it and fell down stone dead at
the side of the table (_sheall i air ’s thuit i fuar marbh aig taobh a’
bhùird_). Some time after this Fair Lachlan’s sons were taking peats
home from Moss to Hynish. There were five of them with seven horses,
which were fastened together, and went on one after another, having a
sort of deep basket (_cliabh_) slung on each side of each horse for
the conveyance of burdens. On account of Big Dewar of Balemartin,
who was so fierce, (_co fiadhaich_) they could not take the straight
way by Balemartin to Hynish, but had to take the more rugged path by
Hynish hill, where, at _Creag nan cliabh_ (Creel rock) the footpath
was so narrow that on these occasions a person was in waiting to be in
readiness to take the creels off the horses and carry them past the
rock. At that time, there was a mill past Balviceon, with a bridge
across the dam which had to be lifted before sundown, and on their way
they had to pass across the bridge. It happened on this occasion that
the young men, by their own folly (_le ’n amaideachd fhein_), were
later than usual of returning, and the bridge was withdrawn; and with
the speed with which they were going on, they did not observe that the
bridge was lifted, and the foremost of the horses went headlong into
the dam and was choked (_air a thachdadh_). The lads made their way
home, and told their father how the miller had taken away the bridge,
and what had happened to them. He said, “If my horse was choked on
his account (_air a thàillibh_), the same thing will be done to him
to-night yet”; and that was what happened. He and his sons went back
the same way, step by step, (_air a’ cheart cheum_), and they caught
the poor man while he was asleep (_rug iad air an duine ’na leabaidh_)
and took him with them and hung him on the hillock of the cross (_bac
na croiche_), opposite Island House. When a servant went in early
next morning to kindle a fire in the room where MacLean was, he asked
what sort of day it was. The servant said that it was a good day, but
that a strange sight was to be seen (_ni a tha cuir ioghnadh mór orm ri
fhaicinn_). “What is that?” the Chief asked. “It is a man hung on the
hillock up yonder (_duine air a chrochadh air a’ chroich shuas ud_).
MacLean said, as he rose up, “Who or what person dared do this without
my permission? (_Co an aona duine ’san dùthaich aig an robh ’chridh
leithid so dheanamh gun chuir ’nam cheadsa?_) When he saw the deed that
was done, he shed bitter tears, and said that no one had done this but
Fair Lachlan (_cha d’ rinn duine riamh so ach Lachunn fionn_). “It was
in the agreement I made with him when he brought me the man’s head from
Ireland.” This was the last hanging that was done in the island (_b’e
so an crochadh mu dheireadh a rinneadh ’s an eilean_).

[Illustration: THE MESSAGE DELIVERED TO THE LOVER AND THE MANNER OF HIS
DEATH.]




LEGENDARY HISTORY.




PRINCESS THYRA OF ULSTER AND HER LOVERS.

A STORY OF LOCHMAREE.[21]


At one time the King of Denmark is said to have sent his son to the
Scottish court along with six others (_seisear eile_). They landed in
Caithness, where, as they came chiefly for sport, they began to look
for deer and other wild animals, and to enquire where they were to be
found. They were told that all animals of the chase had become scarce
since more people had come to that part, but that in the neighbouring
parts of the country, especially in Ross-shire, they were still
numerous, and if they went there they would get abundant sport. They
went, and while they remained lived in a house of the MacKenzies’, near
Lochmaree. One day then, when following deer in the hill, the young
prince got separated from his companions, who each and all found their
way safely home. When he came in sight of the house, being fatigued,
he sat down by the roadside and fell asleep. He was awakened by the
sound of voices, and on looking he saw two men, one of whom was young
and the other old, coming on the road towards him with a young woman
walking between. He got up, and as they were coming nearer he was
making out that he never saw a more beautiful woman. He stood before
them and spoke. The old man said, “You are doing wrong in delaying us
on our way.” “Methinks,” said the young prince, “that I am not doing
any thing out of the way, nor have I spoken a wrong word.” The old man
got angry, and calling him rough names said he was ill-bred. “That was
not the way in which I was taught,” the prince answered, “I have the
blood of the kings of Denmark in my veins, and I am inclined to put
your head as low as your shoes for your ill words (_air son do dhroch
bheul_) which I have not deserved.” When the old man heard this he
became afraid, and made excuses for the warmth of temper he had shewn,
but said he was under vows to protect the girl from all intrusion,
“the reason being that she is with us under the vows of the church
(_fo naomhachadh na h-eaglais_), by her father’s commands,” and told
him that they came ashore from the monastery of Isle-maree and were to
return before nightfall. “I would like well to know who the maiden is
whom you befriend,” said the young prince. “The name of the daughter
is,” the old man answered, “Princess Thyra (_Deorath_) of the house
of Ulster in Ireland--and let us now pass.” In the parting the young
prince said to the maiden, “As this has been our first meeting, so I
fear it is to be our last: Farewell!” “I do not say,” she answered. He
went home, but, after some days, returned to the same place expecting
to see the same company, but no one came ashore from the islet that
day. The next time he went he waited two days in vain, and the third
time three days, and returned home in the same way ill-pleased at his
mischance. He then resolved to go to the isle if there was a way of
getting to it. He was told that a man on the other side of the loch
had a boat, and he went to him and got him to go with him. On landing,
the man pointed out to him the way to the monastery, and told him that
he would come to a well, which he was not to pass till he drank of its
water; that the well was famed for its efficacy in every malady to
which mankind is subject, and especially in restoring those who had
lost their reason; “and beside the well,” said the man, “there is a
tree with a hollow in its side (_slochd ’n a taobh_), and no one goes
past it without putting something of more or less value in.” The youth
went ashore, and, heedless of tree and well, reached the house and
demanded admittance at the first door he met. When asked what brought
him, or why he came, he said he came to see the Irish princess. He was
told that could not be (_ni nach gabhadh deanamh_). He then asked if
there was any one in authority of whom he could make the request, and
was told there was the oldest of rank in the monastery, who, when he
came, said, “No! you cannot see the princess.” The young man then told
who he was, and said, “If I want her for my wife and she consents, can
you prevent the union?” “We will leave the matter to her own will,”
the old man answered. She came gladly, and the prince spent that
day on the islet. Before he left she said, “I have a doubt in this
matter.” “What is that?” he asked. “It is that I never saw you but
once before now, neither did you see me, and if love comes quickly,
it may go as quickly.” “You know that from yourself,” he said. “No,”
she answered. He told her to look at the evening star, which was to be
seen in the south-western sky, and said, “As truly as that star shines
on yonder hill, so truly do I love you.” “I have another doubt,” she
said. “Your doubts are very many,” he said. Her doubt was, that Red
Hector of the hills, as he was called from being among the hills day
and night, would be a dangerous foeman if he met him on his way. He
returned, landed, and having cause, as he thought, to be pleased with
events, was going on joyously and light-hearted, whistling as he went
along. He was not far on his way when an arrow passed close to his
face; the next one stuck in his bonnet. He stood looking about him and
saw a big man standing beside a rock that was at the roadside before
him. “What sort of man are you, when you are going to make a target
of me?” the prince said. “Have you never heard of Red Hector of the
hills (_Eachann Ruadh nan cnoc_)? If you have not, you now see him and
will feel his skill. There is a matter to settle between us which can
never be done but in one way, and that is, that you kill me or I kill
you.” They took their swords, one each (_claidheamh an t-aon_), blood
was shed; the prince then asked if there was no other way of settling
the matter except by bloodshed. “Do not waste speech (_Na bi ’cosg do
sheanachais_); that you kill me or I kill you, there is no other way,”
he said, and struck the prince on the side with his sword and sorely
wounded him. He fell and his enemy fled. The wounded man kept his hand
on the wound, but whenever he moved the blood spurted from it, and he
was passing the night in that way till his tongue became swollen in his
mouth. In the midst of his agony he heard the drip of a streamlet in
the hollow underneath where he lay, and tried to move himself towards
it, but could not, though he made every effort. At last he thought
it was better to bleed to death than die of thirst, and by dragging
himself along he reached the water, but before he got to drink of it
he fainted and lay beside the streamlet till next day, when those, the
humane people (_na daoine cneasda_), who came ashore in the boat heard
his moaning, and recognising him, took him back to the islet, where
he remained unconscious for many weeks, during which his own men, who
had been brought to the isle, and the princess attended him. When he
recovered and knew that the maiden’s constant care and watchfulness
had helped to restore him to life, he expressed much gratitude. “When
you are up and well,” she said, “it will be time to thank me.” He kept
telling her every day how he would take her to Denmark. One day then
a ship was seen coming, from which a boat was sent ashore to take
away the maiden, whose father lay dying. “Will you return?” he said.
“I will return,” she said. “And you will not forget me among your own
people.” “Nothing but death will prevent my return,” she said. She went
away, and nothing was heard of her for many days. In his impatience
the prince sent men from day to day to the top of the highest hills to
look for the ship. At last they saw three ships coming, and the first
had the royal flag of Ireland in its topmast. Some time before the
maiden left the islet, the prince one day when on land met an old man
who intercepted him; his men bade the intruder keep to one side of the
road, but the man refused to be put aside, and the prince then asked
what his business was with him. “Do not speak so gruffly,” the old man
said, “I have come to you, as I am in need of shelter, to ask if you
will take me into your service while you are here.” “My burden is on
others at present,” the prince said, “and little an old man like you
with a staff in his hand can do to help me. Have you a house or home?”
“I had till yesterday; to-day I have nothing. I had house, wife, son,
land, cattle, and yesterday every beast that I had was lifted, except
a stray sheep, and my son went in search of it and fell over the rocks
(_chaidh am balach leis na creagan_) and was killed. When his mother
heard what had happened to him she went to the place, and on seeing her
son dead she leapt in the sea and was drowned, and I am left alone.
If you will take me with you I will do you more service in the hills
than a younger man can do.” He said his name was MacKenzie (_Dùghall
MacChoinnich_). The prince took him to be with them while they remained
in the isle.

When the ships were seen the prince went to the highest summit of the
hills, taking with him, among the rest, the old man, who on their way
said, “Delay (_air do shocair_), till I tell you my dream.” “I care
naught for dreams,” the other said. “Will you not listen, for I dreamt
the same dream three nights after each other; and it was that she was
dead.” “We wish to get joyous news and you have given us instead news
of sorrow.” The old man then said, “I will go to the ship, and when I
reach, if all is well you will see a red signal, and if sorrow awaits
you it will be a black one.” He went, and on reaching, she was there.
She knew him and asked if all was well. He told her, and she said, “He
is impatient for news.” He then persuaded the princess, against her
own will and the advice of those around her, to shew the death-signal,
saying the joy of seeing her living would compensate her lover for the
deception. When the signal was seen by those on land, the prince said
he could no longer live, and took his dagger from its sheath and killed
himself. When the princess reached the shore, those who met her told
her how her lover, believing that she was dead, had killed himself. She
asked where he was, and said that no seen or unseen power could prevent
her from taking a last farewell, and that she would go alone and do no
injury to herself. When she was going in where the dead body lay, she
noticed that some one was following her, and turning she saw that the
intruder was the old man, “Wretched Dugall (_a dhroch Dhùghaill_), what
evil advice you gave me.” “That is not my name,” he said, “I am Red
Hector of the hills, and this is my revenge!” and he killed her with
his dirk. He then disappeared and was never seen or heard of in the
country after that time.


  NOTES:

[21] Lochmaree is in the west of Ross-shire. It lies S.E. and N.W., and
has 24 islets throughout its length of about 18 miles. Its breadth is
from one to two miles, and its depth prevents its water from freezing.




GARLATHA.

A TRADITION OF HARRIS.


At one time it is said the outermost of the western isles formed three
separate and independent possessions; the northern part of the Long
Island (_an t-eilean fada_),[22] Lewis (_Leòdhais_), was held by one
Cenmal (_Ceannamhaol_ [baldhead]), who was a king, while the southern
portion, Harris (_na h-Earra_), was owned by a prince; and another
king, one named Keligan [thin one], possessed Uist, which is further
south. In this way Lewis and Uist had each a king, while there was only
a prince in Harris. This prince, who was famed for his courage and
bravery, was held in great esteem by those on his land for the good
advice (_na comhairlean dealbhach_) they readily got from him and the
benefits he conferred on them. He discouraged bickerings and jealousy
(_farmad_) among his subordinates and neighbours, and spread among
them a knowledge of many useful arts. He encouraged manual labour as
well as manly exercise and the recitation of poems, romance, etc. His
wife, Garlatha, was not less namely for her goodness to those around
her, among whom she promoted thrifty and industrious habits, and taught
the use and methods of preparing different kinds of roots, grain and
plants, for food and healing, and to be kind and tender to the weak
and infirm, and to live good lives. In this way the people on their
land were contented with their condition and sought no change. Garlatha
died, it is said, about 800 A.D.--a long time ago, but whatever it
was, she went away, (and it was not to be helped), leaving an infant
daughter who was named after her mother, Garlatha. As the girl grew up
it was seen that she inherited her mother’s good gifts, and the people
were equally well pleased with her. In time she began to be spoken
about and heard of, and was sought in marriage by numerous suitors. The
king who ruled in Lewis was eager in pursuit of her (_’an tòir oirre_),
and crossed over to see her. The ruler (_fear-riaghlaidh_) of Uist came
on the same errand. One day then her father said to her, “Daughter, I
wish to see you married, before the end of my life comes, to a good
man, and I am looking to see which of those men who come to see you is
the most suitable, and I see that it will suit you best to take him
who is in Lewis.” His daughter preferred the one who owned Uist, but
by her father’s advice word was sent to the possessor of Lewis to come
and that he would get her. He came, and being well pleased with his
reception every arrangement was made, and they were married. Afterwards
the bride said to a maid, “You will go in to the entertainment
(_fleadh_) and among the company: I am going to hide myself.” This was
done, and the company sat at the feast without the bride, for whose
coming a long delay was made. When it was seen that she would not
return, the question of what had become of her or where she was, was
asked of every one, but no one knew. The maid was asked, but she had
not any knowledge or tale (_fios no sgeul_) to tell of where the lost
one was to be found. The time was passing _(bha ’n ùineachd ’ruith_)
and search was made outside for her, but she was not found. Then they
looked for her from place to place, where it was possible to find her,
but without success. The night passed, leaving the feast untouched and
the guests cheerless. Next day the search was renewed along the shores
and among the hills, and in every direction from day to day, till
there was not a spot between Barra Head and the Butt of Lewis where a
bird could sleep, that was not searched, but there was no trace of her
(_cha d’ fhuaireadh riamh i, cha d’ fhuaireadh idir i_). The father
continued to wander about, searching in vain, for many years after
all hope of finding her was dead, till at last he was seen to turn
every leaf he met with the staff in his hand, and even to look under
ragweed (_buaghallan_). He died, and she was not found. The place,
Harris, was then 200 years without any one to own it (_thug an t-àite
sin dà cheud bliadhna gun duine ann_). MacLeod (_fear Mac Leòid_) then
took possession of the country and began to build new houses; the
old dwellings had become uninhabitable (_air dol fàs_); the roof had
fallen in (_thuit an ceann ’n am broinn_). When clearing out one of
these an old chest was found, and on lifting it the lower part remained
on the ground, with the skeleton of a woman resting in it, each bone
according to its place (_cnàimh a réir cnàimh_), and by its side the
wedding-ring, as new as it was on the day it was put on her finger,
with the name “Garlatha” engraved on it, and from that the story came.


  NOTES:

[22] The Long Island includes the whole of the land between the Butt of
Lewis and Barra Head.




STORIES ABOUT THE FAIRIES.




THE TRADITION OF A HOUSEWIFE AND HER FAIRY VISITOR.


The incidents of this tradition are said to have happened in Lewis, but
the readiness with which similar stories are appropriated and localised
makes it improbable that the circumstances occurred in any special
locality. In this instance the person from whom the story was heard
being a native of Lewis will account for the incidents of the story
having been said to have taken place in that Island. The story is as
follows:--

The wife of a tenant farmer, who lived with his family in an extremely
remote and hilly rough district, was frequently left alone in the
house, as she had no daughters, while her husband and sons were away at
the labour of the farm, or fishing. It happened one day after they had
left, that the housewife having finished her housework, sat as usual at
the spinning-wheel to spin thread for cloth (_clò_) for their clothing.
She had not long begun her labour, when, happening to look towards the
door, she saw a little woman of reddish appearance coming in at the
door with a dog before and one after her. “Woman,” she said, “you are
spinning.” “I am,” the housewife answered. “Will you give me a drink of
water?” she said. “Take it yourself,” the housewife said. “The water is
good, where is the well?” she asked. “It is down,” said the one who was
in, “in the opening of the hollow of the glen (_aig dorus ’an lag a’
ghlinne_).” The fay woman (_a’ bhean-shìth_) then asked the housewife
to lend her a small cauldron, and the other woman believing her to be
sister-in-law or some other relative she did not know of the wife of
her nearest neighbour, who lived far distant from them and was married
to an Ardnamurchan woman, said to her, “There is a table there with
several utensils (_caigionn choireachan_) on its shelf; take with you
any of them that will answer.” When she brought it, she asked for the
suspender (_bùlas_) and lid. The moment she got them she fitted them in
and told the dogs that were with her to take that with them. The dogs
immediately caught the three-legged pot and took it with them. When
her husband came home the housewife said, “I think there is a stranger
with our neighbours,” and told him about her visitor. “Perhaps,” her
husband said, “she is the sister-in-law; it was time some one came to
see the wife, for none of her friends have been since she came here.”
“I never saw the sort of dogs she had, ever here,” his wife said, and
described to him the dogs and how they were different altogether from
sheep-dogs. “Our neighbours have only one dog and it is a sheep-dog,”
he said. This day passed and another and the third, but the cauldron
was not returned. The housewife then sent one of her sons to ask the
neighbours to return the loan. These said that they did not get a loan
of anything, as they did not require it, having more cauldrons and
kettles than was required by themselves, and that no strangers had
come or were with them. The housewife was at her wit’s end and did
not know in the world or time to come (_uile bheatha na dìlinn_) what
to think about the matter. On the fifth day, however, the self-same
one returned with the cauldron. “I am sure,” she said, “that you were
missing the cauldron.” “I was,” the housewife replied, “not from any
need I had of it at the time, but because I did not know who the one
was that took it away.” “I am sure you did not know who took it,”
said the one that came in, “but I knew you too well; many a day you
sang songs above my house (_’s iomadh latha ’sheinn thu luinneag air
mullach an tigh agam_).” “Will you sit?” said the one who was spinning.
“I will sit and tell my story if you are sure that no one will come
in while I am here.” As was customary in those days the byre adjoined
the dwelling-house, whatever kind of wall (_sgàth-balla_) separated
them, and one of the cows that had calved and was in the byre, made
a disturbance (_straighlich_). The next look the woman took she was
alone. On her husband’s return, she said, “You may not leave me here
alone; one of the children must be left with me or I will be where you
are;” and she told him about the second time her strange visitor came
and how suddenly she had disappeared. The goodman then went for advice
to one, the minister, who he knew was able to give him good counsel. On
telling about the undesirable visitor his wife had, the advice he got
was that he was to pull down his house as quickly as possible, and to
put it at the other end of the land; “and when you will pull down your
house, every particle (_h-uile pioc_) of the thatch that covers it is
to be burnt within the rafters on which nine cogfuls of sea-water or
charmed (_naoi cuachan sàile no uisge coisrigte_) is to be poured.”
The goodman returned home with this advice. When his wife heard it she
said that she must get women to help her to finish the cloth she was
working at, and it was agreed to give her the help she required. On
account of the dampness of the houses the method of keeping the thread
and wool dry was by hanging them up to the rafters. Next morning the
goodwife missed a pile of wool from its place, but believing that it
was her son, who often played pranks on her, who had removed it, she
said nothing regarding its disappearance. Next day, however, she was
astonished at seeing her late strange visitor with another and a taller
one coming in. “I am sure,” said the little redhued one, “you were
missing the bag of wool We took it with us to help you, and there it is
brought home made into thread, and your own thread that we took with us
for a pattern (_leth-bhreac_); and any time you have thread to spin, we
are ready to help you.” The goodwife was overcome with fear and could
not utter a word to them. They went away, and she never saw themselves
or their shadow (_an dubh no’n dath_) ever afterwards. The house was
taken down and another was built where they chose it to be, but after
some time an old man saw five of the fairy company leaving the well at
the foot of the glen, each carrying a vessel full of water, and the
place where he saw them going in and lost sight of them, was afterwards
quarried, and the stone taken from it was employed to build a church
that stands at the present day. An opening that was met with, in the
quarry, where human bones were found, was supposed to be the place
where the fairy band entered their dwelling.




THE WISE WOMAN OF DUNTULM AND THE FAIRIES.


A Lord of the Isles, MacConnal (_Buachaille nan Eileinean_), long ago
had two sons, but only one could get the estate at his death. When that
happened the eldest son said one day to the youngest, “You are now left
without anything, but, that you may not be altogether portionless, go
to Duntulm and you will get there a piece of land that you will have to
yourself.” The lands of Duntulm, in the northern part of the Island of
Skye, were at that time occupied by a prosperous tenantry, consisting
chiefly of crofters and the holders of a few larger farms. The youngest
brother was told that the rent he would get from these tenants would
maintain him, and he was to build a house and marry a wife. He agreed
to go to Duntulm, where he was not a long time settled till a claim was
made on his land for the king’s dues, the crown tax being in proportion
to the amount of land which he held. The first time the tax (_a’ chìs_)
was asked, he said, in answer to the demand which was made, “I will
not pay any tax. Why should I pay it? What right has the king to get
it?” An order was sent to him every year for payment of the tax, but
if it was, for six years he did not pay any of it (_cha do phàidh e
sgillinn_). At last the king sent fifty soldiers and one officer to
take the rent from him in spite of him (_thar ’amhaich_), and since he
would pay to neither king nor soldier, the lands were taken from him
and they were now attached to the crown. The king was receiving the
revenue, and a Skye carl (_bodach Sgitheanach_) called John Donaldson
MacWilliam (_Iain Mac Dhòmhnuil’ic Uilleim_) was appointed a factor
to collect the rents from the crofters. He lived sixteen miles from
Duntulm, among the crofts, where he went twice a year to gather the
tax. MacConnal’s castle was built on a precipitous bank, on the west
side of which there was a big pit into which every high tide sent a
flow of water that kept it always full, forming a deep pool (_glumag_)
that sometimes proved dangerous to the unwary. One day it happened
that whatever a crofter, one Macrury, was doing at the castle, he fell
headlong into the pool, and however it was, whether he was killed by
the fall or drowned, he was found dead next day anyhow. He left two
sons who were not of age to help their widowed mother, for whom much
sympathy was felt by her neighbours on account of her being left so
helpless (_bha i air a fàgail cho lom_). Next spring after this the
two lads were drowned in a boat with which they were bringing sea-ware
home, and being now alone she could not work her croft nor pay her
rent. When everything was spent, and she had only one cow left of her
fold of cattle, the factor came for the tax. On reaching the township
he took with him a carle, friendly to himself, to the widow’s house,
where the neighbours had gathered to ascertain the object of their
visit. When the factor was told that the poor woman had no means to pay
her rent, he asked if she had no cattle. She said that she had only one
cow and that it was grazing at some distance from the house. He asked
it to be brought where he was, and when he saw it he said, “It is a
pity there are not more of the kind.” Being the only one, it had got
all the attention and was in good condition. She said she had no other.
He said, “We will keep this one for the dues.” It was taken away from
the widow and put in a field that was surrounded by a stone wall, near
the castle, along with the small red pony which the factor had with
him. While he was in search of some one to drive it away, and taking
his dinner in the carle’s house, the young men of Duntulm climbed over
the wall of the field, though high, and got out the animals, which they
drove to the shore, where a boat was in readiness in which they were
taken to the islet of Fladda (_Fladda ’chuain_), two miles off. The
men put them ashore there, and had their boat drawn up in Duntulm Bay
before the factor and his companion returned to look for their property
and found the park empty. On asking the men, who had again gathered,
if they knew how the animals had escaped or where they were, they said
there was no gap in the wall known to them, and that the only person
likely to know of their whereabouts was a gifted woman who lived near
the castle, in search of whom two of them went. They found her at home,
on reaching the height where her house was, and told her all that had
occurred, and how she was to go with them and say that the cattle had
been charmed away to some wonderful place. Isabel said that she was
not well prepared to go that day. The men asked what preparation she
lacked (_’dé an cion dòigh a bh’ oirre_). She then asked for one of the
men’s broad bonnets, and when she got it, rose, and leaving her hair,
which was becoming grey, streaming over her shoulders, she put it on,
and tying a goatskin round her, tying her shoes and making garters
with stripes of the same fur, she put a rope of straw round her waist
and took a large staff in her hand. “She is prepared at last, and come
now,” the men said. When she came in sight, the factor looked at her in
amazement, for he had never before seen a creature of her appearance.
Before she came near he called, “Wife, do you know where the horse and
cow I put in the park are now?” She paid no attention to him, but kept
on coming nearer (_cha do lag i air a ceum_), till she stood at his
shoulder. “To whom did the animals belong?” she asked him then. “The
cow belonged to the king,” he said, “and the horse to myself.” “How
could a cow belonging to the king be in this township?” she asked.
“This woman gave it to me for the tax,” he said, pointing to the widow.
“She did not give it to you; she said you took it with you; and it is
now that I understand the meaning of what happened when I was in my own
house to-day, and heard an uproar (_straighlich_) in the air above that
was greater than any one could ever have heard, and on looking for the
cause of it, there it was in a fire; and though all the fires that you
ever saw were gathered together, they would not make one like it; and
in the last of the fire (_’an earball an teine_) I looked to see what
there was, and what was there but a horse and cow, while there were as
good as five thousand little men, the hill men (_muinntir nan cnoc_),
who were not larger than bottles, going on, on each side of the fire;
and if you had as much knowledge of the dwellers of these hills as I
have, you would not touch the widow’s portion, but if you are anxious
to get back the animals--there before you, is the hill where they are,
and where you can go and seek them, and if you can, find them.” The
man, who was terrified by her appearance and words, kept looking at
her (_’g a feitheamh_) and always drawing a step further off. He went
home without horse or cow, and however long he remained in the office
he held, the fear of the wise woman, (_Iseabal N’ic Rao’uill_) and the
fairies kept him from ever returning to Duntulm. When he was out of
sight of the township, the young men of Duntulm went to the islet where
they left the animals, which they brought back and gave to the poor
woman, who was then able to pay the tax.




FOLK TALES.




THE TWO BROTHERS.

A TALE OF ENCHANTMENT.


In early times, long ago, (_’an toiseach an t-saoghail, o chionn nan
cian_), it is said that the island of Mull was uninhabited except by
a few families who were living, on the south side at Carsaig, in that
part of the island known as the Ross of Mull. These families lived
isolated from the rest of the world; none of them had ever seen any
one from anywhere else there, and none of themselves had ever left
the place. They had no boats, and they said the other islets and land
that they were seeing opposite were other worlds. One day, then, they
saw coming on the sea before them (_mu’n comhair_) from the mainland a
speck (_dùradan_), and when it came near they compared it to a horse
with a tree standing on its back, but when it came to the shore it was
a boat made of wicker-work covered with hides, with one man in it, who
had some drink with him, and a quantity of hazel nuts for food. On
account of his boat being covered with hides[23], they named him “The
cowhide man, (_am boicionnach_). On landing, he told them how he had
left home, out of curiosity to see other places, and that was the first
place he was able to reach. He is said to have come from Ardencaple in
the district of Lorn on the mainland (_Ard-nan-capull, ’an Lathurna_.)
He stayed a long time with them, as they treated him kindly, being
much pleased with him. He taught them new ways that were useful to
them in their every-day life, and by his skill and knowledge promoted
their welfare in many ways. On seeing that they were not utilizing the
milk of their cows and goats by making cheese from it, he asked them
the reason of this. They told him that they did not know what cheese
was, as they had never heard of it nor seen it, and would like well
to know how it was made. They had the art of making butter among them
previous to his coming. He took in _Lus-buidhe-bealltainn_, (marsh
marigold) and putting its stalks in the milk turned it to curds and
whey. This is said to be the first cheese that was made in Mull. Some
time, nearly a year after this, another boat, or, as they described
it, a horse with a tree in its back, was seen coming in the same way.
This one came ashore at Lochspelvie, further eastward, and had one
man in it also, whom they named “The one in the skin coverings” (_an
craicionnach_). He was brother to the one who came before, and had
come in search of him. The two strangers and the natives were agreeing
well together, and the brothers began to build a boat when they found
wood abundant in Mull. When the boat was finished they named it “the
six-oared boat” (_iùrach nan sia ràmh_), and when it was fitted up and
made ready for sailing, the two brothers took a crew with them and set
off in it, to go to one or other of the worlds (_na saoghalan eile_)
that they were seeing before them, and reached Jura (_Diùra_), but
the natives of the island would not let them land, as they had never
seen a boat before. They stoned them away from the shore. They then
went to Colonsay, but the Colonsay men (_na Colosaich_) were equally
hard-hearted (_doirbh_). They attacked them, and tried to blind them by
throwing sand about their eyes. It was then that they went on to the
green (_lit._, blue) island (_an t-eilean gorm_), the name by which
Islay was then known, where they arrived at a more favourable time, no
one being before them at the shore. They drew the boat up on the land,
and went on to see if there were people to be found on the island or
if they would meet with anyone who could direct them to a house. The
first person they met was an old man who was watching cattle (_aig aire
sreud_). He thought they belonged to the island, as no one was known
to have ever come to or gone away from it. The first of the brothers
who came, asked the old man to give him information about the place.
The old man remarked, “How curious your speech is, if you were born
in this island.” He said, “No, I am not a native of this island.” The
old man said, “And if not, what has brought you here?” “The reason of
my coming is, to ask what you can give, and give what I may.” The old
man then, as it was nightfall, kindled a fire, and they sat with him
till daylight, when men and houses were to be seen. The Islay men were
hospitable to the strangers, who remained a full year and built seven
boats for them. The elder brother married a woman of the country, and
after some time he thought of returning to Mull again. Having prepared
his boat he set off, taking his wife and the others with him, and set
his course northwards (_aghaidh a bhàta, tuath_). They had not gone
far when a thick mist came on which darkened their world, and as they
had no compass and could see no land, they drifted till the boat went
in to a shore. This was the first appearance of land they saw since
leaving the _Eilean Gorm_. A big man came down where they were--they
never saw his equal for size--and he caught the fore part of the boat
and drew it up above high water mark, with them all in it. He invited
them to go to his house. They went with him and were made welcome. The
daughter of the house, on being asked by the elder of the two brothers
for a drink, brought a a two-hooped wooden dish full of milk, set it
on the floor beside them and went away. One of the strangers rose to
lift the dish and he could not. Then three of them rose, but it defied
them to lift it. She came back, and finding the dish as she left it,
said, “If you have quenched your thirst it is not awanting from the
measure (_air a’ mheasair_)”. The cowhide one replied, “We have not
been accustomed to stoop like cattle (_cromadh mar bhà_) when we take a
drink, and we could not lift the dish.” At that she caught the wooden
dish by the ear, in her left hand, and held the drink to them all.
“Where have you come from,” she said, “or where are you going?” “We
came from the dark-blue sea-isle,” he said, “and are going to the hilly
isle (_do ’n eilean bheannach_).” “That is Mull,” she said, “Mull of my
love, Mull of little men (_Muile mo ghràidh, Muile nam fear beaga_).”
They passed that night cheerfully together, and went to put off to sea
next day; but when they tried to move the boat and get it afloat, they
might as well attempt to move the Rhinns of Islay (_an Roinn Ileach_)
they could not move it. The young wife who came with them from Islay
said then, “I know where we are; we are in the green isle that is under
spells (_fo gheasaibh_), but I have a gift that will let us leave it,”
and she told those with her how her mother had at parting given her a
cap, saying, “If you are ever in a strait, put it on, and you must at
the same time bend your head to the ground as low as your feet seven
times (_seachd uairean do shròn a bhualadh ri òrdaig do choise_).”
She had the cap in her belt (_’n a cneas_), and she told them to sit
in the boat and take the oars. She then stood in their midst, touched
the cap, bent her head, and it went up to her breast (_an cneas_); the
next time it went up to her neck (_am muineal_); the third time, to
her chin, (_an smigead_); then, as she bent her head, at the fourth
time, it went up past her mouth to her nose; the next time, it reached
her eyes, then her forehead, at last the top of her head, and the boat
was off. The mist was still there. They asked the eldest brother in
which direction they were to set their course. He told them to follow
the flight of birds, as they went shorewards in the evening and would
guide them to land. There is a saying about the home-coming of birds
and fish, that “Birds of the universe go westward, and fish of the deep
eastward (_Eòin an domhain, siar, ’s iasg an domhain, sear_).” During
the night, the younger brother, the one of skins, called out that there
was a mound before them (_gu ’n robh tòrr rompa_). His brother who
was in the afterpart of the boat said, “Is it a tòrr without grass,”
and it has got the name of Torrens to the present day (_’se na tòrrain
a theirear riu gus an là ’n diugh_). They reached Mull shore when it
was day, and they ran-in the boat at a narrow strait that was like an
opening in a dyke (_cachaileith ghàraidh_), and before they got them
from the tholepins, the oars were broken. The place is still known as
the narrow strait of broken oars (_Caolas-a’-bhristidh-ràmh_). They
got on shore, and went home and told where they had been and what had
happened to them.

The person, now above 70 years of age, from whom the above story was
taken down almost word for word by the writer, said that he heard the
story when he was a young man, and that the following story (that of
the two sisters), was a continuation of it; the incidents of the story
occurred during the absence of the two brothers from the place, and
were told to them by the natives, in return for the story of their
own adventures. The name Torquil, which occurs in this story, and the
belief in witchcraft and occult power indicated, suggests that the
colony in Mull came originally from Lochlin, or that the story belongs
to a later period of history than that that of “The two brothers.” The
story is as follows:--




THE TWO SISTERS AND THE CURSE.


Two sisters were living in the same township on the south side of
Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely _Mairearad_[24] had a fairy
sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one
day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa[25]
(_Ealasaid_), and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart.
“And now, sister,” she said, “you will not tell any one.” “No,” her
sister answered, “I will not tell any one; that story will as soon
pass from my lips as it will from my knee (_o’m ghlùn_)”; but she did
not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to
others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he
went away and never returned, nor was he seen or heard of ever after
by any one in the place. When the lovely sister came to know this, she
left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and
never afterwards came inside of a house door, to stand or sit down,
while she lived. Those who herded cattle (_ag uallach threud_) tried
frequently to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they
never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song
in which she told how her sister had been false to her, and that the
wrong done to her would be avenged on the sister or her descendants, if
a fairy (_neach sìth_) has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married,
she repeated, “Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the
evil will be avenged on her or on him (_phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,[26]
&c._).” What she hummed in her mournful song was:--

    My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,
    My father, who loved me, is asleep in the tomb,
    Friendless and solitary I wander through the fields,
    Since there is none in the world of my kindred
    But a sister without pity.
    She asked, and I told, out of the fulness of my joy;
    There was none nearer of kin to know my secret;
    But I felt, and this brought the tears to my eyes,
                (_lit._, raindrip on my sight),
    That a story comes sooner from the lip than from the knee.

She was then heard to utter these wishes--

    May nothing on which you have set your expectations ever grow,
    Nor dew ever fall on your ground.
    May no smoke rise from your dwelling,
    In the depth of the hardest winter,[27]
    May the worm be in your store,
    And the moth under the lid of your chests.
    If a fay-being has power,
    Revenge will be taken though it may be on your descendants.

    Tha suidheag mo mhàthar gu fàs, falamh, fuar,
    Tha m’ athair ’thug luaidh dhomh ’n a shuain fo ’n lic.
    Gun daoine gun duine na raoin tha mi ’siubhal,
    ’S gun ’s an t-saoghal do ’m chuideachd
    Ach piuthar gun iochd.
    Dh’ iarr ise ’s thug mise do mheud mo thoil-inntinn;
    ’S mi gun neach ’bu disle g’ an innsinn mo rùn;
    Ach dh’ fhairich mi sid ’s thug e snidh’ air mo léirsinn
    Gur luaithe ’thig sgeul o ’n bheul na o ’n ghlùn.

An sin thuirt i na guidheachan so:--

    “Na-na-chinn ’s na-na-chuir thu t-ùidh,
    ’S na-na-shil an driùchd ad shlios,
    ’S na-na-rug ad bhothan smùid
    Ann an dùlachd crùth an crios;
    Gu ’n robh a’ chnuimheag ann ad stòr
    ’S an leòmann fo bhòrd do chist’;
    Ma tha cumhachd aig neach sìth,
    Dìolar ge b’ ann air do shliochd.”

Ailsa (_Ealasaid_) married, and had one son. In some way her afflicted
sister heard of this, and she then added to her song--

    Dun Ailsa has married,
    And she has a son Torquil.
    Brown-haired Torquil who can climb the headland
    And bring the seal off the waves,
    The sickle in your hand is sharp,
    You will in two swaths reap a sheaf.

    Phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,
    ’S tha mac aice--Torcuil.
    Torcuil donn ’dhìreadh sròin,
    ’S a bheireadh ròn bhàrr nan stuadh,
    Bu sgaiteach do chorran ’n ad dhòrn
    ’S dheanadh tu dhà dhlòth an sguab.

Whatever gifts the brown-haired only child of her sister was favoured
with, besides others, he was a noted reaper, but this gift proved fatal
to him (_dh’ fhòghainn e dha_). When he grew up to manhood, he could
reap as much as seven men, and none among them could compete with him.
He was then told that a strange woman was seen coming to the harvest
fields in autumn, after the reapers had left, and that she would reap a
field before daylight next morning, or any part of the ripe corn that
the reapers could not finish that day, and in whatever field she began,
she left the work of seven reapers, finished, after her. She was known
as the Maiden of the Cairn (_Gruagach[28] a’ chùirn_), from being seen
to come out of a cairn over opposite. One evening then, brown-haired
Torquil, who desired to see her at work, being later than usual of
returning home, on looking back saw her beginning in his own field.
He returned, and finding his sickle where he had put it away, he took
it with him, and after her he went. He resolved to overtake her and
began to reap the next furrow, saying, “You are a good reaper or I will
overtake you;” but the harder he worked, the more he saw that instead
of getting nearer to her, she was drawing further away from him, and he
then called out to her,

“Maiden of the cairn, wait for me, wait for me.” (_’Ghruagach a’
chùirn, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

She said, answering him,

“Handsome brown-haired youth, overtake me, overtake me.” (_’Fhleasgaich
a’ chuil-duinn, beir orm, beir orm._)

He was confident that he would overtake her, and went on after her till
the moon was darkened by a cloud; he then called to her,

“The moon is clouded (_lit._ smothered by a cloud), delay, delay.”
(_Tha ’ghealach air a mùchadh fo neòil, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

“I have no other light but her, overtake me, overtake me,” she said.

He did not, nor could he, overtake her, and on seeing again how far she
was in advance of him, he said, “I am weary with yesterday’s reaping,
wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “I ascended the round hill
of steep summits (_màm cas nan leac_), overtake me, overtake me;” but
he could not. He then said, “My sickle would be the better of being
sharpened (_air a bhleath_), wait for me, wait for me.” She answered,
“My sickle will not cut garlic, overtake me, overtake me.” At this she
reached the head of the furrow, finished reaping, and stood still where
she was, waiting for him. When he reached the head of his own furrow,
he caught the last handful of corn,[29] to keep it, as was the custom,
it being the “Harvest Maiden” (_a’ mhaighdean-bhuana_), and stood with
it in one hand and the sickle in the other. Looking at her steadily in
the face, he said,

“You have put the old woman far from me, and it is not my displeasure
you deserve.” (_Chuir thu a’ chailleach fada uam ’s cha b’ e mo ghruaim
a thoill thu._)[30]

She said,

“It is an evil thing early on Monday to reap the harvest maiden.”
(_’S dona ’n ni_ (var., _mì-shealbhach_) _moch Di-luain dol a bhuain
maighdein._)

On her saying this, he fell dead on the field and never more drew
breath. The Maiden of the Cairn was never afterwards seen, nor heard
of; and that was how the sister’s wishes ended.


  NOTES:

[23] Boats made of twigs and covered with hides, the hairy side of the
skin being uppermost, could go long distances over rough seas.

[24] This name is sometimes rendered in English, Margaret. Erraid Isle
(_Eilean earraid_) is in the Sound of Iona, south of Mull.

[25] The rock of Ailsa in the firth of Clyde is called in Gaelic _Creag
Ealasaid_, and _Ealasaid a’ chuain_ (Ailsa of the sea). A round grey
rock lying near the shore in Mannal, south side of Tiree, is called
_Sgeir Ealasaid_, the Ailsa rock. The name _Ealasaid_ is in English
also Elizabeth and Elspeth.

[26] _Odhar_, dun or grey, is applied to cattle; as, _bò mhaol odhar_,
a dun hornless cow; _gabhar mhaol odhar_, a grey goat: it is sometimes
used as an expression of contempt, as _creutair odhar_, a dun
creature. The diminutive of _odhar_, _odhrag_, is a pet name for a cow.

[27] The words of the first four lines of “the wishes,” are, as regards
their form in the Gaelic text, almost unintelligible; they merely
represent the sounds uttered by the reciter, without being correct
either in form or composition. The sounds belonging to the first line
might, for instance, have been represented thus:--_’Na ana-chìnnt ’s ’n
a an-shocair dhuit d’ ùidh_: perhaps the utterance was intentionally
ambiguous.--(Ed.)

[28] _Gruagach_, the supernatural being, in this instance was said
to be a woman; but _gruagach_ usually meant a chief. (See Vol. IV.,
Argyllshire series, p. 193.)

[29] There was a custom at one time, that the last handful of corn that
was cut, and which finished the harvest, was taken home by the reaper,
who was usually the youngest person in the family who could reap. The
bunch was tastefully decorated and kept, at least till the following
year, as the harvest maiden.

[30] It was also a custom in other times for old women to go about
asking charity, and if infirm, they were carried about from house to
house and villages, and whoever was last in a township to finish the
reaping of his corn had to maintain one that year, and the same thing
might happen to him the next year. When the run-rig system was common,
the last furrow of corn was sometimes left standing as no one could be
got to own it, through fear of having to keep the old woman for a year.




THE DARK, OR PITCH-PINE, DAUGHTER OF THE NORSE KING,

AND HOW SHE THINNED THE WOODS OF LOCHABER.


When the Norsemen came, and their visits were frequent and numerous,
to this country and these islands, to lay claim to and take possession
of the land, the fame they gathered for themselves through their
indulgence in every manner of cruel spoliation, and slaughter of the
people wherever they landed, was that they were a bold, courageous,
hardy, rough (“The Norsemen a rough band”), peremptory and unscrupulous
race, and more than that, it was attributed to them that they practised
witchcraft, charms, and enchantments, and had much of other unhallowed
learning among them. The Norse King’s eldest daughter was particularly
noted for her knowledge of the “Black Art.” There was no accident or
mischance that befell friends, or destruction that overtook enemies,
or any luck or good fortune that attended either friend or foe, but
it was said that she was the cause of it, or had some hand in it. She
was famed at home and abroad, far and wide, for her skill among cows
and cattle, she was said to possess every variety of dairy knowledge
in her father’s kingdom. There was no charm or evil eye that fell on
any living creature in the fold but she could dispel and avert, nor
hurt nor injury they got but she could heal, nor dizziness nor fits
into which they fell, from which she could not restore them, until
it was said of her that the lowing of cattle, the incoherent cry of
calves, and the rough cry of yearlings was to her the sweetest and most
soothing music, and that she would answer the call of cattle, though
she might be lost in the midst of the northern woods, and the cry from
the nethermost part of the farthest off quarter of the universe. She
knew the herb that had the property of taking its qualities from milk,
as well as she was acquainted with the spells by which its virtues
could be restored, and every charm and invocation that was practised or
then esteemed. The flowers of the meadows and woods were as familiar to
her as the ridges of corn or a grain on straw, and there was not a leaf
on tree, bush, or shrub, with whose properties she was not acquainted.
Her father’s kingdom was clothed with pine wood, and was then as now
famous for the fine quality of the wood from which most of the wealth
of the kingdom was obtained.

One of those times when the Norsemen came to Scotland to take
possession of and sub-divide the land thus taken, they observed that
the pine wood of Lochaber was growing so fast, and extending so far,
that in time it might supersede the Black Forests of Sweden. But on
this occasion the northern forces were driven back. On reaching home
they reported the matter to the king, and their opinion, that the
increase of the wood must be checked, otherwise his northern woods
would be of little esteem.

It occurred to the King to consult his daughter on the matter, since
she was learned, and to get knowledge from her of the best method of
thinning and destroying the Scottish wood. She gave him the desired
information, but said that she must be the bearer of the method and
must necessarily go to Scotland herself. She obtained the King’s
permission and made preparations for the journey.

From the gifts she possessed, neither sea nor land, air nor earth
could hinder her progress until she accomplished her purpose. When she
reached Lochaber the method she adopted was to kindle a fire in the
selvage of her dress, and she then began to go through the woods, and
as she could travel in the clouds as well as on the ground, when she
ascended and whirled in the air, the sparks of fire that flew from her
dress were blown hither and thither by the wind and set the woods on
fire, until the whole country was almost in a blaze, and so darkened
by the smoke, that one could hardly see before them; and, from being
blackened more than any tree in the forest, by the smoke and soot of
the fiery furnace which surrounded her, she was known and spoken of by
the name of “Dark, or Pitch Pine.” The people gathered to watch her,
but from the rapidity of her ascent and the swiftness with which she
descended, they could not grasp her any more than they could prevent
her, and were at a loss what to do. At last, they sought instruction
from a learned man in the place. He advised them to collect a herd of
cattle in a fold, wherever she would stand still, and whenever she
heard the lowing of the cattle she would descend, and when she was
within gun-shot they were to fire at her with a silver bullet, when she
would become a faggot of bones. They followed this advice and began to
gather cattle and follow after her until the pinfold large and small
was full set in the “Centre of Kintail.” Whenever she heard the cry of
the herd she descended and they aimed at her with the silver bullet,
as the wise man told them to do, and she fell gently among them. Men
lifted the remains and carried them to Lochaber, and to make sure that
dead or alive she would do no more injury to them, they buried her in
Achnacarry; and the person from whom the story was first heard nine
years ago [1880] said that he could put his foot on the place where she
was buried.

The Norse King was amazed at his daughter not returning, and at his
not receiving any account from her. He sent abroad to get tidings of
her. When the news of the disaster that happened to her was brought
to him, he sent a boat and crew to bring her home, but the Lochaber
women by their incantations destroyed those whom he sent. The boat was
wrecked, and the men lost, at the entrance to Locheil. The next ships
that came were not more successful. The third time the King sent out
his most powerful fleet. What they did then was to send and try through
spells to dry up the wells of the Fairy Hill of Iona. The virtue of
these wells was that wind could be obtained from any desired quarter by
emptying them in the direction of the wind wished for. When the ships
were seen approaching, the wells began to be emptied, and before the
last handful was flung out, the storm was so violent, and the ships
so near, that the whole fleet was driven on the beach under the Fairy
Hill, and the power and might of the Norsemen was broken and so much
weakened that they did not return again to infest the land.




AN DUBH GHIUBHSACH, NIGHEAN RIGH LOCHLAINN,

AGUS MAR A CHRIONAICH I COILLE LOCHABAIR.


Mar thàinig na Lochlannaich an toiseach, ’s bu bhitheanta sin, air
feadh nan dùthchannan ’s nan eileinean so, a thogail chòraichean ’s a
ghabhail sealbh air fearann, ’s e an cliù a choisinn iad dhaibh féin,
leis gu ’n robh iad ris a h-uile seòrsa léir-chreach ’s milleadh air
muinntir nan àiteachan a bha iad a’ ruigheachd, gu ’n robh iad ’n an
daoine dalma, misneachail, cruaidh-chridheach, borb. “Lochlannaich, a’
bhuidheann bhorb,” neo-easmaileach, neo-thròcaireach ’s a thuilleadh
air sin, bha e air chur as an leth gu ’n robh buidseachd agus
druidheachd ’s iomadh eòlas toirmisgte eile ’n am measg.

Bha ’n nighean a bu sine aig Righ Lochlainn sònraichte ainmeil air
son na bh’ aice de ’n “Sgoil Dubh.” Cha robh sgiorradh no tubaist a
thachaireadh do chàirdean, no sgrios a thigeadh air naimhdean, no math
no rath a dh’ éireadh do h-aon diù, nach robh e air a ràdhainn gur i
b’ aobhar-cinn dha, no gu ’n robh làmh thaobh-eiginn aice ann. Bha i
aig an tigh ’s uaithe fada ’s farsuinn comharraichte air son sgil am
measg cruidh ’s feudail; ’s ann aice bha gach seòrsa eòlas cruidh ’an
rìoghachd a h-athar. Cha robh sian no sùil a laidheadh air creutair
beo ’s a’ bhuaile nach togadh i, no tuaineal no ceangal ’s an rachadh
iad nach fhuasgladh i, gus an abairteadh gur e geumnaich cruidh,
blaomannaich laogh agus ràcaireachd ghamhna an t-aon cheòl cadail a bu
bhinn leatha, ’s gu ’m freagradh i ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n spréidh
ged bhiodh i ’n a suain an teis-meadhon coille dhubh a h-athar ’s an
geum o cheann ìochdar iomall an domhain.

B’ aithne dh’ i an lus a bheireadh an toradh as a’ bhainne co math ’s
a b’ aithne dh’ i na h-eòlais a thilleadh air ais e, agus gach seòrsa
sian agus oradh a bha air a chleachdainn no air a chunntas feumail ’s
an àm. Bha gach luibh ’s a’ mhachair no ’s a’ choille co-ionnan dh’
i ri arbhar nan imirean no spilgean cònlaich, ’s cha robh duilleag
air craoibh, no preas, no dris, nach b’ aithne dh’ i. ’S an àm so bha
dùthaich a h-athar còmhdaichte le coille ghiubhais, agus iomraideach
(mar tha fhathast) air son co math ’s a bha a fiodh, ’s bha neart de
bheartais na rìoghachd ’tighinn a stigh air a tailibh.

Uair de na h-uairean sin thàinig na Lochlannaich do Albainn a thoirt
a mach fearainn ’s a dheanamh roinn na còrach air na gheibheadh iad,
’s thug iad fainear gu ’n robh coille ghiubhais Lochabair a’ fàs ’s
a’ gabhail roimpe co mòr ’s gu ’m faodtadh e ’bhi gu ’n cuireadh i
stad air coille dhubh na Suain. Chaidh feachd Lochlannach an uair so
thilleadh air ais an taobh a thàinig iad, ’s ’n uair a ràinig iad
dhachaidh dh’ innis iad do ’n righ mar bha iad ’am beachd a thachradh
’s gu ’m feumadh stad a chur air cinneas na coille Albanaich neo nach
bitheadh mòran meas air a’ chonnadh aige-san. ’S e smuaintich an
righ bho ’n a bha h-uile ionnsachadh aig a nighean gu ’n cuireadh e
’chomhairle rithe, ’s gu ’m faigheadh e fiosrachadh uaipe ’d e an dòigh
a b’ fhearr ’s a bu luaithe air a’ choille Albanaich a dheanamh na bu
lugha ’s a crìonadh. Dh’ innis i dha, ach gu ’m bitheadh aice fhéin ri
dol ann. Fhuair i cead o ’n Rìgh, ’s rinn i deas air son falbh; ’s leis
na cumhachdan a bh’ aice cha chuireadh muir no tìr, talamh no adhar,
stad air a ceum gus an ruigeadh i ceann thall a’ ghnothaich.

’N uair a ràinig i Lochabair ’s e ’n dòigh a ghabh i, dh’ fhadaidh i
teine ’an iomall a gùin ’s ghabh i gu siubhal roimh ’n choille, ’s
leis gu robh comas aice falbh anns na neòil co math ’s air an talamh,
dhìreadh i suas agus ’n uair bha i ’dìreadh ’s a’ cur cuairteig anns an
adhar, bha na sradagan teine a bha ’falbh as a gùn a’ dol gach taobh
leis a’ ghaoith ’s a’ lasadh na coille gus an robh an dùthaich uile gu
bhi ’n a caoirean teintich ’s co dùinte le deathaich ’s gur gann a bu
léir do dhuine lias, ’s a chionn gu ’n robh i fhéin air fàs anns an
deathaich ’s anns an t-sùith na bu duibhe na craobh ’s a’ choille, ’s e
“An Dubh Ghiùbhsach” a theireadh iad rithe.

Bha muinntir na dùthcha cruinn còmhla ’g a feitheamh ’s cha chumadh iad
sealladh oirre leis co àrd ’s a rachadh i anns na speuran ’s co luath
’s a thèarnadh i gu talamh. Cha b’ urrainn iad greim fhaighinn oirre
na bu mhotha na b’ urrainn iad stad a chur oirre, ’s cha robh fios aca
’d e a dhèanadh iad. Mu dheireadh chaidh iad air son fòghluim gu duine
ionnsaichte a bha ’s an dùthaich. Thuirt esan riu, buaile cruidh a
chruinneachadh far an stadadh i, ’s ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n fheudail
’s a’ bhuar gu ’n tèarnadh i; ’s an uair a bhiodh i mar urchair gunna
uapa iad a losgadh oirre le peileir airgid, ’s gu ’n rachadh i ’n a
cual chnàmh. Ghabh iad a chomhairle ’s thòisich iad air togail chreach
’s air ise leantuinn gus an robh a’ bhuaile làn-suidhichte le crodh
ann an Crò-Chintàile. Co luath ’s a chuala ise a’ gheumnaich theirinn
i ’s loisg iad oirre leis a’ pheileir airgid mar dh’ iarr an duine
glic orra, ’s thuit i ’n a ceòsaich ’n am measg. Thog iad eadar dhaoine
am pronnan a bh’ aca dhi ’s thug iad leo do Lochabair i, ’s chum gu
’m bitheadh iad cinnteach nach dèanadh i cron beò no marbh dhoibh
tuilleadh, thìodhlaic iad i ann an Achanacairidh; ’s am fear bho ’n
deachaidh an naigheachd a chluinntinn an toiseach--anns a’ bhliadhna
1880--bha e ’g ràdhainn gu ’m b’ urrainn dha a chas a chur air an uaigh
anns an do chuireadh i.

Bha ioghnadh air Righ Lochlainn nach robh a nighean a’ tilleadh no
sgeul uaipe. Chuir e forfhais a mach, ’s trà chualaic e mar thachair
dhi, chuir e bàta ’s sgioba air son a toirt dachaidh, ach dh’ fhoghain
mnathan Lochabair le ’n ubagan dh’ i. Chaidh a briste ’s na daoine
chall, aig bun Lochiall. Cha d’ ràinig an ath chabhlach na bu mhò. ’S
an treasa uair trà chuir an Righ mach feachd na rioghachd ’s e rinn
iadsan, chuir iad eòlas a thaomadh tobraichean Dhun-I, ’s bha e ’n cois
an eòlais, rathad ’s am bith a rachadh na tobraichean a thaomadh gu ’m
faighteadh a’ ghaoth a dh’ iarrtadh. ’N uair fhuaradh sealladh air a’
chabhlach, thòisichear air taomadh an tobair, ’s mu ’n robh a’ bhoiseag
mu dheireadh as, bha a’ ghaoth co làidir ’s a’ chabhlach co dlùth ’s gu
’n do bhrisdeadh iad air cladach an Dùin, ’s chaidh cumhachd ’s feachd
nan Lochlannach lughdachadh co mòr ’s nach do thill iad riamh tuilleadh
a dheanamh dòlais no a thoirt sgrios air an tìr.




O’NEIL,

AND HOW THE HAIR OF HIS HEAD WAS MADE TO GROW.


There was a smith, before now, in Ireland, who was one day working in
the smithy, when a youth came in, having two old women with him.

He said to the smith,

“I would be obliged to you,” he said, “if you would let me have a while
at the bellows and anvil.”

The smith said he would. He then caught the two old women, threw a hoop
about their middle, and placed them in the smithy fire, and blew the
bellows at them, and then took them out and made one woman, the fairest
that eye ever saw, from the two old women.

When the smith laid down at night, he said to his wife,

“A man came the way of the smithy to-day, having with him two old
women; he asked from me a while of the bellows and anvil, and he made
the fairest woman that man’s eye ever saw, out of the two old women. My
own mother and your mother are here with us, and I think I will try to
make one right woman of the two since I saw the other man doing it.”

“Do,” she said, “I am quite willing.”

Next day he took out the two old women, put the hoop about their
middle, and threw them in the smithy fire. It was not long before it
became likely that he would not have even the bones of them left. The
smith was in extremity, not knowing what to do, but a voice came behind
him,

“You are perplexed, smith, but perhaps I will put you right.” With that
he caught the bellows and blew harder at them; he then took them out
and put them on the anvil, and made as fair a woman out of the two old
wives. Then he said to the smith,

“You had need of me to-day, but,” said he, “you better engage me; I
will not ask from you but the half of what I earn, and that this will
be in the agreement, that I shall have the third of my own will.” The
smith engaged him.

At this time O’Neil sent abroad word that he wanted one who would make
the hair of his head to grow, for there was none on the head of O’Neil
or O’Donnell, his brother, and that whoever could do it, would get the
fourth part of his means. The servant lad said to the smith,

“We had better go and make a bargain with O’Neil that we will put hair
on his head,” and they did this. “Say you to him,” said the servant
lad, “that you have a servant who will put hair on his head for the
fourth part of what he possesses.”

O’Neil was agreeable to this, and the servant lad desired to get a room
for themselves, and asked a cauldron to be put on a good fire. It was
done as he wished. O’Neil was taken in and stretched on a table. The
servant lad then took hold of the axe, threw off O’Neil’s head, and put
it face foremost in the cauldron. After some time he took hold of a
large prong which he had, and he lifted up the head with it, and hair
was beginning to come upon it. In a while he lifted it up again with
the same prong, this time a ply of the fine yellow hair would go round
his hand. Then he gave the head such a lift, and stuck it on the body.
O’Neil then called out to him to make haste and let him rise to his
feet, when he saw the fine yellow hair coming in into his eyes. He did
as he had promised; he gave the smith and the servant lad the fourth
part of his possessions. When they were going home with the cattle the
servant lad said to the smith,

“We are now going to separate, we will make two halves or divisions of
the cattle.”

The smith was not willing to agree to this, but since it was in his
bargain he got the one half. They then parted, and the animal the smith
would not lose now, he would lose again, he did not know where he was
going before he reached home, and he had only one old cow that he did
not lose of the cattle.

When O’Donnell saw his brother’s hair, he sent out word that he would
give the third part of his property to any one who would do the same
to himself. The smith thought he would try to do it this time alone.
He went where O’Donnell was, and said to him that he would put hair on
his head for him also, as he had done to his brother O’Neil. Then he
asked that the cauldron be put on, and a good fire below it, and he
took O’Donnell into a room, tied him on a table, then took up an axe,
cut off his head, and threw it, face downwards, into the cauldron. In
a while he took the prong to see if the hair was growing, but instead
of the hair growing, the jaws were nearly falling out. The smith was
almost out of his senses, not knowing what to do, when he heard a voice
behind him saying to him, “You are in a strait.” This was the lad with
the Black Art, he formerly had, returned. He blew at the cauldron
stronger, brought the prong to see how the head was doing, or if the
hair was growing on it. The next time he tried it, it would twine round
his hand. Since it was so long of growing on it, he said, “We will put
an additional fold round my hand.” When he tried it again it would
reach two twists. He took it out of the cauldron and stuck it on the
body. It cried to be quickly let go, when he saw his yellow hair down
on his shoulders. The hair pleased him greatly; it was more abundant
than that of O’Neil, his brother. They got fully what was promised
them, and were going on their way home. The lad who had the Black Art
said, “Had we not better divide the cattle?”

“We will not, we will not,” said the smith, “lift them with you, since
I got clear.”

“Well,” said the other, “if you had said that before, you would not
have gone home empty-handed, or with only one cow,” and with that he
said, “You will take every one of them: I will take none of them.”

The smith went home with that herd, and he did not require to strike
a blow in his smithy, neither did he meet with the one with the Black
Art, ever after.




O’ NEIL, ’S MAR A CHAIDH AM FALT AIR A CHEANN.


Gobhainn bh’ ann roimhe so ann an Eirinn, ’s bha e latha de na
làithean ag obair anns a’ cheàrdaich agus thàinig òganach stigh ’s dà
sheana-bhoirionnach aige. Thuirt e ris a’ ghobhainn, “Bhithinn ann
ad ehomain,” ars’ esan, “na ’n toireadh tu dhomh tacan de ’n bholg
’s de ’n innean.” Thuirt an gobhainn ris gu ’n tugadh. Rug e an sin
air an dà chaillich, chaith e cearcall mu ’m meadhon, ’s chàirich e
’s an teallach iad, ’s shéid e am bolg riu; thug e ’n sin mach iad ’s
rinn e aon bhoirionnach a bu bhreadha ’s a chunnaic sùil duine de ’n
dà chaillich. ’N uair a luidh an gobhainn ’s an oidhche, thuirt e ris
a mhnaoi, “Thàinig fear rathad na ceàrdaich an diugh ’s dà chaillich
aige, ’s dh’ iarr e orm treis de ’n bholg ’s de ’n innean, ’s rinn e
’m boirionnach a bu bhriadha a chunnaic sùil duine riamh air an dà
chaillich. Tha mo mhàthair fhéin ’s do mhàthair fhéin againn ann an so,
’s tha mi ’smaointeachadh gu ’m feuch mi ri aon bhoirionnach ceart a
dheanamh orra bho ’n a chunnaic mi am fear eile ’g a dheanamh.”

“Dean,” ars’ ise, “tha mi làn-toileach.”

Am màireach thug e mach an dà chaillich ’s chuir e ’n cearcall mu ’m
meadhon, ’s thilg e ’s an teallach iad. Cha b’ fhada ach gus an robh
coltach nach bitheadh na cnàimhean fhéin aige dhiùbh. Bha an gobhainn
’n a chàs gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh e, ach thàinig guth air a
chùlthaobh, “Tha thu ann ad éiginn, a ghobhainn, ach ma dh’ fhaoidte
gu ’n cuir mise ceart thu.” Rug e air a’ bholg ’s théid e na ’s teinne
riu; thug e mach iad a sin ’s chuir e air an innean iad, ’s rinn e
boirionnach a bu bhriadha de ’n dà chaillich. Thuirt e sin ris a’
ghobhainn, “Bha feum agad ormsa an diugh, ach,” ars’ esan, “’s ann a ’s
fearr dhuit mise fhasdadh, ’s cha ’n iarr mi ort ach darna leth de na
bheir mi a mach; ach gu ’m bi so anns a’ chùmhnant, gu ’m bi an treas
trian de m’ thoil fhéin agam.” Dh’ fhasdaidh an gobhainn e.

Aig an àm sin chuir O’ Neil mach fios na ’m faigheadh e fear a
chuireadh falt air, chionn cha robh falt idir air O’ Neil na air O’
Domhnull a bhràthair, gu ’n toireadh e dhoibh a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a
mhaoin; ’s thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “’S fhearr dhuinne falbh
’s bargan a dheanamh ri O’ Neil gu ’n cuir sinn falt air;” ’s rinn iad
mar sin. “Abair thusa ris,” thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “gu bheil
gille agadsa a chuireas falt air, air son a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a
mhaoin.”

Bha O’ Neil deònach air a shon so, agus dh’ iarr an gille seòmar
fhaotainn dhoibh fhéin, ’s dh’ iarr e coire a chur air, ’s teine math
ris. Rinneadh mar a dh’ iarr e, ’s chaidh O’ Neil a thoirt stigh, ’s
chuir e ’n a shìneadh air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh ’s thilg e
dheth an ceann, ’s chuir e ’n comhair na goille anns a’ choire e. ’An
ceann tacain rug e air gramaiche mòr a bh’ aige ’s thog e suas an ceann
leis, ’s bha toiseach fuilt a’ tighinn air. Ann an ceann treis thog e
suas a rithist e leis a’ ghramaiche cheudna, agus an uair so ruigeadh
car m’ a dhòrn de ’n fhalt bhriadha bhuidhe. Thug e sin an togail ud
air, ’s bhuail e air a’ choluinn e. Ghlaodh sin O’ Neil greasad air
’s a leigeil air a chois, ’n uair a chunnaic e ’m falt briadha buidhe
a’ tighinn ’n a shùilean. Rinn e riu mar a gheall e; fhuair iad a
cheathramh chuid d’ a mhaoin.

’N uair bha iad so ’dol dachaidh’s an spréidh aca, thuirt an gille ris
a’ ghobhainn, “Tha mi nis ’dol a dhealachadh ribh, ’s nì sinn dà leth
air an spréidh.” Cha robh an gobhainn toileach air so a thoirt dha, ach
bho ’n a bha e ’n a chùmhnant fhuair e ’n darna leth. Dhealaich iad
so, agus am beothach nach cailleadh an gobhainn an dràsd’ shiubhladh e
rithist, ’s cha robh fhios aige c’ àite an robh e a’ dol, ’s mu ’n d’
ràinig e ’n tigh cha robh aige ach seann mhart nach do chaill e de ’n
spréidh.

’N uair a chunnaic O’ Domhnull am falt a bh’ air a bhràthair, chuir e
mach fios gu ’n toireadh e ’n treas cuid d’ a mhaoin seachad do aon ’s
am bith a chuireadh air fhéin e. Smaointich an gobhainn gu ’m feuchadh
e-fhéin g’ a dheanamh an dràsda gun duine ach e-fhéin. Chaidh e far
an robh O’Domhnull ’s thuirt e ris gu ’n cuireadh e air-san e mar an
ceudna, ’s gur e a chuir air a bhràthair, O’Neil, e, ’s dh’ iarr e ’n
coire ’chur air ’s teine math ris. Thug e O’ Domhnull stigh do sheòmar
’s cheangail e air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh, ’s thug e dheth an
ceann ’s thilg e ’an comhair na goille e anns a’ choire. ’An ceann
treis rug e air a’ ghramaiche dh’ fheuchainn an robh falt a’ cinntinn,
ach ’an àite falt a bhi ’cinntinn ’s ann a bha na giallan ’tuiteam as.
Bha an gobhainn ’an impis dol as a chiall, gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh
e, ’n uair a chualaig e guth air a chùlthaobh ag ràdhainn ris, “Tha thu
ann ad éiginn.” Bha so gille na sgoil-duibhe, a bh’ aige fhéin roimhe,
air tilleadh. Shéid e ris a’ choire na bu teodha, ’s thug e sin nuas
leis an gramaiche a shealltainn ciamar a bha an ceann a’ deanamh, ’s
bha am falt a’ cinntinn. An ath-uair a dh’ fheuch e e, ruigeadh car
mu ’dhòrn dheth. “Bho ’n a bha e co fada gun chinntinn,” ars’ esan,
“cuiridh sinn car a bharrachd mu ’m dhòrn;” ’s ’n uair a dh’ fheuch
e rithist e, ruigeadh e ’n dà char. Thog e as a’ choire e, ’s bhuail
e air a’ choluinn e; ’s ghlaodh e ’ghrad-fhuasgladh, ’s e ’faicinn
’fhalt buidhe sìos air a ghualainn. Chòrd am falt ris fior mhaith, bha
barrachd fuilt air ’s a bh’ air O’ Neil a bhràthair. Fhuair iadsan
’cheart ni a chaidh ghealltainn doibh, ’s bha iad ’dol dachaidh air an
rathad. Thuirt gille na sgoil-duibhe, “Nach fheàrr dhuinn ar treud a
roinn?” “Cha roinn, cha roinn,” ars’ an gobhainn, “tog leat iad, bho
’n a fhuair mise saor.” “Ma tà,” ars’ esan, “na ’n dubhairt thu sin
roimhe cha deachaidh thu dhachaidh falamh no air aon mhart; agus leis a
sin,” ars’ esan, “bheir thu leat h-uile h-aon diùbh, cha ghabh mise gin
diùbh.”

Chaidh an gobhainn dachaidh leis an spréidh sin, ’s cha do ruig e leas
buille a bhualadh ’an ceàrdaich tuille, ni mò a thachair e-fhéin air
fear na sgoil-duibhe tuille.




BEAST FABLES.




THE WOLF AND THE FOX.


This story, like many others in which the lower animals figure as
characters, is very popular in the Highlands, in fact, Mr. Campbell
of Islay, by whom it is mentioned, could not help falling in with it.
But the version published by him is destitute of several interesting
incidents which form a part of the story. The narration depends always
upon the knowledge and skill of the person who tells it, and this
edition is given because there is to be found in it incidents of much
interest and amusement, not to be found in any other version, such as
the Fox’s oath and standing in front of the fire. The Gaelic is not
given except in the essential expressions, and it is not deemed of much
consequence to give more, as their fluency and number depend upon the
reciter’s knowledge and tact. In these fables the lower animals appear
with the same characteristics as are always assigned to them, and in
this tale the fox appears as not only wily and cunning, but also as the
most unprincipled scoundrel, indifferent to the interests of others,
and also to what is usually of weight with men, the restraint of an
unseen power.

The Fox and Wolf were keeping house together near the shore, and as
might naturally be expected, were very poor and at times hard up for
food. At first the fox kept himself in good condition, and was not so
voracious as the wolf. After a heavy storm in winter time the two went
along the shore to see what the sea had cast up. This is still done by
poor people in the islands, and in those places where wood does not
grow. They are often fortunate enough to find logs and planks of wood.
On the occasion of the wolf and the fox’s journey they were fortunate
enough to find a keg of butter. Probably it had come from Ireland
and been swept or thrown overboard in the storm. It was particularly
welcome to the poor finders, and the rascally fox at once coveted it
for himself. He said to the wolf that, as this was the winter time,
they had not so much need of it, but when the hungry summer (_samhradh
gortach_) would come, it would be doubly welcome; they had better bury
it, and no one would know of its existence but themselves. They dug a
deep hole, buried the keg of butter, and went home with their other
provisions. Some days after that the fox came in, and wearily throwing
himself on a settle, or seat, which formed part of the furniture, he
heaved a deep sigh and said, “Alas! Alas! Woe is me (_Och! Och! fhéin
thall_).”

“Alas! Alas!” said the sympathising wolf, “what is it that troubles
you?”

“Dear me,” said the fox, “they are wanting me out to a christening
(_Och! Och! tha iad ’gam iarraidh mach gu goisteachd_),” still
pretending a weary indifference, and the Gaelic expression is here
noticeable, as, being asked out to a baptism means literally being
asked to be god-father, or gossip at the baptism, a practise observed
in the Highlands, even where the Roman Catholic and Episcopal systems
have disappeared.

“Alas! Alas!” said the wolf, “are you going?”

“Alas! Alas!” said the fox, “I am.” When he came home, the wolf asked
what name they had given the child. “A queer enough name,” said the
fox, “_Blaiseam_,” (let me taste).

Some days after that again the same manœuvre was gone through, and when
the fox returned and the wolf asked him the child’s name, he said it
was as queer a name as the former one,--“_Bi ’na mheadhon_,” (be in its
middle). A third time the manœuvre was gone through and the child’s
name was said to be the queerest of all, “_Sgrìob an clàr_,” (scrape
the stave).

At last the “hungry summer” came; and it was such as is well known
even in eastern countries when the stores of the preceding harvest are
exhausted, and the stores of the year’s harvest are not yet ready. The
fox and the wolf went for the keg of butter, but it had disappeared.
The fox being prepared for this emergency began at once to accuse the
wolf of having taken it, “No one knew it was there but our two selves,
and I see the colour of it on your fur.”

The two went away home, the wolf very much cast down, and the fox
persisting in his accusation that the wolf had stolen it. The wolf
solemnly protested that he had never touched it.

“Will you swear then?” the fox said.

According to a Highland proverb, protestations may be loud till they
are solemn oaths (_’S mòr facal gu lùghadh_). The wolf then held up its
paw, and with great solemnity emitted this oath, “If it be that I stole
the butter, and it be, and it be, may disease lie heavy on my grey
belly in the dust, in the dust,” (_Ma ’s mise ghoid an t-ìm, ’s gur mi,
’s gur mi, Galar trom-ghlas air mo bhronnghlas anns an ùir, anns an
ùir_).

“Swear now yourself,” but the fox was so impressed by the dignity and
reverence of the oath, that he tried every means in his power to evade
so solemn an ordeal; but the wolf would take no refusal, and at last
the fox emitted this oath, “If it be I that stole the butter, and it
be, and it be, Whirm, Wheeckam, Whirram, Whycam Whirrim Whew, Whirrim
Whew,” (_Ma’s mise ’ghoid an t-ìm ’s gur a mi, ’s gur a mi, ciream,
cìceam ciream cuaigeam, ciream ciu, ciream ciu_). The student of
language will observe how the Gaelic C corresponds to the English Wh.
This is particularly noticeable here as the difference renders the oath
as ludicrous in the translation as in the original, if not more so.
The wolf said nothing, but the fox, with that persistence which often
accompanies evil-doing, suggested that they should both stand in front
of the fire and whoever began to sweat first would be the guilty party,
as the butter would be oozing out through him. The wolf thinking no
evil, consented, and the fox thought he would get him to stand nearer
to the fire than himself. It so turned out however, that the fox, who
had kept himself in good condition by repeated visits to the keg of
butter, (and they must have been more frequent than the baptisms to
which he said he had been called), was getting uncomfortably warm, and
said, “We are long enough at this work, we had better go out and take a
walk.” When out thus cooling themselves, they passed a smithy door, at
which an old white horse was standing with the point of its hind shoe
resting on the ground. The wolf having gone over to it, but at a safe
distance, and looking intently at the door, said to the fox, “I wish,
as your eyesight is better than mine and you can read better than I
can, that you would come over and read the name written on the horse
shoe.”

The fox came over but could see no writing on the shoe, but flattered
by the wolf’s words, and not liking to confess that his eyesight was
failing, it went closer and the horse lifting its foot knocked its
brains out.

“I see,” said the wolf, “the greatest scholars are not always
the wisest clerks,” (_Cha ’n i an ro-sgoilearachd a ’s
fhearr.--Lit._--Excessive scholarship is not always the best).

[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE WOLF.]




THE FOX AND THE BIRD.


In the foregoing the fox appears true to his character as an
unscrupulous, grasping, wily wretch, and in the following he appears as
over reached by a bird. Considering the character the fox bears, one is
glad when he is paid back in his own coin. The bird in the tale is by
some rendered Kestrel Hawk, and by others Hen Harrier. The story was
heard in Tiree, in which are no trees on which the bird could sit, and
no hawks or foxes to make the story applicable. The lesson which the
fable implies is one that is useful everywhere.

A _Deargan-allt, Eun Fionn_, was dosing by a river side, when a Fox
came and caught it, and was going to devour it. “Oh don’t, don’t,” said
the bird, “and I will lay an egg as big as your head.”

He protested this so loudly, and so solemnly, that the fox loosened
his hold till the bird at last flew up into a tree. Here sitting on a
branch, and safe from further injury, it said to the fox, “I will not
lay an egg as big as your head, for I cannot do it, but I will give
you three pieces of advice, and if you will observe them, they will do
you more good in the future. One, first, “Never believe an unlikely
story from unreliable authority (_Na creid naigheachd mi-choltach fo
urrainn mi-dhealbhach_). Secondly, “Never make a great fuss about a
small matter (_Na dean dearmail mhòr mu rud beag_), and thirdly”--here
the bird seemed to take time, and the fox having his curiosity now
excited listened, though it was with firmly clasped teeth and pangs of
hunger--“Whatever you get a hold of, take a firm hold of it” (_Rud air
an dean thu greim, dean greim gu ro-mhath air_), saying this, the bird
flew away, and the fox, thus neatly sold, was left lamenting.




THE WREN.


In the Fables relating to animals the fox readily takes a lead, and is
characterised as an unscrupulous and unprincipled rascal. Next to him
the wren, which is the smallest (or at least has the name of being so)
of British birds figures, and has got the name not only of being small,
but also of being forward and pert. The first or most prominent of
these fables is that in which the wren appears as contesting with the
eagle the supremacy among birds, and this story may be said to be as
widely extended over the Highlands as the birds themselves. There was
to be a contest which bird should fly highest, and the wren jumped upon
the eagle’s back. When the eagle had soared as high as it could, it
said, “Where are you now, brown wren?” (_C’ àite bheil thu, dhreathan
donn?_). The wren jumped up a little higher and said, “Far, far, above
you” (_Fada fada fos do chionn_). In consequence of this extraordinary
feat the wren has twelve eggs while the eagle has only two.

Natural historians assert that the number of wren’s eggs in one nest
seldom exceed eight, but others have stated that the most number is
twelve or even fourteen. In these tales which have been got together
in the West Highlands, the number is uniformly said to be twelve, but
whether this is actually the case or merely an assumption, there is no
call here for enquiring.

The wren and his twelve sons were threshing corn in a barn, when a fox
entered and claimed one of the workers for his prize. It was agreed,
since he must get some one, that it should be the old wren, if he
himself could point him out from the rest. The thirteen wrens were so
much alike that the fox was puzzled. At last he said, “It is easy to
distinguish the stroke of the old hero himself” (_’S fhurasda buille
an t-sean laoich aithneachadh_). On hearing this, the old wren gave
himself a jauntier air, and said, “there was a day when such was the
case” (_Bha latha dha sin_). After this the fox had no difficulty, for
boasting was always illfated (_bha tubaist air a’ bhòsd riamh_) and he
took his victim without any dispute.

On another occasion the wren and his twelve sons were going to the
peatmoss, when they fell in with a plant of great virtue and high
esteem. The old wren caught hold of the plant by the ears, and was
jerking it this way and that way, hard-binding it, and pulling it, as
if peat-slicing; white was his face and red his cheek, but he failed to
pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth: the plant of virtues
and blessings--(_Bha e ’ga dhudadh null ’s ’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga
chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal a shnuadh ’s bu dhearg
a ghruaidh, ’s cha tugadh e Meacain o chraicionn loma na talmhain;
Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd_).

The wren called for the assistance of one of his sons, saying, “Over
here one of my sons to help me” (_An so aon eallach mo mhac nall_), and
they caught the plant in the same way, jerking it this way and that
way, hard-binding and peat-slicing with it; white were their faces and
red their cheeks, but they could not with all their ardour, and their
utmost strength pull the plant from the bare surface of the earth:
the plant of virtues and blessings (_’S bha iad ’ga dhudadh null ’s
’ga dhudadh nall, ’ga chruaidh-cheangal ’s ’ga bhuain-mòine; bu gheal
an snuadh ’s bu dearg an gruaidh ach le ’n uile dhichioll ’s le ’n
cruaidh-neart cha tugadh iad am Meacan o chraicionn loma na talmhain:
Meacan nam buadh ’s nam beannachd_).

“Over here with two of my sons to help me” (_An so dà eallach mo mhac
nall_), and the same operation was again performed unsuccessfully, and
in the same way one after another, until the whole twelve sons came to
the assistance of the old wren. Then they grasped it altogether, and
under the severe strain the plant at last yielded, and all the wrens
fell backwards into a peat pond and were drowned.

The old man from whom this story was heard said, that in winter time,
when knitting straw ropes for thatching, he could get all the boys of
the village to come to assist him, and keep him company, and this they
did with cheerfulness on the understanding that the story of “The wren
and his twelve sons” would be illustrated at the end. One after another
of the boys sat on the floor behind him, and he having a hold of the
straw rope was able easily to resist the strain till he choose to let
go, then all the boys fell back and the laughter that ensured was ample
reward for their labour.

The fame of the wren for its forwardness and impudence is also
illustrated by a story current in the south of Scotland, about Robin
Redbreast having fallen sick, and the wren paying him a visit, and
expressing great condolence when, after making his will, Robin
dismissed her, saying, “Gae pack oot at my chamber door, ye cuttie
quean.” In Gaelic the wren is also known by the name of _Dreòllan_,
and _Dreathan-donn_, and the name as applied to human beings means a
weakly, imbecile, trifling person, in whatever he takes in hand to do.

All the other birds in the same manner have their own share of actions
ascribed to them, and the manner in which several of them made a brag
of their own young is amusing--particularly in Gaelic, in which the
call ascribed to them is more capable of imitation, and particularly in
the light of the manner in which the young of those who make the boast
are looked upon.

“Gleeful, gleeful,” said the Gull, “my young is the supreme beauty.”

“Sorry, sorry,” said the Hooded Crow, “but my son is the little Blue
Chick.”

“Croak, croak,” said the Raven, “it is my son that can pick the lambs.”

“Click, click,” said the Eagle, “it is my son that is lord over you.”

(“_Glìtheag, glitheag,” ors an Fhaoilean, “’se mo mhac-sa an Daogheal
Donn._”

“_Gurra, gurra,” thuirt an Fheannag, “’se mo mo mhac-sa an Garrach
Gorm._”

“_Gnog, gnog,” ors am Fitheach, “’s e mo mhac-sa ’chriomas na h-uain._”

“_Glig, glig,” thuirt an Iolaire, “’s e mo mhac-sa ’s tighearna
oirbh._”)

In the Highlands the young gull is called _Sgliùrach_ which is the
regular name for a slatternly young woman. It is seen in the midst of
a storm alighting in the hollows, and restfully gliding to the highest
summits of the waves.

The hooded crow’s fancy for its own young has passed into a proverb,
“The hooded crow thinks its own impertinent blue progeny pretty” (_’S
bòidheach leis an fheannaig a garrach gorm fhein_”).

Of the Raven it is commonly said, that it is so fond of its victim’s
eyes that it will not even give them to its own young. Its supernatural
knowledge of where carrion is to be found amounts almost to instinct,
and is among the vices (_Dubhailcean_) ascribed to the bard.

The eagle can only fly from an elevated situation, from the difficulty
of getting wind under its wings, and in this respect forms a great
contrast to the little wren.

Of other tales in which the lower animals figure, the three following
are noticeable.

I.--THE TWO DEER. The young, confident of its own speed and strength,
remarked:--

    “Sleek and yellow is my skin,
    And no beast ever planted foot
    On hillside that could catch me.”

The old deer, who knew better, answered,

    “The young dog black-mouthed
    And yellow: the first dog
    Of the first litter. Born in March,
    And fed on quern meal and goat’s milk,
    There never planted foot on hillside
    Beast it could not catch.”

    (Sleamhuinn ’s buidhe mo bhian,
    ’S cha do chuir e eang air sliabh
    Beathach riamh ’bheireadh orm.”

    “An cuilean bus-dubh buidhe,
    Ceud chù na saighe
    Rugadh anns a’ Mhàrt
    ’S a bheathaichte air gairbhean
    ’S air bainne ghabhair
    Cha do chuir e eang air sliabh
    Beathach riamh nach beireadh e air).

Regarding this description of the deer-hound it deserves notice that
the word _Màrt_, translated March, denotes any busy time of the year,
there being a màrt, or busy season in harvest as well as in spring,
_Màrt Fogharaidh_ as well as in _Màrt Earraich_, and that in the
islands meal made with the Quern (_Bràthuin_), and from brown oats,
which are the kind of oats most common in these islands, is stronger
and more nourishing food than common meal. The merits of goat’s milk
are well known. This description of the best kind of deer-hound is
striking, and was taken down from a reciter in Skye.

II.--THE TWO HORSES. Two horses were standing side by side, ready yoked
and ready to commence ploughing, when the youngest, who was but newly
broken, and a stranger to field work, said, “We will plough this ridge
and then that other ridge and after that the next one, and once we have
commenced we will do every ridge in sight, and once we have fairly
commenced we will not be long in doing the whole field.” The old horse,
who had experience of the work, said, “We will plough this furrow
itself first.”

III.--THE TWO DOGS. There was a big, sleek, honest-looking dog, and a
little yelping cur of “low degree” was always annoying him, and barking
at him. One day he caught the little cur, and gave him a squeeze and
sent it off yelping. When the cur recovered itself it said, “I will not
hurt you or touch you, but I will raise an ill report (_droch-alla_)
about you.” In pursuance of his threat the cur went among his
acquaintances, and such as he himself was. There are many dogs to be
found in every town.

    “Both mongrel puppy whelp and hound
    And curs of low degree.”

and to such the cur related how the big dog for all his smooth
appearance and apparent good nature was in reality a cruel, deceitful
dog and under all his apparent or seeming good manners, he was ready
to fall upon those weaker than himself, whether they gave him cause
or not, and if he could do it without being observed give them a bad
shaking. He was a dangerous dog and ought to be watched and no wise dog
should put himself in his way.

This calumny made its way, found many believers and at last produced
its natural fruit. The big honest dog found his company avoided and
every body looking upon him with suspicion.

At first the depression, and gloom which haunted him disappeared under
a hearty run, and the patting of its master, but it preyed so much on
him that he came to avoid society, and to be apparently indifferent
to any company. This happens in the experiences of life, and that
causeless and evil reports are most dangerous in their consequences.
Some time afterwards the cur was similarly dealt with by another cur,
who like himself had not very high principles.




THE CAT AND THE MOUSE.

A GAELIC NURSERY RHYME.


    The Mouse said from her hiding place,
      “What are you about, Grey Cat?”
    “Friendship, fellowship and love:
      You may come out!”
    “Well I know the hooked claw
      That is fastened in the sole of your feet
    You killed my sister yesterday,
      And with difficulty I myself escaped,
    You thieving cat, son of the grim grey one,
      Where were you yesterday when from home?”
    “I went away on my left hand
      To hunt for mince-meat in an evil hour;
    I was noticed by the goodman of the house,
      My eye being shut and my cheek full;
    He tightened my throat very hard,
      And called out to bring him the cheese-knife,
    He cut off one of my ears
      And the red root of the ear to the bone.”

    Thuirt an Luchag, ’s i ’s an fhròig,
      “’Dé th’ air t’ aire, a Chait Ghlais?”
    “Càirdeas ’s comunn ’s gaol:
      Feudaidh tusa tighinn a mach.”
    “Is eòlach mi air an dubhan chrom
      ’Tha ’n sàs ann am bonn do chas!
    Mharbh thu mo phiuthar an dé,
      ’S ann air éiginn ’fhuair mi-fhéin as.
    A chaoitein, mhic Ghrìmeich Ghlais,
      C’ àit an robh thu ’n raoir air chuairt?”
    “Dh’ fhalbh mi air mo làimh-chlì
      ’Shealg nan ìsbean ’s an droch uair;
    Mhothaich fear-an-tighe dhomh,
      Mo shùìl druidte ’s mo phluic làn;
    Theannaich e m’ amhach gu cruaidh,
      ’S ghlaodh e nuas air corc a’ chàis,
    Thug e dhiom-sa an leth-chluas
      ’S am faillein ruadh gu ruig an cnàimh.”


NOTES:

 The foregoing rhyme is here given as being a more complete version
 than that to be found in vol. II. p. 389 (new edition p. 404) of
 “Popular Tales of the West Highlands” by the late J. F. Campbell, of
 Islay.




GAMES.


BOY’S GAMES.

In the Highlands of Scotland, as in every other place where there are
children, youthful plays and amusements had their sway, and it is
worthy of attention how these amusements were eminently calculated to
develop and strengthen mind and muscular strength in the young. The
various amusements of Riddles, and the many forms of indoor or house
games are too numerous to describe, and in many instances not worth
while dwelling upon. These games particularly called out the power of
close attention and of ready speech, and were as often played out of
doors as indoors, according to weather.


I.

WRESTLING MATCHES.

When the youth of a village met at a _céilidh_, or indoor gathering,
and a wrestling match was resolved upon, one of them was appointed
a king or master of the ceremonies, and the company was bound to be
obedient to him in everything. In the following game a stout and likely
lad was fixed upon to come in, in the character of a “Desert Glede”
(_Croman Fàsaich_). When he came in, the following speech occurred:
addressing the king, he said:--

_Croman._

“Leigeadh da, leigeadh da, Dia,”

_Righ._

“Co as a thàinig thu, a Chromain Fhàsaich, no ’de an dràsda thug so
thu?”

_Croman._

“Thàinig mi a m’ fhonn ’s a m’ fhearann, ’s a m’ fhàsach fhéin.”

_Righ._

“’Dé chuir fearann ’s fonn ’s fàsach agadsa ’s mise gun fhonn gun
fhearann gun fhàsach.”?

_Croman._

“Mo chruas, ’s mo luathas, ’s mo làidireachd fhéin.”

_Righ._

“Tha òganach geur donn agamsa a leagadh tu, ’s a bhreabadh tu, ’s a
bheireadh sia deug dh’ iallan do dhroma asad, agus iall g’ ad cheangal;
’s a mhi-mhodhaicheadh do bhean ann an clais na h-inne ’s tu fhéin
ceangailte.”

_Croman._

“Cuir a mach so e ma ta.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_Kite, or Glede._

“Permit, permit, O Deity.”

_King._

“Where have you come from, Kite of the Desert, and what has now brought
you here?”

_Kite._

“I come from my own land and soil and desert.”

_King._

“How have you land and soil and desert, when I have neither land nor
soil nor desert?”

_Kite._

“My own hardiness and swiftness and strength.”

_King._

“I have a smart brown-haired youth, who can throw you down, and kick
you, and take sixteen thongs out of your back, and a thong to tie
you with, and who can throw your wife into the byre gutter while you
yourself are tied.”

_Kite._

“Send him out here then.”

The wrestling then began, and the one who proved victor became “Desert
Glede” for the next encounter, until the whole were run over.

The words were sometimes used in the following form:--

_Righ._--“Dida-a-didacha-dìsa, a Chromain Fhàsaich, co as dràsda a
choisich thu?”

_Croman._--“Feuch ’bheil gìomanach donn agad a chumas rium.”

_Righg._--“Tha agamsa gìomanach donn a chumas riut ’s a dheanadh loth
pheallagach dhiot aig dorus an tighe, etc.”

       *       *       *       *       *

_King._--“Deeda-a-deedacha-deesa, Desert Glede, whence have you walked
from now?”

_Kite._--“Try whether you have a brown-haired youth to match me.”

_King._--“I have a brown-haired youth that will match you and make a
matted colt of you at the door of the house, etc.”

Another game popular on these occasions was one of forfeits, known
as the “Parson’s mare has gone amissing,” (_Làir a’ pharsonaich air
chall_). Every boy and girl in the company has a false name, given
for the occasion, such as “Old Cow’s Tail” (_Earball Seana Mhairt_);
“Rooster on the House-top” (_Coileach air Tigh_), etc. The king, or
overseer, commencing the game says,

    “The parson’s mare has gone amissing,
        And it is a great shame that it should be so;
        Try who stole her.”

        Làir a’ pharsonaich air chall,
        ’S mòr an nàire dh’ i bhi ann;
        Feuch cò ghoid i.

Looking round the circle, he fixes upon some one, and mentions him by
the assumed name. He fixes, for instance, on the one to whom the name
of “Old Cow’s Tail” was given, and the person mentioned or denoted was
bound at once to answer, saying

    “It’s a lie from you”
    (’S breugach dhuit e)

to which the answer is,

    “Who then is it?”
    (Feuch cò eile e?).

The person accused at once passes it on by mentioning some one else,
such as the “Rooster on the House top,” and the same query and answer,
“Who then is it?”, etc., is passed on. The first one who fails in
giving a ready reply has to submit to give a forfeit which the ruler
keeps in security till all have been exacted; then some one bends down
and rests his head upon the king’s knee, when the forfeits are held
upon his head and he is made to award the punishment of redeeming
them. He does not see whose forfeit it is, and the penalty imposed is
sometimes very ludicrous and impossible. One, for instance, has to sit
on the fire till his stomach boils (_Suidhe air an teine gus am bi a
ghoile air ghoil_); another is to go out to the hillock in front of the
village and bawl out three times,

    “This is the one who did the mischief
    And who will do it to-night yet.”

    (’S mise an duine a rinn an t-olc
    ’S nì mi ’n nochd fhathast e).

This game requires great readiness and retentiveness of mind. The
attention being kept continually on the strain in case one’s own
assumed name be called out, and a readiness to pass the accusation on
to another.

The game of “Hide and Seek” was practised in the Highlands in many
forms. Probably the earliest and simplest is that of young children
playing round their mother, while she was engaged in baking bread. It
was the custom in olden times to gather the meal or remains of dough
left over after the oatcakes of bread were made, and duly work it into
a cake by itself, called the _Bonnach Beag_, or “Little Cake,” also
known as _Siantachan a’ Chlàir_, “The Charmer of the Board,” which
was supposed to be of mysterious value in keeping want away from the
house. This little cake was given to the children, and when butter was
ready or accessible, was thickly covered and given to the little fry,
making a very welcome and grateful treat. Sometimes when the butter was
very thickly spread, and perhaps with the thumb as the readiest and
most convenient substitute for a knife, the housewife said, “Here take
that; it is better than a hoard of cloth” (Gabh sin; ’s fhearr e na mìr
liath ’an clùd). Hence the expression that was used to denote that the
preparations were not quite over:

  “Cha ’n ’eil am bonnach beag bruich fhathast.”
  (The little cake is not ready yet).

Not infrequently the little things hid their heads under their mother’s
apron, thinking, like the ostrich of the desert that if their heads
were hidden, none of the rest of them would be seen. When children
played the game in the open air, the stackyard was commonly resorted
to, and the one who was fixed upon as the Blind Man, while the rest
were hiding themselves had to call out three times,

  “Opera-opera-bo-baideag”

adding at the third time,

“Dalladh agus bodharadh agus dìth na dà chluais air an fhear nach cuala
sud.”

(Blindness and deafness and the loss of both ears be the lot of the one
who will not hear that).

The Blind-man then caught hold of one of the stacks, and went round,
guided by his hands, giving occasional kicks in case any one should be
hiding himself near the ground.




APPENDIX.


I.--FINLAY GUIVNAC.

(Page 44).

_Guibhnich_, or _Duimhnich_, were the Campbells. In a song in dispraise
of the clan occurs,

    “Bheir mi ’n sgrìob so air na Guibhnich
    Air son cuimhneachadh o nuadh.

    (I will make this line on the Campbell clan,
    To remind them anew);

and in another similar song,

    “Sgrios a’ chorrain air a’ choinnlein
    Air na bheil beò do na Guibhnich.”

    (The destruction of the reaping-hook on a grain of corn
    On the living race of the Campbell clan).

In Stewart’s Collection, p. 320, is found,

    “Dean mo ghearan gu cuimhneach
    Ris na Duimhnidh ghlan uasal.”

    (Be mindful to lay my complaint
    Before the pure-minded noble Campbells).


II.--PORT-NAN-LONG.

(Page 52).

_Port-nan-long_ is said to have got its name from the following
circumstance:--About the year 500 A.D., the few inhabitants then
living in Tiree were in the township and neighbourhood of Sorabi,
where there was a chapel, and which lies on the south-east side of
the island, and is separated by the stream of the same name running
past the burying-ground into the bay, from the township of Balinoe
(_Baile-nodha_). The island having been previously desolated by
pirates and cattle-raiders, and a rumour being heard at this time that
a band of these had again returned among the islands to renew their
depredations, a watch was kept, and the factor of the community, who
appears to have been their only protector and counsellor, went daily
to look seawards for the appearance of the enemy, lest the small and
feeble band might be surprised before they could make their escape
or reach a hiding-place. One day then he saw ships coming from the
south-east, and he went in and sent word to his neighbours. When he
looked again, the ships were nearer and were a large fleet. The next
look he gave he saw that they were close at hand, near the land. He
then called the people round him, and told them how he could see that
their enemies, who were near, were too powerful to be resisted; that as
he himself and those with him were defenceless, and unable to escape,
their only hope of deliverance from their terrible danger was in the
power of Almighty God, whose aid he would ask, and kneeling on the
ground with his friends and neighbours around him, he said, “O Lord,
as all power is in thy hand, help us against these enemies who are
coming on us (to destroy us)”; (_A Thighearna, o ’n a’s ann ad làimh
a tha gach cumhachd, cuidich leinn o na naimhdean sin a tha ’tighinn
oirnn!_). He had scarcely uttered the last word when a violent storm
came from the south-east, and the ships of the enemy came ashore, one
heaped above another (_air muin a’ chéile_). Sixteen of them were
completely destroyed. One person even was not left to tell their fate;
and from that time the place has been called _Port-nan-long_, (the
Creek of Boats).


III.--A TRADITION OF MORAR.

MAC VIC AILEIN OF MORAR (_Mòr-thìr_) was out in a shealing with his
men, on a summer morning, and saw a young woman following cows, with
her petticoats gathered to keep them dry, as the dew was heavy on the
ground (_a còtaichean truiste, le truimead an driùchd, g’ an cumail
tioram_). He said, “Would not that be a handsome young woman if her
two legs were not so slender (_mur biodh caoilead a dà choise_).” She
answered in his hearing, “Often a slender-shanked cow has a large
udder[31] (_is minig a bha ùth mhòr aig bò chaol-chasach_).” He asked
her to be brought where he was; she was his own dairymaid. She went
away to Ireland, and named her son Murdoch after his foster-father
(_oide_), whom she afterwards married. He was known as Little Murdoch
MacRonald (_Murcha beag Mac Raonuill_). As he grew older his mother
would be telling him about a brother he had in Alban (_an Albainn_)
who was a strong and powerful man, and the lad, being a good wrestler,
thought he would like to go and see him, to try a bout of wrestling
(_car-gleachd_) with him, to find which of them was the strongest man,
and watched for an opportunity to get to Alban. As there was frequent
communication then between Ireland and the Western Highlands he had
not long to wait till he saw a boat in which it was likely he would
be taken. He went to the harbour and on reaching the boat, without
knowing that it belonged to his brother, asked the first person he
met, who was _Mac vic Ailein_ himself, if he would get ferried across
to Scotland (_dh’ iarr e ’n t-aiseag_). _Mac vic Ailein_ said that he
would take him with them. When they went away the day became stormy
(_shéid an latha_), and no one who went to steer but was lifted from
the helm,[32] _Mac vic Ailein_ being thrown aside as well as the
others. When _Murcha beag Mac Raonuill_ saw that the strongest man
among them could not stand at the helm, he asked to be allowed to try
it. “You would get that,” _Mac vic Ailein_ said, “if you were like a
man who was able to do it, but when it is beyond our strength (_’nuair
a dh’ fhairtlich i oirnn fhéin_), you need not make the attempt.” “At
any rate,” he said “I will give it a trial”: and it did not make him
alter his position (_cha do chuir i thar a bhuinn e_) till they reached
land. As he was the best seaman _Mac vic Ailein_ would not part with
him. He took him to his house and entertained him as a guest. They
entered into conversation and began to give news to each other (_chaidh
iad gu seanachas agus gu naigheachdan_) till little Murdoch told him
he was his brother and that it was for the express purpose (_a dh’ aon
obair_) of seeing him he had come from Ireland, and that he would not
return till they tried a bout of wrestling, since _Mac vic Ailein_ was
so renowned for his prowess, and he would find out what strength he
possessed before he left. The heroes rose and began to wrestle, but
in a short time _Mac vic Ailein_ was thrown (_Dh’ éirich na suinn,
ach ann an tiota bha Mac ’ic Ailein ’s a dhruim ri talamh_). “I am
pleased to have taken the trouble of coming from Ireland (_toilichte
as mo shaothair_),” Murdoch said. Next day at dinner they had beef on
the table, and little Murdoch said, “Let us try which of us can break
the shank bone[33] (_a’ chama-dhubh_) with the hand closed.” “I am
willing,” _Mac vic Ailein_ said. “Well, try it, then,” Murdoch said.
_Mac vic Ailein_ tried as hard as his strength would permit, and it
defied him (_dh’ fhairtlich i air_). Murdoch broke it at the first
blow. _Mac vic Ailein_ then said, “You will not return to Ireland any
more; you will stay with me, and we will divide the estate between us.”
Murdoch replied, “I am well to do as it is (_glé mhath dheth mar thà_),
my mother and stepfather have sufficient worldly means (_gu leòir de
’n t-saoghal_), and I will not stay away from them though you were to
give me the whole estate,” and wishing _Mac vic Ailein_ enjoyment and
prosperity, he bade him farewell and returned to Ireland, and friendly
communication was kept up between them ever afterwards during their
lives.


IV.--CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN J. F. CAMPBELL OF ISLAY AND J. G. CAMPBELL.

Among the treasures regarding folk-lore that I have been able to
collect are a few letters of the late J. F. Campbell of Islay to the
Rev. J. G. Campbell, late Minister of Tiree. They deal with various
questions and traditions.

_Inter alia_ is a discussion concerning the word sàil versus sìol
Dhiarmaid. I give the letters as written.

  A. CAMPBELL.


SÀIL OR SÌOL DHIARMAID.

The late Campbell of Islay to the late J. G. Campbell.

  TRAVELLERS’ CLUB,
  Feb. 27, 1871.

  MY DEAR SIR,

 I’ll get you the books you name and send them soon. With regard to
 sàil there was once an actor who amused an audience by putting his
 head under his cloak and squealing like a pig. A countryman rose and
 said that he would squeal better next day. So a match was made and
 tried. The audience applauded the actor and hissed the countryman. But
 he produced a pig from under his cloak. I know what the man meant who
 signed Sàil Dhiarmaid. The man who spoke no other language pointed to
 the place in his foot which he meant by Sàil, so I learned the lesson,
 and anybody who will try may learn a good deal about Gaelic in the
 same fashion.

 [Illustration]

 If a man starts with the conviction that knowledge is to the unknown
 as a drop in the ocean--he will get on.

 I have MacNicol, and know his remark about Ossian’s leg.

 I have now got the only copy that ever was written, so far as I know,
 and I shall be glad to get more. But we must all take what we can
 get. As far as fixing the king or the country and the date, that is
 perfectly hopeless. I have about 16 versions of one story in Gaelic,
 and no two have the same name. I suppose that there must be sixty
 versions of it known in other languages, and no two are alike. The
 oldest I know is scattered in ejaculations and separate lines through
 the Rigveda Sanhitâ, which is a collection of hymns in Sanscrit, and
 the oldest things known. St. George and the Dragon is a form of the
 story. Perseus and Andromeda is another. In Gaelic it is generally
 _Mac an Iasgair_, or _Iain Mac_ somebody, or _Fionn Mac a’ Bhradain_,
 a something to do with a mermaid or a dragon, the herding of cows and
 the slaying of giants. The stories to which I referred were told me
 by John Ardfenaig as facts (the Duke of Argyll’s factor in the Ross
 of Mull). A man built a boat. Another, to spite him, said that the
 death of a man was in that boat--no one would go to sea in it, and at
 last the boat was sold by the builder to an unbeliever in ghosts and
 dreams. The other was how the turnips were protected in Tiree. If you
 know these you have got far, but if not you have a good deal to learn
 in Tiree.

  I wish you success anyhow,
  Yours truly,
  J. F. CAMPBELL.


  NIDDRY LODGE, KENSINGTON,
  March 28, 1871.

  MY DEAR SIR,

 I have been too busy about festivities and work to be able to get the
 book which I promised to seek for you. I got your letter of the 20th,
 yesterday, and I am much obliged by your promise to put some one to
 write for me. If he writes from dictation will you kindly _beg him to
 follow the words spoken_ without regard to his own opinion, or to what
 they ought to be. I speak English, but when I come to read Chaucer I
 find words that I am not used to. So it is when men who speak Gaelic
 begin to write old stories. Our argument is an illustration. You speak
 Gaelic and you believe that Sàil means heel and nothing else. You told
 me that Sàil Dhiarmaid ought to be Sìol.

 Now I speak Gaelic, but I profess to be a scholar, not a teacher.
 I happen to know that the man who signed Sàil Dhiarmaid, which was
 printed _Sàil_ didn’t mean _Sìol_. I have the following quotation,--

    “_Eisdibh beag ma ’s àill leibh laoidh_

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Chaidh am bior nimh’ bu mhòr cràdh
    An Sàil an laoich nach tlàth ’s an trod--
    ’S e ri sior chall na fala
    Le lot a’ bhior air a bhonn._”

 [Illustration]

 In this old lay as sung in the outer isles these would mean the spot
 which an old Mull man pointed to as sàil.[34]

 If you are sceptical I hold to my creed of the people. But creed or no
 creed I want to get the tradition as it exists and I would not give a
 snuff for “cooked” tradition.

  Tuesday, Oct. 10, 1871.
  CONAN HOUSE, DINGWALL.

  MY DEAR SIR,

 I promised yesterday at Portree to send you my version of the fairy
 song, and asked you to return yours. You must remember that I never
 tried to write it from Gaelic, and that I never tried to write it from
 rapid dictation till last month. Correct my spelling, but mind that
 I took the _sounds_ from ear, so preserve all that you can without
 reference to dictionary words. Don’t be hard upon a clansman who is
 doing his best.

  Believe me,
  Yours very truly,
  J. F. CAMPBELL.

 From John Cameron, a man about 60, who lives in the south end of
 Barra, about three miles from Castlebay. He can sing and recite,
 1.--The Maiden (written by J. F. C.); 2.--The Death of Diarmaid;
 3.--The Death of Osgar; 4.--The Battle of Manus (written by J. F. C.);
 5.--The story of the Death of Garry; 6.--The Black Dog; 7.--The story
 of ditto. 8.--The Smithy and story; 9.--The _Muireartach_; 10.--Dàn
 an Deirg; 11.--The Fairy Song (as written here by J. F. C.); 12.--How
 Coireal was slain; 13.--Fionn’s questions; 14.--A small story written;
 and sundry other songs, lays, and stories, which he will get written
 if I wish it. This is one of about a dozen of men whom I have met of
 late who can sing and recite Ossianic ballads, of which some are not
 in any book or old manuscript that I know. I have another version of
 this song, written about ten years ago--by MacLean,[35] I think. See
 Vol. IV. Popular Tales, Lists somewhere. It is now in London.


THE FAIRY SONG.

The tune is very wild and like a pibroch. I could not learn it in the
time.


_This is the story as told in Gaelic._

There was a time, at first, when before children were christened
they used to be taken by the fairies. A child was born and it was in
a woman’s lap. A fairy came to the _Bean-ghlùn_ and she said to the
midwife, “_’S trom do leanabh_.” “_’S trom gach torrach_,” said the
other. “_’S aotrom do leanabh_,” said the fairy. “_’S aotrom gach
soghalach_,” said the midwife, “_’S glas do leanabh_,” said the fairy.
“_’S glas am fiar ’s fàsaidh e_,” said the other; and so she came day
by day with words and with singing of verses to try if she could “word”
him away with her--“_am briatharachadh i leatha è_.” But the mother
always had her answer ready. There was a lad recovering from a fever in
the house and he heard all these words, and learned them, and he put
the song together afterwards: after the child was christened the fairy
came back no more.

This is the song. I have tried to divide the words so as to represent
the rhythm of the tune, but I am not sure that I have succeeded.--J. F.
C.

I have given a rough copy to Miss MacLeod of MacLeod at Dunvegan, and I
should like to have _this_ or _a copy_ back if it is not troublesome.
My first manuscript is not easy to read, and I have worked this from it.

  Fairy:--“’S e mo leanabh mìleanach
          Seachd Maìleanach
          Seachd Dhuanach,
          Gual na lag; ’s lag na luineach
          Nach d’ fhàs “nacach.”

 [Reciter don’t understand gnathach, common.]


  Mother:--Se mo leanabh ruiteach (colour ruddy)
           Reamhar molteach
           Miuthear mo luachair
           Ohog ri mnathan
           M’ eòin ’us m’ uighean
           On thug thu muine leat
           ’Us maire leat
           ’Us mo chrodh lùigh
           ’Us mo lochraidh leat.

  Mother:--Bha thu fo ’m chrios an uire
           ’S tha thu ’m bliadhna
           Gu cruinn buanach
           Air mo guailain
           Feadh a bhaile.

  Fairy:--Thug go gu gŏrach (fat, Reciter)
          Mnath ’n òg a bhaile
          Lan _shaochail_[36] uimach
          Thug go gu gŏrach
          Le ’n ciabhan dhonna
          Le ’n ciabhan troma

[He said at first somewhere, “Le ’n ciochan corrach”? place.]

          Thug go gu gŏrach
          ’S le ’n suilean donna

  Mother:--Se sin Leoid
           Na lorg ’s na luireach
           Se Lochlan bu duchas dhuit
           O fire fire nì mi uimad
           Cireadh do chinn
           Ni mi uimad.

  Fairy:--Fire fire nì mi uimad
          Cha tu an uan beag
          Ni mi uimad
          Crodh ’us caorich
          Ni mi uimad.

  Mother:--Fire fire ni mi uimad
           Breachan chaola
           Ni mi uimad
           Fire fire ni mi uimad
           A bhog mhiladh (? fileadh. Oh soft soldier, soft mine own)
           O bhòg ’s leam thu
           O bhog mhilidh bhog
           Mo bhrù a rug
           O bhog mhilidh bhog
           Mo chioch a thug
           O bhog mhilidh bhog
           Mo gluin a thog
           O bhog mhilidh
           Bho ’s leam thu.

  Fairy:--B’ fheàrr leam gu faic mi do bhuaille
          Gu àrd àrd an iomal sleibhe
          Còta geal cateanach[37] uaine
          Mu do ghuailain ghil ’us léine.

  Nurse:--B’ fhearr leam gu faichean do sheisearach
          Fir na deance (?) a cuit shil
          Gu rò do cheol air feadh do thalla (land or hall)
          Leann bhi ga gabhail le fìon
          Bhog mhilidh bhog
          ’S leam thu.

And so she says a verse each day, and if that would not do, she came
the next and made another, and the little lad made out the song which
he sat and heard. When the child was baptized she went away and never
came back again.

       *       *       *       *       *

N.B.--I have set the verses to each character as best I could, not
knowing much about it except the last two, these the reciter placed.


NOTES:

_The Fairy Song_ in the MS. is most difficult to read. It was written
phonetically, and is now in some places indistinct. The following
transliteration and translation by Mr. Duncan Mac Isaac, of Oban,
show a probable reading, and this may be enough, in view of the
spell-words of the fairy, whose mystic diction appears to have been
of a conservative quality, and to have affected the responses of the
infant’s mother.--[A. C.]

  Fairy--’S e mo leanabh mì-loinneach
          Seac maoileanach
          Seac ghuanach,
          Guailne lag, ’s lag ’n a lùireach
          Nach d’ ùisinnicheadh.

  Mother:--’S e mo leanabh ruiteach
            Reamhar moltach
            M’ iubhar mo luachair
            A thog ri mnathan
            M’ eòin is m’ uighean
            O ’n thug thu m’ ùine leat
            Is m’ aire leat
            Is mo chrodh-laoigh
            Is mo laochraidh leat.

  Mother:--Bha thu fo ’m chrios an uiridh
           ’S tha thu ’m bliadhna
           Gu cruinn buanach
           Air mo ghualainn
           Feadh a’ bhaile.

  Fairy:--Thuth gò gugurach
          Mnathan òg a’ bhaile
          Làn shòghail uidheamach
          Thuth gò gugurach
          Le ’n ciabhan donna
          Le ’n ciabhan troma
          Thug go gugurach
          Le ’n cìochan corrach
          ’S le ’n sùilean donna.

  Mother:--’S e sin Leòid
           ’N a lorg ’s ’n a lùireach
           ’S Lochlann bu dùthchas dhuit
           O fire fire nì mi umad
           Cìreadh do chinn
           Nì mi umad.

  Fairy:--Fire fire nì mi umad
          Cha tu an t-uan beag
          Nì mi umad.
          Crodh is caoraich
          Nì mi umad.

  Mother:--Fire fire nì mi umad
           Breacain chaola
           Nì mi umad
           Fire fire nì mi umad
           A bhog mhìlidh
           O bhog ’s leam thu
           O bhog mhìlidh bhog
           Mo bhrù a rug
           O bhog mhìlidh bhog
           Mo chìoch a thug
           O bhog mhìlidh bhog
           Mo ghlùin a thog
           O bhog mhìlidh
           Bho ’s leam thu.

  Fairy:--B’ fheàrr leam gu faic mi do bhuaile
          Gu àrd àrd ’an iomall sléibhe
          Còta geal caiteineach uaine
          Mu do ghualainn ghil is léine.

  Mother:--B’ fheàrr leam gu faicinn do sheisreach
           Fir na deannaige a’ cur sìl
           Gu robh do cheòl air feadh do thalla
           Leann ’bhi ’g a ghabhail le fìon
           Bhog mhìlidh bhog
           ’S leam thu.

  Fairy:--He is my ungraceful child,
          Withered, bald, and light-headed,
          Weak-shouldered, and weak in his equipments,
          That have not been put to use.

  Mother:--He is my ruddy child, plump and praiseworthy;
           My yew-tree, my rush, raised to women;
           My bird and my eggs, since thou hast taken my time with thee,
           My watchful care, my calved-cows, and my heroes with thee;
           Last year thou wast under my girdle,
           Thou art this year neatly gathered
           Continually upon my shoulder
           Through the town.

  Fairy:--Hooh go googurach,
          Young women of the town, fond of delicacies and dresses,
          Hooh go googurach,
          With their brown ringlets, with their heavy tresses,
          With their abrupt breasts, with their brown eyes.

  Mother:--That is a Mac Leod by heredity
           In his coat of mail;
           Thy nativity is Scandinavian;
           O pother, pother, the combing of thy head,
           I’ll do that about thee.

  Fairy:--Pother, pother, I’ll do about thee;
          Thou art not the little lamb
          I’ll make about thee,
          Cattle and sheep I’ll make about thee.

  Mother:--Pother, pother, I’ll do about thee,
           Narrow plaids I’ll make about thee,
           O pother I’ll make about thee, thou soft warrior,
           O tender one, thou art mine, thou soft soldier,
           The fruit of my womb, thou soft, tender warrior,
           My breast that took, thou soft champion,
           Reared upon my knees, thou tender champion,
           Since thou art mine.

  Fairy:--I’d prefer to see thy cattle-fold
          High, high on the shoulder of the mountain,
          A white coat, ruffled green,
          About thy white shoulders, and a shirt.

  Mother:--I’d prefer to see thy team of horses,
           And the men of the handfuls sowing seed,
           And that thy music would be through thy hall
           Accompanied by ale and wine;
           Thou tender champion,
           Thou art mine.

The late Campbell of Islay in the following letter, extracts of which
will be given, alludes to Mr. Campbell’s intention of publishing at no
distant date.

  NIDDRY LODGE, Jan., 16, 1871.

 I thank you for your letter of the 10th which reached me on Saturday,
 on my return to Tiree.

 I shall be very glad to assist a namesake and a Highland minister
 who is engaged in literary work, in which I take a special interest
 myself. I now repeat my message, and ask you to place my name on the
 list of subscribers, if you have one. I shall be very glad to read
 your book. I am not publishing more Gaelic tales, but I am collecting,
 and I may some day publish a selection or an abstract or something
 from a great mass which I have got together. If you have anything
 to spare from your gatherings perhaps the best plan would be to
 employ some good scribe, etc. etc. etc. If you have any intention
 of publishing I beg that you will not think of sending me your
 gatherings. But anything sent will be carefully preserved.

 Superstitions are very interesting, but I should fear that the people
 will not confide their superstitions to the minister. Amongst other
 matters which are noteworthy are superstitious practices about fowls.

 These prevail in Scotland, and are identical with sacrifices by the
 blacks amongst whom Speke and Grant travelled--so Grant told me.
 Anything to do with serpents has special interest because of the
 extent of ancient serpent worship, for which see Ferguson’s great book
 on Tree and Serpent Worship in India and elsewhere. The connection
 between tree and well worship in India and in Scotland generally, and
 generally in the old world, is well worth investigation; also anything
 that is like the Vedic forms of religion, at which you can get by
 reading Wilson’s Translation of the Rigveda Sanhitâ, and the works of
 Max Muller. Anything belonging specially to the sea is interesting.
 The Aryans are supposed to have been natives of Central Asia, to whom
 the sea must have been a great mystery.

 Now it is a fact that all the Aryan nations have curious beliefs and
 ceremonies and practices about going to sea, _e.g._--you must not
 whistle at sea; you must not name a mouse _Luds_ in Argyll but _Biast
 tighe_; you must not say the shore names for _fine_ or _low_ when at
 sea, but use sea terms; all that is curious and very hard to get at.
 Even to me they will not confess their creed in the supernatural. I
 have a great lot of stuff that might be useful to you, and I shall be
 glad to serve you, because there is a certain narrow-minded spirit
 abroad to which reference is made in the paper which I send herewith.
 It is highly probable that I may be out in the west in spring or
 summer.

  Yours very truly,
  J. F. CAMPBELL.


The following letter refers to the longest and most complex tale orally
preserved in the Highlands, ‘The Leeching of Kian’s Leg.’ The version
which Islay mentions is still unprinted. It is preserved with a portion
of his MSS. in the Advocate’s Library at Edinburgh, and a summary of
its contents has been published by me in _Folk-Lore_, Vol. I., p.
369. Mr. Campbell’s fragmentary version was printed and translated by
him, ‘Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, 1888.’ Another
fragmentary version, collected by the Rev. D. MacInnes, will be found
in Vol. II. of this series. The oldest known MS. version, alluded to
in this letter, has been edited and translated by Mr. Standish Hayes
O’Grady in _Silva Gadelica_, from a 15th century MS. A re-telling of
the story, based upon all the versions, will be found in Mr. Jacob’s
_More Celtic Fairy Tales_.--A. N.

  May, 4, 71. NIDDRY LODGE,
  KENSINGTON.

  MY DEAR SIR,

 I sent you a _Times_ review of Clerk’s Ossian the other day to amuse
 you; also a paper with an account of fighting in Paris, where I was at
 Easter.

 I got your letter and parcel of May 1, last night, and I have just
 read the story. It is extremely well written, and the language is
 vernacular and perfectly genuine: as I have now got 20 volumes, and
 half another, I am able to judge. Yours is a version of the story
 of which I sent you the abstract. If ever I publish the story I see
 that I must fuse versions, and select from the majority of various
 readings, under the name of “The Leching of Khene is legg.” The story
 is mentioned in the Catalogue of the Earl of Kildare’s library amongst
 the Irish Books, A.D. 1526 (Harleian MSS., 3756, Brit. Museum). I gave
 this information to Kildare, who has been hunting high and low to find
 out what was meant, they could not tell him in Ireland. I met him at
 Lorne’s marriage and lent him my copy, 142 pages from oral recitation.
 Now you send me 19 more pages, and 3 of another version, 22. Between
 us we have already recovered something of a story 345 years old at
 least.

 Therefore Tradition is respectable; a comparison of versions gives a
 fair measure of the power of popular memory, so that written Gaelic
 folk-lore is a kind of measure for other and older written traditions.
 But as all that is old in history was tradition at first, the study
 is worth trouble as I judge. The more we can get written the better
 pleased I shall be. I am exceedingly obliged to you, and hope to thank
 you in person some of these days.

  I am,
  Yours truly,
  J. F. CAMPBELL.




  NOTES:

[31] In the oldest known version of the Exile of the Son of Usnech
(preserved in the 12th century MS., the Book of Leinster) when Noisi
sees Deirdre for the first time, he exclaims, ‘’Tis a fair heifer
passing by me.’ She answers, ‘Where the bulls are there must needs be
fine heifers.’ This is one of the passages relied upon by Prof. Zimmer
in support of his contention that old Irish literature is so extremely
‘naturalistic’ in its treatment of sexual matters that we must needs
suppose the Aryan Celts were polluted by a rude and more archaic
population. I confess I see nothing in either the earlier or the
present passage but the simplicity of a race living, 2000 years ago, as
it still in part does, very close to nature, and accustomed to frank
speaking about natural matters. The whole of this tradition is simply
the fitting into a local frame of incidents which are commonplaces in
the folk-tales.--A. N.

[32] The helm was worked by being caught by the shoulders of the
steersman as it worked backwards and forwards (_’g a cheapadh le
’shlinneanan a null ’s a nall_).

[33] _A’ chama-dhubh_, the bone of the animal between the knee
and shoulder-point (_na bha de’n chnàimh eadar an glùn agus an
t-alt-lùthainn_).

[34] This discussion is doubtless concerning the spot where tradition
says the bristle of the boar wounded Diarmaid when he measured the
length of the dead beast.--A. C.

[35] Hector MacLean, Ballygrant, Islay: now dead.--A. C.

[36] Suobhcail or saobh chiall.

[37] Hairy, rough, shaggy.


_Archibald Sinclair Printer Celtic Press, 10 Bothwell Street, Glasgow._




_A SELECTION FROM_

MR. DAVID NUTT’S LIST OF WORKS

ON

Celtic Antiquities and Philology.


 =Beside the Fire: Irish Gaelic Folk Stories.= Collected, Edited,
 Translated, and Annotated by DOUGLAS HYDE, M.A.; with Additional
 Notes by ALFRED NUTT. 8vo. lviii, 203 pages. Cloth. 7s. 6d. The Irish
 printed in Irish Character.

⁂ One of the best recent collections of Irish folk tales.


BY WHITLEY STOKES, LL.D.

 =On the Calendar of Oengus.= Comprising Text, Translation, Glossarial
 Index, Notes. 4to. 1880. xxxi, 552 pp. Nett 18s.

 =Saltair na Rann= (Psalter of the Staves or Quatrains). A Collection
 of early Middle-Irish Poems. With Glossary. 4to. 1883. vi, 153 pp.
 Nett 7s. 6d.

 =The Old Irish Glosses at Wurzburg and Carlsruhe.= With Translation
 and Index. 1887. 345 pp. Nett 5s.

⁂ The oldest dated remains of Gaelic or any Celtic language.

 =Cormac’s Glossary.= Translated and Edited by the late JOHN O’DONOVAN,
 with Notes and Indexes by W. S. Calcutta. 1868. 4to. The few remaining
 copies, nett £1 10s.

⁂ One of the most valuable remains of old Irish literature for the
philologist and mythologist.

 =The Bodley Dinnshenchas.= Edited, Translated, and Annotated. 8vo.
 1892. Nett 2s. 6d.

 =The Edinburgh Dinnshenchas.= Edited, Translated, and Annotated. 8vo.
 1893. Nett 2s. 6d.

⁂ The Dinnshenchas is an eleventh-century collection of topographical
legends, and one of the most valuable and authentic memorials of
Irish mythology and legend. These two publications give nearly
three-fourths of the collection as preserved in Irish MSS. The bulk of
the Dinnshenchas has never been published before, either in Irish or in
English.


BY PROFESSOR KUNO MEYER.

 =Cath Finntraga.= Edited, with English Translation. Small 4to. 1885.
 xxii, 115 pp. 6s.

 =Merugud Ulix Maicc Leirtis.= The Irish Odyssey. Edited, with Notes,
 Translation, and a Glossary. 8vo. 1886. xii, 36 pp. Cloth. Printed on
 handmade paper, with wide margins. 3s.

 =The Vision of Mac Conglinne.= Irish Text, English Translation
 (Revision of Hennessy’s), Notes and Literary Introduction. Crown 8vo.
 1892. liv, 212 pp. Cloth. 10s. 6d.

⁂ One of the curious and interesting remains of mediæval Irish
story-telling. A most vigorous and spirited Rabelaisian tale, of equal
value to the student of literature or Irish legend.


BY ALFRED NUTT.

 =Studies on the Legend of the Holy Grail=, with Especial Reference to
 the Hypothesis of its Celtic Origin. Demy 8vo. xv, 281 pp. Cloth. 10s.
 6d. net.

‘Une des contributions les plus précieuses et les plus méritoires qu’on
ait encore apportées à l’éclaircissement de ces questions difficiles et
compliquées.’--Mons. Gaston Paris in _Romania_.

‘These charming studies of the Grail legend.’--_The Athenæum._

‘An achievement of profound erudition and masterly argument, and
may be hailed as redeeming English scholarship from a long-standing
reproach.’--_The Scots Observer._

 =Celtic Myth and Saga.= Report upon the Literature connected with this
 subject. 1887–1 888. (_Archæological Review_, October, 1888.) 2s. 6d.

 =The Buddha’s Alms-Dish and the Legend of the Holy Grail.=
 (_Archæological Review_, June, 1889). 2s. 6d.

 =Celtic Myth and Saga.= Report upon the Literature connected with
 these subjects, 1888–1 890. (_Folk Lore_, June, 1890). 3s. 6d.

 =Report upon the Campbell of Islay MSS.= in the Advocates’ Library at
 Edinburgh. (_Folk-Lore_, September, 1890). 3s. 6d.

 =Review of Hennessey’s Edition of Mesca Ulad.= (_Archæological
 Review_, May, 1889.) 2s. 6d.

 =Critical Notes on the Folk and Hero Tales of the Celts.= (_Celtic
 Magazine_, August to October, 1887). 5s.

 =Celtic Myth and Saga.= Report upon the Literature connected with
 these subjects. 1891–9 2. (_Folk-Lore_, 1891). 3s. 6d.




Transcriber’s Note


In this file, text in _italics_ is indicated by underscores, and text
in =bold= by equals signs.

Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected; as far as
possible, however, original spelling and formatting have been retained.
No corrections have been made to any Gaelic text as printed, with the
sole exception of the third occurence of “Fire fire nì mi umad” on
page 145, which had been misprinted.

In the printed book, an unnumbered page containing an editor’s note
was inserted between pages 34 and 35. In this file, the note has been
indented, given the subheading “Editor’s Note”, and moved directly
after the paragraph to which it seems to refer, on page 35.

Footnotes were presented inconsistently in the printed book, sometimes
appearing at the bottom of the page and sometimes at the ends of
sections. In this book, all notes have been standardised and moved to
the end of the relevant section, sometimes alongside a “Notes” section
which was already present.