On blind, grey Ossian musing all alone
Upon a knoll before the high stockade,
When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laid
On the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayed
Over the face and round the tender chin--
"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn,"
Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would be
A bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee."
"Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said,
"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!...
O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!--
If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pine
Murmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be,
Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking sea
And death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my song
That rose in sorrow must survive in wrong--
My life is spent and vain--a day of thine
Were better than a long, dark year of mine....
But come, my son--so lead me by the hand--
To hear the sweetest harper in the land--
The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hills
And under, let us go, by tuneful rills
We'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened be
With echoes of the moorland melody--
My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went they
Together from Knockfarrel. Long they lay
Within the woods of Brahan, and by the shore
Of silvery Conon wended, crossing o'er
The ford at Achilty, where Ossian told
The tale of Finn, who there had slain the bold
Black Arky in his youth. And ere the tale
Was ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.
Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient race
Deep-learned in lore, and with the gift to trace
The thread of life in the dark web of fate.
And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest late
Too late, alas! this day of all dark days--
Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze--
A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes--
O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the cries
Of those that perish in yon high stockade--
O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,
Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old--
O Ossian could'st thou see--O child, behold
Yon ruddy, closing clouds ... so falls the fate
Of all the tribe ... Alas! thou comest late." ...
III.
When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band
Of merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,
Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,
To share the freedom of the morning air;
Adown the steep they went, and through the wood
Where Garry splintered logs in sullen mood--
Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought
Upon the trees that morn, as if he fought
Against a hundred foemen from the west,
Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.
The maids were wont to shower upon his head
Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;
For of their quips and jests he had more fear
Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear--
And so he chose to be alone.
The air
Was heavily laden with the odour rare
Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,
As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,
Went treading needled sward, in light and shade,
Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,
And ever bloom and ever pass away ...
Upon a fairy hillock Garry lay
In sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,
And the wind rippling through his golden hair
Laid out the seven locks that were his pride,
Which one by one the maids securely tied
To tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,
Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep
Then to a thicket all the maidens crept,
And raised the Call of Warning ... Garry leapt
From dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear
That a fierce band of foemen had come near--
The seven fetters of his golden hair
He wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare
A shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled
With bitter agony ... The maidens fled
With laughter through the wood, and climb'd the path
Of steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath
When he perceived who wronged him. With a shriek
That raised the eagles from the mountain peak,
He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,
And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete--
The lust of blood possessed him, and he swore
To slay them.... But they shut the oaken door
Ere he had reached that high and strong stockade--
From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid
Came forth again.
IV.
Soft-couch'd upon a bank
Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank
The sweetness of the morning air, that brought
A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought,
With mem'ries from the deeps of other years
When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers,
And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth
A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth
On such an April morn....
He leapt to hear
The Fians shouting from a woodland near
Their hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace,
With bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase;
Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear,
As through the woods approached the nimble deer
That swerved, beholding him. With startled toss
Of antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross
The open vale before him ... To the west
The Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed
To head it shoreward ... All the fierce hounds bayed
With hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,
With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee
Towards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.
But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet
Than deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,
Until upon a loose and sandy bank,
Plunging his spear into the smoking flank,
Its flight he stayed.... He stabbed it as it sank,
The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die
Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.
Then eager feast they made; and after long
And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong
As they had been of old. And of their fare
The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.
Nor over-fed they in their merry mood,
But set to hunt again, and through the wood
Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun
Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one
Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white
Of those who waited their return by night,
In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade--
O' many a beauteous and bethrothèd maid,
And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying
In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,
And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,
With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came
With burdens of the chase ... So they pursued
The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood
Another deer they slew ...
Caoilte, who stood
On a high ridge alone ... with eager eyes
Scanning the prospect wide ... in mute surprise
Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud
Of thick and writhing smoke ... Then fierce and loud
Upon his horn he blew the warning blast--
From out the woods the Fians hastened fast--
Lo! when they stared towards the western sky,
They saw their winter dwelling blazing high.
Then fear possessed them for their own, and grief
Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief,
To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought--
"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought
Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam
Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream
Are now accomplished--all we loved and cherished,
And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!"
White-lipped they heard.... Then, wailing loud, they ran,
Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man,
Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears
O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears,
Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood
That swept him to the sea. But no man stood
To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim--
And some there were, indeed, who envied him.
V.
As snarls the wolf at bay within the wood
On huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stood
Raging before the women who had made
Secure retreat within the high stockade;
He cursed them all, and their loud laughter rang
More bitter to his heart than e'en the pang
Of his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming blood
Half-blinded him, he hastened to the wood,
And a small tree upon his shoulders bore,
And fixed it fast against the oaken door,
That none might issue forth.
Then once again
Towards the wood he turned, but all in vain
The women waited his return, till they
Grey weary.. for in pain and wrath he lay
In a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame,
And panting for revenge.
Then Finn's wife came
To set the women to the wheel and loom,
With angry chiding; and a heavy gloom
Fell on them all. "Who knoweth," thus she spake,
"What evil may the Fian men o'ertake
This day of evil omens. Yester-night
I say the pale ghost of my sire with white
And trembling lips ... At morn before my sight
A raven darted from the wood, and slew
A brooding dove ... What fear is mine!... for who
Would us defend if our fierce foemen came--
When Garry is against us ... Much I blame
Thy wanton deed." ... The women heard in shame,
Nor answer made.
The sun, with fiery gleam,
Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream
The spirits of the dead are softly swept
From severed visions sweet. A low wind crept
Around with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed--
Then fled to murmur from the mountain side
Amid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow
Ben-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snow
In barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;
While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath,
Some feared the coming of the foe, and some
Had vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb,
And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid
Their babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid
Sighed for her lover in that lone stockade;
And one who sat apart, with pensive eye,
Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry--
_Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,
Crying early, crying late--
Will your voice be never weary
Crying for your mate?
Other hearts than thine are lonely,
Other hearts must wait.
Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying
O'er the hills and o'er the sea,
Till I found the love I long for
Whereso'er he'd be--
Peewee crying, I'd be flying,
Could I fly like thee!_
When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose,
He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows
To fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath
The hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath
He made resolve to heap the splintered wood
Against the door, and burn the hated brood
Of his tormentors one and all. He hewed
An ample pyre, then piled it thick and high,
While the sun, sloping to the western sky,
Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day.
But the doomed women little dreamed that they
Would have such fearsome end ... As Garry lay
Rubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow,
He heard a Fian mother singing low--
_Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee--
Moolachie, O moolachie.
Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,
Moolachie, mine own.
Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye,
And the goblins will not get ye,
I will shield ye, I will pet ye--
Moolachie, mine own._
The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan--
And Garry heard them with a heart of stone ...
With fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flames
Possess the pyre; he heard the shrieking dames,
And maids and children, wailing in the gloom
Of smothering smoke, e'er they had met their doom.
Then when the high stockade was blazing red,
Ere yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled,
And westward o'er the shouldering hills he sped.
VI.
A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold
The sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold,
And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade,
Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayed
Sharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale;
And misty shadows gathered in the vale--
When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw
Amid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe,
The ruins of their winter dwelling laid
In smouldering ashes; while the high stockade
Around the rocky wall, like ragged teeth,
Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath,
Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.
He sped towards the wood, and through the trees
Called loud for those who perished. On his fair
And gentle spouse he called in his despair.
His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was white
As Wyvis snow, he called for in the night.
Full loud and long across the Strath he cried--
The echoes mocked him from the mountain side.
Ah! when his last hope faded like the wave
Of twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gave
His heart to utter grief and deep despair;
And the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless stare,
While sank the wind in silence on its flight
Through the dark hollows of the spacious night;
And distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismay
He heard a Fian calling far away.
The night-bird answered back with dismal cry,
Like to a wounded man about to die--
But Caoilte's lips were silent ... Once again
And nearer, came the voice that cried in vain.
Then swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren steep,
And Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep,
To Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head,
"Who liveth?" ... "I am here alone," he said ...
Thus Fian after Fian came to share
Their bitter grief, in silence and despair.
All night they kept lone watch, until the dawn
With stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn
Its dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose
From deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes,
And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall rest
While flees our evil foeman farther west?
Arise!" ... "But who hath done this deed?" they sighed;
And Finn made answer, "Garry." ... Then they cried
For vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt
To answer Finn's command.
A cold wind swept
From out the gates of morning, moaning loud,
As swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroud
Of gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis cast
A sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast,
It drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare,
And snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning air--
Then o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and bright,
Scatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay white,
As westward o'er the hills the Fians all
In quest of Garry sped.
At even-fall
They found him ... On the bald and rocky side
Of steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide
Within a cave, which, backward o'er the snow,
He entered, that his steps might seem to show
He had fled eastward by the path he came.
All day he sought to flee them in his shame,
Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine,
And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien--
He sought in vain to hide till darkness cast
Its blinding cloak betwixt them.
When at last
Finn cried, "Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds,
Nor respite seek!" ... His limbs like wind-swept reeds
Trembled and bent beneath him; so he rose
And came to meet his friends who were his foes--
Then unto Finn he spake with accents meek,
"One last request I of the Fians seek,
Whom I have loved in peace and served in strife"--
"'Tis thine," said Finn, "but ask not for thy life,
For thou art 'mong the Fians." ... "I would die,"
Said Garry, "with my head laid on thy thigh;
And let young Alvin take thy sword, that he
May give the death that will mine honour be."
'Twas so he lay to die ... But as the blade
Swept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed,
And slipped upon the sward ... And his fierce blow
That Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low--
A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh,
And poured his life-blood forth ... A low, weird cry
The great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned--
In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound--
His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray
In gathering gloom ... And when in death he lay,
The glory of the Fians passed away.
HER EVIL EYE.
O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,
Will have the evil eye;
The fear will come about my heart
When she'll be passing by;
She'll have the piercing look to wound
The very birds that fly.
I would not have her evil wish,
I would not have her praise,
For like the shadow would her curse,
Me follow all my days--
When she my churning will speak well,
No butter can I raise.
O Mairi Dhu will have the eye
To wound the very deer--
Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns
When her they would come near?
They'll have the red cords round their necks,
So they'll have naught to fear.
It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,
Against her would prevail;
And first her eye was on his churn,
Then on the milking pail;
When she would praise the brindled cow,
The cow began to ail.
The trout that gambol in the pool
She'll wound when she goes past;
Then weariness will come upon
The fins that flicked so fast;
And one by one the lifeless things
Will on the stones be cast.
O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain
To poor Dun Para's arm;
It is myself would have the work
Undoing of the harm--
I'd twist around the three-ply cord
Well-knotted o'er the charm.
Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe
O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;
He'd fill the wooden ladle where
The dead and living pass--
And with the water, silver-charmed,
He'd save his little lass.
I'll lock my cheese within the chest,
My butter I will hide;
I'll bar the byre at milking time,
Although you'll wait outside--
You'll maybe go another way--
Who'll care for you to bide?
A CURSING
So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,
When the men will be fighting afar--
Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold
When it's only with women they'll war
Weasels that creep in the dark!
Foxes that prowl in the night!
Rats that are hated and vile!--
O hasten you out of my sight!
Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?--
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof
If you hadna' a roof to your cave
Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves--
Whose meal will you have in your bag?
Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush--
Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man--
His fame for the thieving is gone
To the reivers and rogues of your clan
You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
Fitter to die than to live?"
But maybe I'll slay with the tongue
And the heart that will never forgive
The curse of the frail will be strong,
The curse of the widow be sure;
O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,
Black, black is the curse of the poor!
Ha! laugh at your ease while you can--
Laugh! it's the devil's turn next--
For after I'm done with you all,
O who will be doleful and vext?
Bare-kneed on the ground will I go--
My hair on my shoulders let fall,
Now hear me and never forget
My curses I'll cast on you all
_Little increase to your clan!
The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
The luck o' a Friday on moors!
Fire upon land be your lot!
Drowning in storm on the deep!
Leave not a son to succeed!
Leave not a daughter to weep!
Here's the bad meeting to you!
Death without priest be your fate!
Go to your grandfather's[3] house--
The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_
[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]
[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]
[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"--The grave]
[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"--The devil]
LEOBAG'S[1] WARNING.
Would Murdo make the wry mouth?
Is Ailie cross-eyed?
O mock no more the beggar man,
You'll scorn wi' pride!
The wind that will be blowing west,
Might turn and blow south--
O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes
And Murdo's wry mouth.
O mind ye o' the Leobag
And yon rock cod--
"Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried,
"For the hook and rod!"
The tide it would be turning while
The Leobag would mock--
And that is why it's gaping as
It gaped below the rock.
[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.]
TOBER MHUIRE.
(WELL OF ST MARY.)
'Tis for thee I will be pining,
_Tober Mhuire_.
Thou art deep and sweet and shining,
_Tober Mhuire_.
In the dimness I'll be dying,
And my soul for thee is sighing
With the blessings on thee lying--
_Tober Mhuire_.
O thy cool, sweet waters dripping,
_Tober Mhuire_,
Now my sere lips would be sipping,
_Tober Mhuire_.
O my lips are sere and burning--
For thy waters I'll be yearning,
And yon road of no returning,
_Tober Mhuire_.
O thy coolness and thy sweetness,
_Tober Mhuire_.
O thy sureness and completeness,
_Tober Mhuire_.
O this life I would be leaving,
With the greyness of its grieving,
And the deeps of its deceiving,
_Tober Mhuire_.
I would sip thy waters holy,
_Tober Mhuire_.
While the drops of life drip slowly,
_Tober Mhuire_--
Till the wings of angel whiteness,
With their softness and their lightness,
Blind me, fold me, in their brightness--
_Tober Mhuire_.
SLEEPY SONG.
(_Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians_.)
Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep in the deep lone cave;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom my love I gave--
Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Wearily falls the wave.
Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep, and have never a fear;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom I love so dear--
A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
A weary wind I hear.
Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep, while I watch till you wake;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom I'll ne'er forsake--
Sleep a little, and blessings on you
My lamb, or my heart will break.
SONG OF THE SEA.
The sea sings loud, the sea sings low,
And sweet is the chime of its ebb and flow
Over the shingly strand;
For its strange, sweet song that woos my ear
The first man heard, as the last shall hear--
Seeking to understand ...
THE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN.
Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,
Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death;
And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry--
An evil omen the magician saith--
A low gust panted like a man's last breath,
As morning crept into the chamber black;
Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack.
For the last time his evil foemen came;
The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led.
The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame;
The duns were fallen and the fords ran red;
And widows fled, lamenting for their dead,
To fair Emania on that fateful day,
Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay.
Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,
Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes,
The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare.
And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise;
Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise,
Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms,
And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms.
His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide
In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood
All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride--
His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hood
Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood
Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd
Levarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept
Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,
And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice--
The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,
Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise,
But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,
Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,
And wept big tears of blood before him on the ground
Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war
'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,
Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,
Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from us go?'
They smote their hands, and fast their tears did flow--
Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plain
Full well he knew that he would ne'er return again
How vehement and how beautiful they swept--
The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold
And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,
Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd
The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold
Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres,
Slender and tall and red--the King of Charioteers!
Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,
His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh
A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,
He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high,
As flames the sun upon the western sky,
His round shield from afar was flashing bright,
Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white
Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back,
The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair,
Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black,
Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare,
Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rare
Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind
His shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind
Betimes three crones him meet upon the way,
Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair--
Workers of spells and witcheries are they--
The brood of Calatin--beware! beware!
They proffer of their fulsome food a share,
And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries
'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'
He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,
The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake--
With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,
Of which he was forbidden to partake
But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,
And their foul food he in his left hand took--
Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook
For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,
When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,
Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,
Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!
A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,
And all the land did with thy fame resound,
As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'
Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,
Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,
Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,
Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,
His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,
In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,
And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed