Tha’m bogha frois muo’n cuairt d’a cheann;
Mar thuil nan gleann tha fuaim a ghuth,
Mar dhealanaich tha sealla ’shul,
A sputadh as na neulaibh tiugh.
Not a single expression but what a herd lad, who was never at school,
could use, and yet how sublime. Put it into the hands of the mistress of
arts, and see how it will appear.
The rainbow bright surrounds his head,
Like flood of glens his voice divine,
Like lightning flashes ’mid dark clouds
The astounding glances of his eyes.
There it is pretty strong, but where is the melody so agreeable to the
ear? The English will never make it rhyme without divesting it of its
sublimity.
Tha mile tairneanach ’na laimh
A chum a naimhdean sgrios a’m feirg,
’S fonna-chrith orr gu dol an greim,
Mar choin air eill ri am na seilg.
Try that again.
A thousand thunders in his hand
At his command his foes to crush,
Shivering, eager to be engaged
Like hounds restrained by the leash.
This is not so far amiss, only “crush” and “leash” as it regards the
vowels, do not rhyme. Look at the Gaelic—how simple; every word forged
and hammered on the anvil of a Highlander’s method of making his thoughts
known. Consider the sublimity of the passage. Dugald was not a classical,
but one of nature’s scholars, who had learned his lessons well, and
I am certain that in learning them he was not puffed up as they are,
but rather humbled. Thunder, one of the most awful agents conceivable.
When the thunder roars the earth keeps silence. A thunder held in the
hand—how sublime? A thousand thunders, a thousand times more so. How are
these thunders held? Like hounds restrained by the leash. Anything more
expressive could not come from the lips of man. A hound at first sight of
the game would almost choke himself at the first spring, if restrained.
Are these things so; and how perilous the condition of those who are
the enemies of the Great Judge? The air to which that poem is sung is
also most appropriate; so that in singing it, one never thinks either of
the language or the melody, any farther than that they are expressive;
but has his mind wholly occupied with the sublime, the awful, and the
beautiful imagery presented before it. I have heard that poem sung to a
crowded audience, and I have never listened to anything spoken or sung
that had a greater effect. Every eye fixed; all attention; awe, anxiety,
concern depicted on every countenance. And I can tell Ministers of the
Gospel all over the Highlands, that could they get two or three to sing
that poem properly to their congregations, that it would have a far
greater effect than most of their sermons. And I can tell them, moreover,
that that poem sung once had a more blessed effect than all my sermons
for a whole twelvemonth.
There are three poems of M’Gregors composed to suit the air of an old
song, called “_Gaoir nam ban Muileach_” (The wail of the Mull women).
There are seven lines in the stanza, and the last is repeated twice.
In singing it it resembles the regular flow of a torrent, but when it
reaches the sixth line it comes to a climax as if the torrent had become
a beautiful waterfall. Or to use another simile. The first part of it
resembles the Atlantic waves as they roll majestically to the shore,
rolling and rolling along with a good deal of monotony till at length
they reach the climax, when they break forth with a tremendous crash like
rolling thunder. Were there a few individuals who could sing it together
till they reached the sixth line, and then the whole to unite with them,
there would be such singing as I have seldom listened to.
Thaom e spiorad neo-ascaoin
Air a naoimh ’us air ’abstoil,
’S rinn iad saighdearachd ghasda,
Mine, macanta ’n gaisge;
Cha do phill iad le masladh,
Ach troimh Chriosd a thug neart dhoibh,
Chuir iad cath gus ’n do chaisg iad an namhaid.
Chuir iad cath, &c.
Perhaps some of my countrymen do not know what _neo-ascaoin_ means;
_caoin_ means kind; _ascaoin_, unkind; _neo-ascaoin_, the reverse, that
is great kindness. I will endeavour to give a translation as near as
possible.
He poured his spirit most kindly
On his saints and apostles,
Who acted most soldierly,
Meekly and lowly in heroism,
Not turning disgracefully,
But through Christ that strengthened them
They fought till they routed the enemy.
Although all the masons in the world were to go on hammering at the
English for a century, they could not make it rhyme like the Gaelic in
this verse. I have composed a considerable number of poems. I suppose,
when published together, they will form the largest collection in the
language. I attempted to translate two or three of them, but found
it impossible to do so by strictly following the rules of English
versification. I attempted to translate more, but found I could not
translate one verse to my satisfaction, and I wish that scholars would
understand this—that it is utterly impossible to give them anything like
a correct idea of our poetry, unless we are allowed to follow the Gaelic
rules of versification, and even with that licence we cannot come up to
it. I saw in a periodical a review of the lyric poetry of Wales, which
showed that it was impossible to give a proper expression of it in an
English translation. The same is equally true of the Gaelic. The strict
rules to which he is tied down who would attempt to compose English verse
prevent him from soaring like the eagle, and his productions must be
comparatively tame, and awanting in energy.
Singing has a mighty power over the human mind, which the church to a
great extent has neglected, and a power which she never wields aright
but when in a revived state. I once went into a house; but the moment I
entered, the youngsters, some of them men and women, all fled. “See,”
said the mother, (a pious woman), “how they have all gone.” “Yes,” I
said, “but we’ll soon bring them back,” and so commenced to sing a
poem, not to the tunes of Martyrdom or Oldham (these would not bring
them back), but to the tune, “Whistle o’er the lave o’t,” and they all
returned immediately.
How shrewd the remark, “Give me the songs of a nation, and I care not
who gives them laws.” It has been stated that the poems of the great
reformer, sung to the native melodies of Germany, had a greater effect in
promoting the Reformation than all his writings. I have heard melodies,
but any that come up to our native melodies, both Highland and Lowland,
I have not heard. If the songs of our country, many of them, have such a
bad effect, and the melodies so sweet and fascinating, why not regenerate
the song? By so doing the instrument would be wrested from the hands of
the enemy; the sword taken from the great Goliath to cut off his own
head, and to destroy the Philistines. In this respect we are in advance
of our neighbours; our songs to a considerable extent are regenerated
already. Dugald Buchanan’s Poems I place first, being superior to any
that has appeared yet, so far as poetry is concerned. Duncan M’Dougall,
a native of Mull, but ultimately residing in Tiree, has a considerable
number, I suppose, with the exception of Peter Grant, the largest
collection we have. His poems are good, most of them sung to the airs
most common in Tiree and Mull. Daniel Grant, a native of Strathspey,
but residing in Athol, comes next to M’Dougall in point of number, and
although he is not his superior either as a Gaelic scholar or as a poet,
he is his superior for conveying real spiritual instruction to the mind.
He has picked up some of the airs in Athol and Strathspey, and even
some from the low country. Donald Henry, I believe, a native of Arran,
has also left some very sweet poems, of which many are very fond. J.
Morrison, Harris, was an extraordinary genius. His language is superior
to Dugald Buchanan, and is not his inferior as a poet. He had more of the
language of the Highland bards that puffs up. Dugald had nothing of that,
but was powerful in his simplicity. The former resembles David clad in
Saul’s armour, the latter David with the sling and the stones. In singing
Morrison’s we cannot but think of the bard, but in singing Dugald’s
he is not thought of at all, and almost every word tells. Dr M’Donald
has left a considerable number of poems; some of them are elegies. He
was certainly the most powerful preacher in the Highlands in his time,
and anything said in his praise is superfluous, as it is all over the
Highlands. Yet it strikes me that he did not shine so much as a poet as
he did as a preacher. His poetry is certainly good, but there is nothing
extraordinary about it, as there is about his preaching. “The Christian
on the Banks of Jordan” is excellent, and very expressive; but there
are some pieces of his containing his own views of disputed points of
doctrine, with an evident intention to give a hit at those who differed
from him, which are not suitable for being sung in the praises of God.
Songs of praise should be for the whole church. No doubt he considered
those opposed to him as holding error, but they consider that he holds
error too, and how is the matter to be settled? Is it not possible to
hold the doctrine of election, and at the same time to hold that, in a
certain sense, Christ died for all men? Is it not possible to lay the
blame at the sinner’s door, where it shall be left at the last day,
without denying the necessity of Divine influence in his conversion?
I come now to my great favourite, M’Gregor. Buchanan was his superior as
one of nature’s poets, and perhaps his superior in point of style. He
did not show so much of the scholar. The scholar seen in lyric poetry,
instead of adding to it, rather detracts from it. But, notwithstanding,
M’Gregor was his superior by far as a theologian for bringing varied and
important truths before the mind. I have seen many a book, but a book of
its size which contains more important truth I have never seen. Every
truth that is important for the Christian to know is systematically
laid down; every poem is like a well-composed discourse, the subject
experimentally handled in all its bearings; and all that in language
excellent, in versification perfect, and suited to be sung to some of
the most beautiful melodies of our country. I have never quarrelled with
a single idea, a single word, a single line. There is not a book in
existence, apart from the Bible, from which I have derived more benefit
to my soul. Every one knows what a hold a truth sung takes of the mind.
I am sorry for the tame manner in which these poems are recommended in
their introduction, as if Dr M’Gregor was nothing but a mere imitator of
the poets. How ridiculous! Did not these poets imitate those who went
before them, taking the measure of their verses from them. I am also
sorry to see some of his pieces sadly disfigured and maimed in the last
edition, especially his poem on the judgment. He must indeed have had a
very high opinion of himself, the man that would come after Dr M’Gregor
and endeavour to improve his versification.
I come now to _Grant’s Poems_, which is the largest collection we have.
His melodies are delicious; and no wonder, they are from the land of
melody. The finest melodies in Scotland are called strathspeys. I believe
that _Grant’s Poems_ and the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ have done as much good
in the Highlands as any publications that have been circulated among
them, apart from the Bible. They are extraordinary for their simplicity.
There is not only milk for babes in abundance, but also strong meat
for men. His “Glory of the Lamb” is splendid, and his “Love Song” is
beautiful. Were these poems to pass through the hands of Archd. Sinclair,
printer, 62 Argyle Street, Glasgow, they would be greatly improved. He is
a good Gaelic scholar, and one of the best printers of that language in
Scotland.
Let us now turn our attention to our neighbours. Is it to be credited
that, in the year of our Lord, 1868, Christian Scotland, the land of
creeds, bibles, ministers, churches, and Sabbath schools, has still
nothing to play on their instruments of music but the old unregenerate
songs of their country? They are so very orthodox, not only in their
creeds, but also in their language and melodies, that they would look
upon hymns composed in broad Scotch and sung to their native melodies
as a kind of heresy not to be tolerated. Scotsmen have generally as
much shrewdness, sagacity, and common sense as any people on the face
of the earth. To call such blockheads would be considered the greatest
falsehood that ever came from the lips of man. But consider what they
have done. They have renounced their own language, which is a natural
language, and the language of their nature, and their native melodies,
which are the melodies of their nature. They have turned their backs on
them. They have rejected their own; and what have they chosen in their
place? An artificial language and artificial melodies quite foreign to
their nature. Had Robert Burns as many hard consonants on his tongue as
an Englishman has, he never would have set his country in a _lowe_ with
his sweet melodies as he hath done. It has been remarked that England
has no national melodies. Is that to be wondered at? England has no
language for melody. The crows have no melody; and before they can have
any, they would require either to get another language, or to send up a
Scotchwoman amongst them to add her affectionate _ie_ to it, which would
give it beautiful melody. _Gira-ie_, which would sound something like our
_ghraidh_, the vocative of _gradh_ (love).
Let any person say, “My wee bonnie lammie;” let him continue doing so,
placing the accent upon one word after another, and while he continues
doing so, a sweet melody proceeds from his lips, which is the melody of
nature, as if he held a tinkling bell in his hand. But let him say, “My
little pretty lamb,” and the melody ceases, as if he struck the bell flat
upon the table, and held nothing but a piece of cork in his hand. It is
true that the English may be covered over with a tinsel of artificial
melody, but what will be its effect? Will it affect the Scottish mind
like its native melodies? These have seized the Scottish heart; have
ingratiated themselves with the very feelings and nature of Scotsmen,
which makes them their own natural melodies as much as the melody of
larks and nightingales is their own.
I heard two females, beautiful singers, singing some revival hymns, one
of them a very tame piece of lyric poetry; while singing it, they were
in raptures about it. Now, I am certain it was the bursts of artificial
melody that put them in raptures. It was the sound of their own voices,
and not what they were singing, that affected them. They were puffed up
with a puff of empty air, so that, in listening to them, I was led to put
the question, What is all that noise about?
Now, I am convinced that were that masterpiece of lyric poetry, “Scots
wha hae,” with the child’s simplicity, but the giant’s grasp in seizing
the Scotch heart, to be sung to a regiment of Scotch warriors, or even
played on the Highland Bagpipe in approaching the front of battle’s
lower; the question, “What is all that noise about?” would be answered
by their daring feats in the field of strife. And I put it to the good
sense, and to the enlightened mind of Scottish Christianity—were there a
piece composed in broad Scotch, as much calculated to fire the soul of
the Christian warrior, as the other is calculated to fire the soul of the
Scottish warrior, and sung to the same tune, what would be its blessed
effect? Would it not put all their Anthems, their Old Hundreds, their
artificial, their drawling slow march melodies entirely into the shade?
But our neighbours are so sensitive and have such fine and delicate
feelings, that the vulgarity of the broad Scotch, and the associations
connected with Scottish melodies, make them shrink back as the patient
would shrink back from the surgeon’s knife. I was in a place of worship
on one occasion, where a few individuals commenced to sing a Revival
Hymn to the air of “Annie Laurie;” a grave Deacon rose from his seat and
silenced them, stating that he could not bear the associations of that
tune. I declare “Annie Laurie” was the most beautiful singer I heard
amongst them; and as that was the first time I heard her voice, I would
like to hear it again. If I could I would pick it up, and do with it as
I have done with other pearls which as swine they are trampling under
their feet. The late Mr Campbell, Oban, who had a fine ear for music, had
a servant girl from Uist who was a beautiful singer; she was constantly
singing a love song she had learned. The sweet melody of the piece caught
the ear of the saint, and soon became his own; the words began to pour in
also, and what could he do? The air he could not hate, but how to keep it
without keeping the words along with it was the difficulty. He however
fell on a plan; he went into his study, took his pen and wrote down some
verses suited to the air. In his circumstances did he not do the best
thing he could do? Let our neighbours follow his example. Sounds take a
long time in coming. It is a long time since the sound was heard from
Rowland Hill’s lips—“What a pity that the devil should have the prettiest
tunes.” These words have at last found a response in the bosom of a
Highlander, which he returns as from the rocky mountains of his country,
saying—“The devil shall not have the prettiest tunes.” That again to
find a response in rocky Wales, louder and louder still—“The devil shall
not have the prettiest tunes,” and like the sound of thunder rolling and
rolling over the United Kingdom, finding a response in all Churches and
Chapels as it rolls along.
Have we not our associations in the Highlands as well as they? Two of
the finest pieces we sing, Grant’s “Glory of the Lamb,” and M’Gregor’s
“Righteousness of Christ,” we sing to the air of that song which Duncan
Ban M’Intyre composed to his spouse (a piece of lyric poetry that the
English can never imitate), and in singing them we never think that
there was such a woman as Mhairi bhan òg in existence. The Scottish
people prove that they find a sweetness in their native melodies, which
they do not find in others. At their soirees do they not as it were cross
over their fences in search of them? How ridiculous at the soirees of
Christian Churches to hear “Scots wha hae,” “Ochone, Widow Machree,” and
such like pieces sung. What vulgar beings they are to be sure!
I had a strong prejudice for the most part of my life against the broad
Scotch. I looked upon it as I would from an eminence look down upon a
number of tinkers and _donkeys_ below me. I saw a _Magazine_ several
years ago, which contained two pieces of poetry on opposite columns.
The one was composed with all the power of the mistress of arts in pure
English, and the other in the artless simplicity of the broad Scotch. The
title of the former, if I recollect well, was “The Houseless Children;”
that of the latter “There’s nae room for twa.” I read the former, and
it did not awaken a single emotion in my soul; I began to suspect I was
not scholar enough to comprehend it: the title was the most moving of
the whole. I read the other piece, and it almost set me a dancing, and
perhaps, had I only been twenty-five years of age, I would have risen up
and danced the Highland Fling. The piece gives an account of a Jamie, and
of a Katie, and a Janet who were in love with him. When crossing over
a very narrow bridge, Jamie said, “Janet must walk behind, there’s nae
room for twa.” Jamie’s words, “There’s nae room for twa,” went to Janet’s
heart. The result was that Katie was his bride, and while the sun shone
upon her, poor Janet was left under the dark clouds. She, however, began
to bethink herself, and said—
I’ll gi’e to God my lingrin’ time,
And Jamie drive awa;
For in this weary heart o’ mine
There’s nae room for twa.
There’s nae room for twa, ye ken,
There’s nae room for twa;
The heart that’s giv’n to God and Heav’n,
Has nae room for twa.
Can the English language produce such a piece of artless simplicity, so
natural, so touching, and so telling! No, never. The only fault that I
could find with it, is, that there is some of it broader than the broad
Scotch itself. I am not aware that “sheen” is ever used for “seen;” and I
am not sure that it is strictly true, that there is nae room for twa in
the grave to which we all must go. That’s a piece I would recommend to be
sung at soirees; it will sing nicely to the air, “There’s nae luck aboot
the house.” I was so delighted with the last verse, that I composed a
poem in Gaelic on the same subject, suited to the same air.
Let us now bid _farewell_ to our neighbours, leaving them to bake their
own cakes the best way they can, and let us retrace our steps to the
land of our birth, and to the language of our nature; and in doing so,
let me put a question to those who would wish to do away with our native
language; can you supply us with a better language for our homes? I defy
you. Is there a language upon earth by which our youth can attain the
knowledge of God as the author of the great salvation, so readily and
with so little trouble and expense, as through the medium of their own
native Gaelic? What then shall we say to those parents and to those who
have the management of our Schools in the Highlands, who do not teach
our youth to read it and to understand it better? I have no hesitation
in declaring that they were guilty of a very great crime—of an act of
cruelty towards our youth, and of an act of rebellion against God.
If God has given a revelation to men, he has appointed the Gaelic to
the Highlanders, as the proper medium for obtaining the knowledge of
that revelation; and how dare men in their shallow wisdom act towards
Highlanders contrary to God’s appointed method of instructing them. The
great stumbling-block with ministers, schoolmasters, and proprietors
in the Highlands, is, that they do not consider the Gaelic genteel and
fashionable, and do not put themselves to the trouble of studying it. I
know no study that would repay better than the study of the Gaelic. It
is not such a dry, such a complicated affair at all as the study of the
English. In studying the Gaelic a man finds himself as among the living,
but in studying the English as among the dead. In studying the former
he finds himself as it were at home, in studying the latter as among
foreigners. The more I study the Gaelic, the more I admire it, and the
more am I astonished at the refined imagination which our forefathers
had. I have no fears of the Gaelic because it has God for its author. I
have no fears of it, because I believe that the spark is still alive in
my countrymen which can be kindled into a flame.
When a boy, and at the end of our house (slated, substantially built,
two-storey high) and raising my voice, every word that I spoke was
repeated by the house. I had a younger brother, who was a great mimic,
and thought he was mocking me; so I turned about and addressed the
supposed brother: “If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet.” “If you’ll
take my advice you’ll be quiet,” instantly replied the mimicking brother.
“I tell you again to hold your tongue.” “I tell you again to hold your
tongue,” as quickly replied. “If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you,”
was as quick as lightning repeated. So having spent all my threats, and
becoming more and more furious, the mimicking brother becoming equally
so, I had at last to desist, being fairly mastered; he on my top, in
spite of me. Now I am certain that were I to cry “Shame, shame,” or the
more expressive Gaelic, “_Mo naire, mo naire_” (my shame, my shame), it
would with equal distinctness be repeated by the house. So I would have
all the Highlanders, from John o’ Groat’s to the Mull of Kintyre, and
from Dunkeld to the Butt of Lewes and Cape Wrath, to raise their voices,
and, with the strength of their lungs, to cry out “_Mo naire, mo naire_,”
to those parents, those native proprietors, and those ministers and
schoolmasters who wish to do away with the Gaelic by not teaching them
to read it, so as to make all their castles, palaces, mansions, manses,
school-houses, and dwelling-houses to resound “_Mo naire, mo naire_,”
with such a terrific rattling noise as to startle the whole of them out
of their houses; and seeing them still standing, each to address the
troublesome noise, “_Mo naire_”—“If you’ll take my advice you’ll be
quiet.” “If you’ll take my advice you’ll be quiet,” quickly repeated.
“I tell you again to hold your tongue.” “I tell you again to hold your
tongue,” instantly repeated. “If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you.”
“If you’ll not be quiet I’ll thrash you,” still repeated; and becoming
more and more furious, the mimicking something becoming equally so, one
and all of them be forced to give way, being fairly mastered, with the
hearty Highlanders on their top.