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: