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.