THE OLDEST PIPE TUNES.
“At present I’ll content mysel’,
A hamely Scottish tale to tell,
Whilk happened years and years back;
An’ says tradition its a fact:
Be’t true or no I canna say,
I was nae up to see the day,
But took the story upon credit,
An’ I shall gie it—as I had it.”
Unreliability of tradition—Lost in antiquity—Occasions of tunes—
Interest of stories—The Mac Raes’ March—Story of “Suarachan”—Hal o’
the Wynd—The Mac Intosh’s Lament—Two different stories—_A Cholla mo
run_—Duntroon’s Salute—The Campbell’s are coming.
It serves no good purpose to indulge in regrets for that which is past,
but one cannot help feeling sorry that the story of our national music
is so scrappy and so unreliable. There is, indeed, a large quantity of
material of a kind, and on a cursory examination one may think the
stories of the origin of tunes are plentiful enough. But when one begins
to go deeper and trace each story to its source, reconcile all its
different versions and explain how the same incident crops up in another
place, under different circumstances, perhaps even in connection with
another tune, it is then that the task of making intelligible, and at
the same time trustworthy, stories for melodies that are now so well
known, becomes difficult. Precise dates have been given for many tunes,
but it is obvious enough that the writers giving them, though doubtless
good pipers, were but little conversant with the facts of history. Very
few, indeed, of the older tunes can be authenticated. With them it is
truly a case of being lost in the mists of antiquity. It is too often
assumed that a tune having a direct reference to a certain historical
incident, is itself of the date of that incident, while the chances are
that it was composed on that incident by a piper who lived many years
after. Because Shakespeare wrote Macbeth we do not conclude that he
lived in Macbeth’s day. A composer, like a dramatist, has all history
spread out before him, and can make his music on what he pleases. We
have, for instance, a piece of pipe music called “The Battle of Harlaw,”
but, though we know that it is very old, we have no reason to think
that, in its present form, it was in existence in 1411. So with very
many others. When the events they celebrate took place, very few, if
any, of the actors could write, and it was a long time after that the
matters referred to became part of written history. When the tunes were
composed must, therefore, be decided, when it can be decided at all, by
other evidence—by historical data regarding the lives of their composers
or by references in the authentic history of the country. Such data and
references are, however, because of the lack of education in the times
when the accurate information could be got, very scarce, and the result
is that, although many of the older tunes have been first favourites
from time immemorial, no one has any idea of how they came into being.
There was always a fine vein of poesy and music among the Celts, and
they readily composed rhymes and tunes which powerfully affected the
imagination. They had magnificent memories, cultivated, of course, by
that very lack of written books to which I have referred, and into their
tunes they compressed the sentiments of past centuries, and the troubles
and joys of everyday life. Noted incidents induced commemoration. The
birth of an heir to the ancient clan, the death of the chief, a victory
in battle, the home-coming or departure of any notable personage, were
all fit subjects for the genius of the clan piper, and were often
utilised as such. Where we can prove that the tune was composed when the
incident, of which we know the date, occurred, we are on sure ground.
When we cannot we are none the wiser. Each clan had its own music,
almost all of high antiquity, and all of the class common to the Gael,
but we can no more fix the origin of the music than we can fix the
origin of the clan. The Munros have a pibroch composed on the battle of
_Bealach na Broige_, an event which took place about 1350, and there is
the tradition in the Clan Menzies that their piper played at
Bannockburn, but in neither case is the matter of any use as history.
“The Desperate Battle of Perth” is alleged to date from 1395, “The Mac
Raes’ March” from 1477, and “Mac Intosh’s Lament” from 1526. In each
case, however, tradition is the only original authority, and to
tradition a hundred years are often as one day, and one day as a hundred
years.
But the fact that we cannot fix exact dates does not impair the value of
the stories, as stories. And it is as stories, traditions if you will,
that we wish to recall them now, if only to show the atmosphere in which
our pipe music lived and moved and had its being. The stories I believe
are true, though I would not like to vouch for the accuracy of the names
of characters and places in every instance, no more than for that of the
dates. The incident recorded may have taken place at some other time, in
some other place, and with some other people, and tradition may have
mixed up names and figures. But there must have been such an incident
sometime, somehow, somewhere in the Highlands. So long as we know that
it did not originate in the imagination of the story-teller, it
illustrates men and manners just as well as if we could swear by all its
details. And as it throws light on the circumstances in which Highland
music was so often composed, it lends a new interest to the study of
that music. I give, I need hardly add, in each case, that version of the
story which I consider best authenticated, told, whenever possible, in
the form that is of greatest interest.
Let us take the first two or three in the order of their traditional
dates:—
“THE MAC RAES’ MARCH”
is the oldest known pipe tune. The Lord of the Isles invaded Ross-shire
about 1477 with a numerous army, and laid waste the country of the Mac
Kenzies, burning a chapel at Contin. The Mac Kenzies took the field to
protect their lands and property, and in an endeavour to recover the
booty from the Mac Donalds they asked the assistance of the Mac Raes.
The Mac Raes joined them, and the Mac Donalds were defeated with great
slaughter. In the ranks of the Mac Raes there fought Duncan Mac Rae, an
orphan, familiarly known by the name of _Suarachan_, a term of contempt.
His prowess on this occasion was remarkable, and fully entitled him to
higher consideration. He slew a notable man in the Mac Donald ranks, and
then calmly sat down on the body, as if no more was required of him. Mac
Kenzie was astonished at the action of this ally of his, and exclaimed:—
“Why sit you so, when your help is so much needed?”
“If paid like a man, I will fight like a man,” replied Mac Rae. “If
everyone does as much as I have done the day is yours.”
“Kill your two and you shall have the wages of two,” said the chief.
_Suarachan_ obeyed, and again sat down on the corpse.
“Kill your three,” shouted the Mac Kenzie; “nay, fight on, and I will
reckon with you for the dead.”
_Suarachan_ thereupon got up, and dealt fearful destruction among the
Mac Donalds, killing sixteen with his own hand, and thus proved his
worth. He was ever afterwards held in high esteem, and became a leading
man in the clan, acquiring the honourable name of “Duncan of the Axe.”
It was an axe he wielded with such dread purpose on the field of battle.
The pibroch was composed in his honour and in memory of the conflict,
and has always been the march of the clan.
The resemblance between the story and that of Hal o’ the Wynd in Scott’s
_Fair Maid of Perth_ is too striking to pass unnoticed. Hal, at the
battle on the North Inch of Perth, acted exactly as _Suarachan_ did at
Contin. Which is the original story, or whether the two are different
stories it is hard to determine. It would be interesting to know where
Sir Walter got the legend on which he based the Hal o’ the Wynd
incident.
“THE MAC INTOSH’S LAMENT,”
on the authority of The Mac Intosh himself, dates from 1550. Writing in
1885 the chief said:—“The tune is as old as 1550 or thereabout. Angus
Mac Kay in his pipe music book gives it 1526, and says it was composed
on the death of Lauchlan, the fourteenth laird, but we believe that it
was composed by the famous family bard Mac Intyre, on the death of
William, who was murdered by the Countess of Huntly in 1550. This bard
had seen, within the space of forty years, four captains of the Clan
Chattan meet with violent deaths, and his deep feeling found vent in the
refrain:—
‘Mac Intosh the excellent
They have lifted.
They have laid thee
Low, they have laid thee.’
These are the only words in existence which I can hear of.”
There is, however, another tradition connected with the tune. There was
a prediction, believed among the clansmen, that the Mac Intosh of that
day would die through the instrumentality of his beautiful black steed,
whose glossy skin shone as the raven’s wing, and whose flowing mane and
tail waved free as the wind itself. But the chief, whatever he felt, was
determined to show his people that he treated the prediction lightly,
and so he continued to ride his favourite, in spite of the entreaties of
his friends. He rode him on the day of his marriage, and on the way to
church the horse became more than usually restive. He reared and
plunged, and behaved so badly that the rider, losing control of himself
and his horse, drew his pistol and shot the favourite dead. Another, a
piebald horse, was procured, and the company proceeded to church. After
the ceremony they returned by the way they had come, the bride and her
maids on white ponies, and the bridegroom and his friends following. The
chief’s horse, in passing, shied at the body of the black horse, which
lay by the wayside, and the rider was thrown to the ground and killed on
the spot. A turn of the road hid the accident from those in front, and
the bride, unconscious of what had happened, went on her way. She is
said to have composed and chanted the air as, at the funeral, she moved
at the head of the bier, marking the time by tapping on the coffin lid
all the way to the grave, where she had to be torn away as the body was
being lowered in:—
“Oh! my love, lowly laid, Oh! my love, lowly laid;
Oh! my love, lowly laid, beside the fatal wall breach!
Wife am I, sorrowful in my weeds of deep woe,
Since I heard, with heart sore pained, that henceforth I must wear them.
Th’ piebald horse laid thee low, th’ piebald horse laid thee low,
The piebald horse laid thee low, beside the fatal wall breach.
Maiden waesome sad am I, whom scarce know they since the day
When he fixed the marriage ring then on my finger gaily.
Oh! alas, I wasn’t there, Oh! alas, I wasn’t there,
Oh! alas, I wasn’t there, by thy right hand to take thee.
Oh, I am filled with grief, tear-drops streaming down my cheek,
Mourning for my youthful chief, who newly rode the piebald.
Rider of th’ bounding black, bounding black, bounding black,
Rider of th’ bounding black, so mangled by the piebald.
To the feast I’ll not go, nor where merriment fast flows,
Since in waking of the spring an arrow pierced me sorely.
My young Hugh, lowly laid, lowly laid, lowly laid;
My young Hugh, lowly laid in debris of the wall breach.
I am sad, sore sad and wae, since in dust they low thee laid
My farewell I pray thee take, to stones in Dun high standing.
My young Hugh lowly laid, lowly laid, lowly laid;
My young Hugh, lowly laid, alas! and I not near thee.
Thou couldst dance with grace and glee, when they sang sweet melody;
The grass blade scarce would bent down be by thy quick tread so lightly.
Och an och! lowly laid, och an och! lowly laid,
Och an och! lowly laid, beside the fatal wall breach.”
Another set of words were taken down in 1872 from the singing of _Mor
Nighean Alasdair Mhic Ruaraidh_ in Barra. The English here given is not,
however, a translation of this, but what is practically a third set,
written by Mr. Malcolm Mac Farlane, Paisley, to give some idea of the
rhythm of the tune:—
“Hark the pipes’ piercing wail
Sounding clear on the gale
As they bear adown the vale,
My brave, my noble marrow.
Pride of the Heilan’s, chief of his clan,
Ever in danger leading the van—
Death ne’er laid a fairer man
Within his chamber narrow.
Day of dool! day of woe!
Day that saw Evan low,
Ne’er shalt thou from memory go
While’s life’s dim lamp is burning.
In the morn a bride was I;
Wife when noonday’s sun was high;
Ere its light had left the sky
I was a widow mourning.
What is life now to me
Since they’ve ta’en ye frae me?
What again can pleasure gie?
What dispel my sorrow?
Life was sweet, I was gay
Love was short and joy’s away;
Grief has come, but grief will stay,
Renewed with every morrow.”
“_A CHOLLA MO RUN._”
One of the earliest recorded instances of the bravery of a piper is
contained in the annals of our own Highlands, and is inseparably
connected with the tune known as _A Cholla mo run_, referred to in a
previous chapter.[16] It may be as well to give the story here at full
length. The hero was the piper of Coll Kitto, or left-handed Coll, who
landed in Islay with the advance party of an expedition from Ireland,
with instructions to take the Castle of Dunivaig by surprise, should he
find that this could be attempted with any degree of success. The
Campbells, however, had heard of the expedition, and they drew the party
into an ambush and made them prisoners. All were hung off-hand, except
the piper, who asked leave first to play a lament over his comrades. The
chief of the Campbells had heard of the fame of this piper, and, being
himself fond of music, he granted the request, taking care, however, to
put cattle in the way of those of Coll Kitto’s people who might follow
the advance party, which would distract their attention, while his men
could fall on them as they did on the others. The piper saw and
understood the arrangements, and adapted his pibroch to the occasion, so
that the warning and lamenting notes could not fail to be understood by
his comrades. The chief of the Campbells also understood, and on finding
himself over-reached he plunged his dirk into the piper, who smiled
proudly even in death, for he knew he had saved his friends. The
lamenting notes represented in this tune by “We are in their hands, we
are in their hands,” and the warning notes represented by “leave the
cattle, leave the cattle,” are exceedingly touching, and Coll Kitto,
when he heard the pibroch, at once knew that his advance party was in
trouble, and that the piper wished him to keep away from the island.
Accordingly he turned his _birlins_, that is, boats, and left for a less
dangerous locality. The words, when translated, are far from having the
power and beauty of the Gaelic, but they will serve to show somewhat how
the old pipers were supposed to speak by their music to those who
understood them:—
Footnote 16:
See page 92.
“Coll, array; be ready, depart;
Be ready, depart; be ready, depart;
Coll, array; be ready, depart;
We are in their hands, we are in their hands.
Leave the cattle, leave the cattle, leave the cattle,
Leave the cattle, leave the cattle, leave the cattle,
Leave the cattle, leave the cattle, leave the cattle,
We are in their hands, we are in their hands.
An oar, a baler, an oar, a baler,
An oar, a baler, an oar, a baler,
An oar, a baler, an oar, a baler,
We are in their hands, we are in their hands.”
This was supposed to represent embarking quickly. A “baler” was a dish
for throwing water out of the boat.
“The red hand, the red hand, the red hand,
The red hand, the red hand, the red hand,
The red hand, the red hand, the red hand,
We are in their hands, we are in their hands.”
In this the piper hinted to his friends to call the Mac Donalds to their
aid before attacking the Castle.
“Coll of my love, avoid the strait,
Avoid the strait, avoid the strait;
Coll of my love, go by the Mull;
Gain the landing place, gain the landing place.”
This was a warning to “avoid the strait,” and hasten to secure a landing
place in the shelter of the Mull of Kintyre.
“Coll of my love, avoid the castle,
Avoid the castle, avoid the castle;
Coll of my love, avoid the castle;
We are in their hands, we are in their hands.”
That is one version of the story. There are several others, all more or
less similar. The tune is connected by tradition with two or three
places in the Highlands, notably with two castles in Argyllshire—
Duntroon, near Crinan (destroyed by fire in June, 1899), and, as already
stated, with Dunivaig, in Islay. In 1647, another version of the story
goes: Campbell of Calder was commissioned by Argyll to proceed against
Mac Donald (Coll Kitto) and expel him from Islay, where he had taken up
his residence with some followers. Mac Donald, it seems, was a sort of
thorn in the flesh to Argyll, and continually troubled him. In this case
Calder, assisted by several troops of Campbells and others, razed the
Castle of Dunad, where Coll was, to the ground, but Mac Donald himself
escaped to Dunivaig, where he was again besieged. Finding his forces too
weak, he took boat by night to procure assistance from Kintyre or
Ireland, leaving the castle in charge of his mother. Calder having
discovered this, determined to increase his own strength, and retired
for that purpose, leaving his troops under the lady of Dunstaffnage, a
bold, masculine woman. While the male leaders were absent, the wooden
pipe conveying water to the castle was discovered, and the supply cut
off, with the result that Coll’s garrison surrendered. The night after,
the piper, whose profession ensured respect, recognised his master’s
boat coming back, and that he might apprise him of danger, he asked
leave to play a piece of music he had composed on the misfortunes of the
party. The request was granted, and he played:—
“Coll, O my dear, dinna come near,
Dinna come near, dinna come near,
Coll, O my dear, dinna come near,
I’m prisoner here, I’m prisoner here.”
Coll Kitto at once recognised the warning, turned his boat, and escaped.
The Lady of Dunstaffnage saw how she had been out-witted, and she made
the piper play on the top of the highest hill in Islay tunes of the
merriest kind, and then ordered his fingers to be cut off so that he
might never play again. The hill is known to this day as “The Hill of
the Bloody Hand.”
In pretty much the same way the story is associated with Duntroon
Castle, only there are no women in it, so it is difficult to say which
is correct. But it is plain enough that the incident itself is
authentic, although it is doubtless exaggerated, and tradition is
somewhat hazy as to the proper location.
“DUNTROON’S SALUTE.”
Another tune—“Duntroon’s Salute”—is mixed up with _A Cholla mo run_ in a
rather peculiar way, a way that suggests that the origin of the one is
somehow being attributed to the other. Sir Alexander Mac Donald,
_Alister Mac Cholla Chiotaich_, so this story goes, made a raid on
Argyllshire in 1644 (the dates are irreconcilable with the accepted
facts of the two stories), and surrounded Duntroon Castle, with the
object of cutting off every person inside in revenge for the murder of
his father’s piper. He himself, with a fleet of galleys, besieged the
castle from the seaward side, and he ordered his piper to play the “Mac
Donalds’ March.” Instead, however, the piper, on the spur of the moment,
composed and played a war cry to alarm Duntroon. After saluting Duntroon
and wishing him good health, he warned him of his danger, pointed out
that the enemy were ready to attack him by sea and land, from right and
left and front. The tune was understood on shore and also on board Mac
Donald’s boat, and the poor piper was instantly hung from the yard-arm.
Mac Donald finding he could not reduce Duntroon, moved northward,
following out his work of destruction. The tune composed and played on
this occasion is still known as “Duntroon’s Salute,” and that there is
some truth in the story is shown by the way in which it seems to
represent the sound of waves breaking against rocks. The exact relations
between its origin and that of _A Cholla mo run_ would, however, do with
a little clearing up. It may be mentioned as a fact that some years ago
a body was found buried within Duntroon, which was evidently that of the
piper referred to in the tradition. At anyrate his finger bones were
awanting, a fact which goes to prove the second Dunivaig story. But how,
then, did the piper come to be buried in Duntroon?
“THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMING”
dates so far back in the centuries that we fail to trace its origin. It
has been the march of the clan for hundreds of years. There is an old
Gaelic song sung to the air, which tradition says was the composition of
a piper. This piper, in the course of his vocation, was at a wedding in
Inveraray, where he was inhospitably treated. Smarting under a sense of
injury, he composed the song:—
“I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,
I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,
I was at a wedding in the town of Inveraray,
Most wretched of weddings, with nothing but shell-fish,”
thus mercilessly lashing his churlish host. The wedding evidently was so
poor that all the company got was limpets, and the song is another hit
at the poverty of Inveraray. Burns echoed it when he wrote:—
“There’s naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger;
If Providence has sent me here
’Twas surely in his anger.”
The tradition, by the way, was so implicitly believed in, that the
playing of the tune at a wedding, up to a comparatively recent date, was
regarded as a premeditated insult.
One curious story is told of the tune. Not very many years ago the
steamer _Cygnet_ was sailing in a Highland loch when a sailor’s wife
gave birth to twins. The fact was noticed more particularly because a
few years before, in the same steamer, under the same captain, and at
the same place, a similar event had taken place. On the first occasion
the mother was a Mrs. Campbell, and, strangely enough, just when the
twins were born, a piper on board happened to be playing vigorously “The
Campbells are Coming,” quite ignorant of the additions that had just
been made to the passenger list.
The tune was played by the 78th Highlanders when coming to the relief of
Lucknow, and was that heard by Jessie of Lucknow—if there was such a
person—as she lay half asleep on the ground.