SOME WORLD-FAMOUS PIBROCHS.
“Oh, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad on the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail,
’Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear,
And her sire and her people are called to the bier.”
—_Campbell._
Mac Crimmon’s Lament—Best known of all pipe tunes—Its story—Blackie’s
poetry—Scott’s—The war tune of Glengarry—A tragic story—The pibroch
o’ Donuil Dhu—Too long in this condition—Pipers and inhospitality—
Oh, that I had three hands—Lochaber no more—Allan Ramsay’s verses—An
elated Mac Crimmon—Rory _Mòr’s_ Lament—Clan Farlane pibroch—Pipers,
poetry, and superstition.
There are several reasons why “Mac Crimmon’s Lament” should be the best
known of all pipe tunes, but the most important is the fact that it is,
and must ever continue to be, inseparably associated with the famous
pipers of Dunvegan. The tune was composed by a piper who was leaving
home, and had a presentiment that he would never return, but it has
often been used in other circumstances. In the evicting days, when
Highlanders were compelled to emigrate from their native shores, the
favourite air when they were embarking was
“_CHA TILL MI TUILLE_”
(I’ll return no more), and on many other mournful occasions the lament
of the Mac Crimmons was made the means of expressing the feelings of
Highlanders. It was composed in 1746 by Donald _Bàn_ Mac Crimmon, then
piper to Mac Leod of Dunvegan. Donald _Bàn_ was considered the best
piper of his day, and when the clan left Dunvegan to join the Royalists
in 1746, he was deeply impressed with the idea that he himself would
never again see the old castle. The parting of the clansmen with their
wives and children was sad, and Donald _Bàn_, thinking of his own
sweetheart, poured forth his soul in the sad wail of the Lament, as the
Mac Leods were marching away from the castle. The clan afterwards took
part in a skirmish, which, from the peculiar circumstances, is known to
history as the “Rout of Moy,” and Mac Crimmon was shot close by the side
of his chief.
The Gaelic words usually associated with the lament are supposed to have
been sung by Donald _Bàn’s_ sweetheart, but they are in all likelihood
of much later date. The chorus, however, is probably as old as the tune,
but the complete verses first appeared in print in 1835, in a collection
of _Popular Gaelic Songs_ by John Mac Kenzie, of the _Beauties of Gaelic
Poetry_, where the words are said to have been taken from an old Skye
manuscript. Translated into English they lose much of their plaintive
melody, and make but a poor means of conveying an idea of the tune to
the non-Gaelic reader:—
“The mountain mist flows deep on Cullin,
The fay sings her elegy sorrowful;
Mild blue eyes in the Duin are in tears,
Since he departed and refused to return.
He returns not, returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon,
From war and conflict the warrior refuses to return.
He returns not, returns not, Mac Crimmon would not return,
He will return no more until the day of the last gathering.
The winds of the wold among the boughs are wailing,
Each streamlet and burn is sad on the hills;
The minstrels of the boughs are singing mournfully,
Since he departed and will never return.
He returns not, etc.
The night is clouded, sorrowful and sad,
The birlin under sail, but reluctant to depart,
The waves of the sea have a sound not happy,
Lamenting that he departed and will never return.
He returns not, etc.
Gather will not the tuneful race of Duin in the evening,
While echo with alacrity and joy answers them;
The youths and maidens are without music lamenting
That he departed from us and will never return.
He returns not, etc.”
This is perhaps too literal a rendering. Let us try Professor Blackie’s
version. Blackie was an enthusiast for everything Celtic, and beautified
everything in Celtic literature that his pen touched. A comparison of
the two translations shows this:—
“Round Cullin’s peak the mist is sailing,
The banshee croons her note of wailing,
Mild blue eyes with sorrow are streaming,
For him that shall never return, Mac Crimmon!
No more, no more, no more for ever,
In war or peace, shall return Mac Crimmon;
No more, no more, no more for ever,
Shall love or gold bring back Mac Crimmon.
The breeze on the hills is mournfully blowing,
The brook in the hollow is plaintively flowing,
The warblers, the soul of the grove, are mourning
For Mac Crimmon that’s gone with no hope of returning.
No more, etc.
The tearful clouds the stars are veiling,
The sails are spread, but the boat is not sailing,
The waves of the sea are moaning and mourning
For Mac Crimmon that’s gone to find no returning.
No more, etc.
No more on the hill at the festal meeting
The pipe shall sound with the festal greeting,
And lads and lasses change mirth to mourning,
For him that’s gone to know no returning.
No more, etc.”
The story of the origin of the tune which I have given is that generally
accepted as historically accurate. There is, however, a tradition that
after the passing of the Heritable Jurisdiction Bill in 1747 practically
abolished the office of hereditary piper, Donald _Dubh_ Mac Crimmon, the
last of the race, who died in 1822 at the age of ninety-one, composed
the lament on his departure for Canada. The sentiment is hardly that
which one might expect from a departing emigrant, but rather what a
piper might give expression to on leaving for the wars, a fact which
tells against the tradition. Nevertheless, the tune has been turned into
an emigrant’s farewell on many occasions, and the last verse of Sir
Walter Scott’s composition connected with the tune, shows that the poet
accepted the air as such, to some extent at least:—
Mac Leod’s wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor’d are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mac Crimmon sings ‘Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff on which breakers are foaming;
Farewell each dark glen in which red deer are roaming,
Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,
Mac Leod may return, but Mac Crimmon shall never!
‘Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion farewell—and for ever—
Mac Crimmon departs to return to you never!
The banshee’s wild voice sings the death dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o’er me;
But my heart shall not flag and my nerve shall not shiver,
Though devoted I go—to return again never!
‘Too oft shall the note of Mac Crimmon’s bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land! to the shores whence unwilling we sever;
Return—return—return we shall never!
‘_Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille!
Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till, sinn tuille,
Ged thilleas Mac Leod, bheò Mac Criomain._’
Some stories, by the way, state that Mac Crimmon himself composed the
words to suit the air, and others that they were composed by his
sweetheart at Dunvegan on hearing him playing the new lament when the
clan was leaving the castle. Still others would have it that the
sweetheart’s song was another, composed in response to that of Mac
Crimmon.
The phrase, _Cha till mi tuille_, is also associated with the story of
the piper who tried to explore a cave in Mull, which was given in a
previous chapter. The people of Skye claim the story, and say this piper
was a Mac Crimmon, but the legend is not supposed to give the origin of
the phrase. _Cha till mi tuille_ was used on many occasions as an
extempore expression of feeling on the part of a piper without any
reference to the particular tune, “Mac Crimmon’s Lament.”
If “Mac Crimmon’s Lament” is associated with a departure for the wars,
there is another tune associated very closely with war itself—so
closely, indeed, that, according to the accepted story of its origin, it
was composed while one of the most cruel deeds ever done in the name of
warfare was being perpetrated.
“GILLIECHROIST” or “KILLYCHRIST”
is the war tune of Glengarry, and its origin—mythical according to some
writers—is as follows:—
About the beginning of the seventeenth century there lived in Glengarry
a famous character named Allan Mac Ranald, of Lundie. He was a man of
great strength, activity, and courage, and, living as he did at a time
when the feuds between the Mac Kenzies and the Mac Donalds were at their
height, he invariably led any expedition that set out from Glengarry. In
these fighting days young Angus Mac Donald, of Glengarry, anxious to
distinguish himself, determined—though against the advice of his father—
to lead a raid into the country of the Mac Kenzies. He surprised and
defeated the Mac Kenzies, but on their way home by sea the Mac Donalds
were in their turn attacked by the Mac Kenzies, and defeated with great
slaughter. Angus Mac Donald was among the slain, and Allan of Lundie
only escaped with his life by leaping into the sea at Loch Hourn, where
the battle took place, and swimming ashore at another place. Allan was
determined to be avenged, and not long after he led a strong party of
Mac Donalds to the lands of Killychrist, near Beauly. He found the Mac
Kenzies totally unprepared, burned their lands, destroyed their crops,
and finally mercilessly set fire to a church in which a large
congregation were worshipping, driving back at the point of the sword
all who attempted to escape. Meantime he ordered Alister _Dubh_, his
piper, to play so as to drown the cries of the perishing people. Alister
thereupon blew up loud and shrill, and, after making his instrument give
utterance to a long succession of wild and unconnected notes without any
apparent meaning, he began his march round the church, playing
extemporaneously the pibroch which, under the name of “Killychrist,” has
since been used as the war tune of the Mac Donells of Glengarry. For a
short time the terrible sounds from the inside of the church mingled
with the music of the pipes, but they gradually became fainter, and at
last ceased altogether.
Allan and his comrades had little time to enjoy their victory, for the
Mac Kenzies soon gathered in overwhelming numbers, and, finding the Mac
Donells resting on a flat near Mealfourvonie, known as “the marsh of
blood,” they attacked them with great fury, and pursued them to Loch
Ness. Allan was again one of the few who escaped.
The story of the burning in the church has been altogether discredited,
but it is admitted that there was a raid, and that a large number of
cottages, as well as the manse of Killychrist, were burnt. None of the
earlier writers, however, mention the burning of the congregation. The
music itself also contradicts somewhat the traditional origin of the
tune, for when it is properly played the listener can fancy he hears the
flames rustling and blazing through the timbers, mingled with the angry
remonstrances and half-smothered shouts of the warriors, but there is no
representation of the more feeble plaints of women and children, as
there would surely have been had these been among the victims. However,
I give the story for what it is worth.
“_PIOBAIREACHD DHOMHNUILL DUIBH_”
is one of the oldest and best known of pipe tunes. It is said to have
been played at the Battle of Inverlochy in 1431, and it is first found
on paper in Oswald’s _Caledonian Pocket Companion_, published in 1764,
where it is entitled _Piobaireachd Mhic Dhonuill_. Afterward it appeared
in the book compiled by Captain Mac Leod of Gesto, from which it was
translated in 1815 into ordinary notation by the editor of _Albyn’s
Anthology_. Its first printed heading strengthens the title of the Mac
Donalds, who claim the tune for their clan, but the words _Donull Dubh_
are accepted as referring to Cameron of Lochiel, and the tune is known
as “Lochiel’s March.” The chief of the Camerons bears the name _Mac
Dhomhnuill Duibh_, or son of Black Donald. The air, which is the march
of the 79th or Cameron Highlanders, is a call to arms, and is
inseparably associated with Inverlochy, but whether composed and played
on the field or only in commemoration of the battle cannot now be
determined. The English words are by Sir Walter Scott, and first
appeared in 1816:—
“Pibroch o’ Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch o’ Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil;
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons,
Come in your war array,
Gentles and Commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy;
Come every hill plaid, and
True heart that wears one;
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one;
Leave untended the herd, and
The flock without shelter,
The corpse uninterr’d,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges;
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended;
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded;
Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster!
Chief, vassal, page, and groom!
Tenant and master!
Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch o’ Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!”
“_IS FADA MAR SO THA SINN_,”
which may be translated “Too Long in this Condition,” is an old pibroch,
dating from about 1712. It was composed either by Donald _Mòr_ Mac
Crimmon or by Patrick, his son. Donald was compelled at one time,
because of some depredations of his own, to flee for his life into
Sutherlandshire. There he put up unrecognised at the house of a relative
named Mac Kay, who was getting married that day. Mac Crimmon sat down in
a corner almost unnoticed, but when the piper began to play he
unconsciously fingered his stick as if it were the chanter. The piper of
the evening noticed this, and asked him to play for them. Donald said he
could not, and the whole company asked him, and he again refused. At
last the piper said: “I am getting seven shillings and sixpence for
playing at this marriage. I’ll give you one-third if you will play.”
Donald then took up the pipe and began:—
“Too long are we thus, too long are we thus,
Too long in this condition,
Too long lacking meat or drink,
At Mac Kay’s marriage am I.”
These lines he repeated three times, and concluded by adding—
“At the house of Mac Kay am I.”
He played so well that all present knew him to be the great Donald _Mòr_
Mac Crimmon, and as he made his pipes speak to them they understood his
complaint, and he was then royally entertained.
The pibroch is also said to have been composed by Patrick _Mòr_ Mac
Crimmon on his being taken prisoner, along with many others, at the
battle of Worcester, and being left in a pitiable state. It is also
associated with the same piper and the battle of Sheriffmuir, where he
was left stripped of all his clothing, but it is impossible to say
which, if either, is right.
Want of hospitality towards a piper gave rise to another tune. It is
called
“THE MISERLY, MISERABLE ONE’S HOUSE,”
and its origin, as told to the late “Nether Lochaber” by an old Loch
Awe-side piper, was as follows:—
Some two or three hundred years ago, when the great Clan Campbell was at
the height of its power, the estate of Barbreck was owned by a Campbell,
who was brother or cousin or something of another Campbell, the
neighbouring laird of Craignish. Craignish kept a piper, but Barbreck
did not. Barbreck could afford to keep one, but he grudged the expense,
and his stinginess in this respect is commemorated in an Argyllshire
saying—“What I cannot afford I must do without, as Barbreck did without
a piper.”
Barbreck one day was on a visit to Craignish, and as he was leaving he
met the piper, and said to him—“The New Year is approaching. On New-
Year’s Day morning, when you have played the proper salute to my cousin,
your master, I wish you would come over to Barbreck and play a New-
Year’s salute to me, for, as you know, I have no piper of my own to do
it. Come and spend the day with us.” This the piper promised to do, and
on New Year’s Day morning, after first playing his master into good
humour, he went to Barbreck. He played and played until the laird was in
raptures, but the piper became hungry and thirsty, and hinted as much to
Barbreck. He got some food, but it was not satisfactory, either in
quantity or quality. The drinkables were no better, and long before the
sun set the piper was anxious to go home. “Give us one more tune before
you go,” said Barbreck. “That I will,” said the piper, and there and
then he struck up impromptu _Tigh Bhroinein_—the House of the Miserly
One. The following are some of the lines attached to the tune from the
very first, whether by the piper himself or by another is not known:—
“I was in the house of the miserly one to-day,
In the house of the miserly one was I;
I went by invitation thither,
But I got no sufficiency (of meat or drink).
I got a drink of meal gruel there,
And got bad barley scones;
I got the leg of a hen there,
And, by my troth, she was a poor and tough one.
This is an invitation that has annoyed me,
I will leave this to-night
Without (I may say) food or drink
I will leave thee, Barbreck;
Nor will I return any more
To play thee a piobaireachd salute.”
The translation is too literal to be poetry, but one can imagine how
Barbreck must have felt. He had better have done without that last tune.
“OH, THAT I HAD THREE HANDS!”
is associated with at least two incidents in Highland history. Towards
the end of the thirteenth century a dispute arose between _Mac Cailein
Mòr_, chief of the Clan Campbell, and Mac Dougall of Lorne, chief of the
Mac Dougalls, with reference to the boundaries of their estates. The
parties met at a spot where two streams unite, and fell to recrimination
and ultimately to fighting like tigers. The slaughter was terrible, and
the streams ran with blood and were crowded with the bodies of the
slain. Ultimately _Mac Cailein Mòr_ was killed, and his followers ceased
the fighting to carry off his body. Close to the battlefield there was a
small conical hillock—called in the Gaelic _Tom-a-Phiobair_, the Piper’s
Hillock—on the top of which the piper of the Campbells stood and played
while the battle raged. Sympathising with the Mac Dougalls, and
regretting the havoc made among them, he composed on the spot a pipe
tune, the purport of which was:—
“My loss! my loss! that I have not three hands,
Two engaged with the pipe and one with the sword,
My loss! my loss! that I have not three hands,
Two engaged with the pipe and one with the sword;
My loss! my loss! low lies yonder
Mac Dougall, with his pipe, whose sound was soft and sweet to me.”
This hardly indicates whether the piper would, had he three hands, have
fought with the Mac Dougalls against his own clan, but, at anyrate, the
Campbells, seeing that this was not one of their own tunes, were so
enraged that one of them ran to the piper and chopped off his head. It
is said that the piper’s fingers played three or four notes on the
chanter while his head was toppling to the ground.
This story belongs to the same class as those relating to the battles of
Philiphaugh and Bothwell Bridge, given in a previous chapter. The
resemblance, indeed, is too striking to be a coincidence, and the three
have probably at some time or other been one story. The other incident
connected by tradition with the tune is that already related of a cave
in either Skye or Mull, into which a venturesome piper entered. He never
returned, but the last wailing notes of his pipes told that he was being
hard beset with wolves, who threatened to tear him to pieces should he
stop playing. So he played mournfully:—
“Oh, that I had three hands!
Two for the pipes and one for the sword,”
the inference being that in that case he could have kept on playing and
fought the wolves at the same time.
The tune nearly always played at Highland funerals is
“LOCHABER NO MORE.”
It was composed to Jane, daughter of Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel, by a
young English officer on his being ordered back from the Highlands to
join his regiment. Jane Cameron was afterwards married to Lachlan Mac
Pherson of Cluny, thus bringing over the tune to the Mac Phersons. The
traditional account is entirely different. According to it a party of
marauders from Lochaber, consisting of forty to fifty men, reached, one
autumn afternoon, the summit of a hill immediately above Glenesk, the
most northerly parish of Forfarshire. They meant to make a raid on the
valley, but lay down to rest until after dusk. They were, however, seen
by some shepherds, who gave the alarm, and in the evening the
inhabitants of the glen were all under arms for the protection of their
property. After dusk the invaders descended, and in the battle that
ensued five of the defenders were killed and ten taken prisoners.
Prisoners and cattle were driven to the Highlands. The men returned next
year after a ransom of fifteen merks had been paid for each, but the
cattle were never seen again. A ballad giving these particulars was long
popular in the glen, but nothing now remains of it except the last words
of each verse—“Lochaber no more.” Allan Ramsay wrote lines for the air,
but they contain nothing of the spirit of the traditional origin. They
are obviously based on the historical account:—
“Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I’ve mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
Those tears that I shed, they’re a’ for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir,
Tho’ borne on rough seas to a far, bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Tho’ hurricanes arise and rise every wind,
They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Tho’ loudest of thunder on loudest waves roar,
That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain’d,
By ease that’s inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne’er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I’d better not be.
I gae, then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I’ll bring thee a heart with love running o’er,
And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no more.”
It is only fair to add that the tune, under another name, is said to
have been a favourite Irish air in London in the time of Queen
Elizabeth. If this was so, the explanation probably is that the Irish
who came to Scotland, and the Scots who went to Ireland, each carried
their music with them, and that there are many tunes common to both
peoples.
“I HAVE HAD A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND.”
Pipers of old times always had “a guid conceit o’ themsel’s,” and
Patrick _Mòr_ Mac Crimmon, who flourished in 1660, was no exception to
the rule. His master, Roderick Mac Leod of Mac Leod, went to London
after the Restoration to pay his homage to Charles II., and was very
warmly received. He had taken his piper with him, and the King was so
pleased with his fine appearance and his music that he allowed Mac
Crimmon to kiss his hand. Patrick was highly elated over this, and
commemorated the honour that had been paid him by composing the tune
_Fhŭair mi pòg o laimh an Righ_, which, to those acquainted with the
language and music, seems to speak forth the pride and gratitude of the
performer, the words expressed by the opening measure being:—
“I have had a kiss, a kiss, a kiss,
I have had a kiss of the King’s hand;
No one who blew in a sheep’s skin
Has received such honour as I have.”
“RORY MOR’S LAMENT.”
Sir Roderick Mac Leod of Dunvegan, who died somewhere about 1630, was a
man of noble spirit, celebrated for great military prowess and resource.
His hospitality was unbounded, and he was in all respects entitled to be
called _Mòr_ or great, in all the qualities that went to constitute a
great Highland chief and leader of men. The Gaelic bards were
enthusiastic in his praises, and his piper, Patrick _Mòr_ Mac Crimmon—
the same Mac Crimmon presumably—taking his death very much to heart,
could not live at Dunvegan afterwards. Shouldering his great pipe, he
made for his own house at Boreraig, composing and playing as he went
_Cumha Ruaraidh Mhoir_ (Rory _Mòr’s_ Lament), which is considered the
most melodious, feeling, and melancholy lament known. The following are
some of the words, translated by “Fionn”:—
“Give me my pipes, I’ll home them carry,
In these sad halls I dare not tarry,
My pipes hand o’er, my heart is sore,
For Rory Mor, my Rory Mor.
Fetch me my pipes, my heart is breaking,
For Rory Mor his rest is taking,
He walks no more, and to its core
My heart is sore for Rory Mor.
Give me my pipes, I’m sad and weary,
These halls are silent, dark, and eerie,
The pipe no more cheers as of yore,
Thy race is o’er, brave Rory Mor.”
“THE CLAN FARLANE PIBROCH.”
A Faust-like story is told of Andrew, chief of the Clan Mac Farlane, and
the supposed composer of the “Clan Farlane Pibroch.” Andrew and
Alastair, chiefs of the Mac Donells of Keppoch, were credited with
having “the black art.” They were said to have sold their souls to the
devil in exchange for their supernatural powers. They seem to have
driven a rather peculiar bargain, for the understanding was that the
devil should get only one of their souls, the chiefs to decide between
themselves which it would be. The appointed day and hour came on which
the debt was to be paid, and still the chiefs, though they had come to
the trysting place, had not decided which soul was to be given up. When
the devil came he was in a desperate hurry, and at once exclaimed,
“Well, and whose soul do I get?” On the spur of the moment Mac Donell
pointed to Mac Farlane’s shadow, saying, “That’s he,” whereupon the
devil snatched up the shadow and ran off with it. From that day Mac
Farlane was never known to cast a shadow.
As to the tune itself, Sir Walter Scott supposes it had a close
connection with the predatory excursions of the clan into the low
country near the fastnesses on the western side of Loch Lomond. The
pibroch, _Thogail nam bo_, seems to indicate such practices, the sense
of the music being:—
“We are bound to drive the bullocks,
All by hollows, hirsts, and hillocks,
Through the sleet and through the rain;
When the moon is beaming low
On frozen lake and hill of snow,
Boldly, heartily we go,
And all for little gain.”
The tune was almost lost, but about 1894 some enthusiasts gathered it
from several who knew it, and committed it to paper, thus ensuring its
preservation. The credit of this laudable effort, it should be added, is
mainly due to Provost Mac Farlane of Dumbarton, who, with the help of
Pipe-major J. Mac Dougall Gillies, Glasgow, had the complete tune taken
down from the playing of John Leitch, an old man who lived in
Glendaruel. The Faust-like story of its composer is also told of a
Donald Mac Kay of Lord Reay’s country, but not in connection with a
tune.
“JOHN GARBH OF RAASAY’S LAMENT.”
Connected with “John Garbh of Raasay’s Lament,” one of the most famous
of pibrochs, and a favourite with most pipers to this day, there are
stories of pipers, poetry, and superstition. John Garbh Mac Leod of
Raasay met his death about 1650 at the early age of 21. He was a man of
fine appearance and great strength. He had been to Lewis on a visit to a
friend, and when he was returning home to Skye the day was so stormy
that his crew were very unwilling to put to sea, being afraid they would
lose their lives. Raasay thereupon exclaimed to the boatman in the
Gaelic:—“Son of fair Muireil, are you afraid?” and the man at once threw
his fears aside, and with the reply—“No, no, Raasay, we shall share the
same fate to-day,” began to prepare for the voyage. All went well until
off Trotternish, the people of which anxiously watched the boat. The
wind increased still more, and a heavy shower hid the vessel from their
sight. When it cleared off the boat was nowhere to be seen. Mac Leod’s
untimely fate was deeply mourned, and Patrick _Mòr_ Mac Crimmon
commemorated the sad event by composing the famous and pathetic pibroch.
A celebrated Skye poetess also composed a touching lament, and a sister
of Mac Crimmon’s composed an elegy, the English of which goes as
follows:—
“Sitting idly I sorrow,
Heavy hearted and ailing;
I am songless and cheerless,
I am weary and wailing.
Since the day of my sorrow
I am weary with wailing,
Since the loss of the boatie
Where the hero was sailing.
Since the loss of the boatie,
Where the hero was sailing;
Oh, strong was his shoulder,
Though the sea was prevailing.
Oh, strong was his shoulder,
Though the sea was prevailing;
Now he lies in the clachan
Whom I am bewailing.
Now he lies in the clachan
Whom I am bewailing,
And a green grassy curtain
His cold bed is veiling.
And a green grassy curtain
His cold bed is veiling.
His sword in its scabbard
The rust is assailing.
His sword in its scabbard
The rust is assailing;
His hounds on their leashes
Their speed unavailing.
His hounds on their leashes
Their speed unavailing;
No more shall my hero
His mountains be scaling.
No more shall my hero
His mountains be scaling;
Sitting sadly I sorrow,
Heavy hearted and ailing.”
Tradition says that John Garbh of Raasay was drowned through the
machinations of a witch. She bore him a grudge, and while the boat was
at sea she sat in her hut rocking a basin of milk in which there was a
clam shell to represent the boat. When she sank the clam shell the boat
sank, the story being that a crow alighted on the gunwale, and that Mac
Leod, in trying to kill it with his sword, cut the boat to the waters’
edge. There are several improbable things about this tradition, not the
least obvious of which is the impossibility of knowing how the boat sank
when no one was left to tell the tale. However, it is a tradition—that
much at least is true.
[Illustration]