LIVING GAIRLOCH BARDS.
There are several Gairloch men now living who essay the poetic vein in
their own language.
One of them is Alexander Mackenzie, of Oban, or Opinan, near Mellon
Udrigil. He is called "the bard," and has composed, it is said, some
good songs. He lives the ordinary life of a crofter.
Perhaps the best known of living Gairloch bards is Duncan Mackenzie, the
Kenlochewe bard. He was born in 1831, on the Culinellan farm near
Kenlochewe. His father Hector was a weaver at Kenlochewe, and composed
some poems, but his muse was neither so prolific nor so notable as that
of his son. Duncan's mother was of the Loch Carron Mackenzies, some of
whom were also poets. Duncan Mackenzie was never at school, and only
learned to read Gaelic after attaining manhood. He had a brother named
Malcolm, who was a piper, and died some years ago. The bard displayed
his talents at an early age, for he composed several pieces when only
eleven years old. The first which attracted public attention to his
talents as a bard was a dialogue in verse between himself and Fionnla
Leith, which he composed at the age of fifteen. The bard is a crofter at
Kenlochewe. Like his father he is a good weaver; at times he has also
proved himself an efficient shoemaker, mason, and carpenter. He is not a
great singer, but he sometimes, though rarely, renders his own songs in
a low voice but with expression. He has composed a large number of
songs. A dozen of them have been published by Mr Alexander Mackenzie,
under the auspices of the Gaelic Society of Inverness. Many of his
pieces are forgotten by himself, though remembered by his neighbours. He
has over fifty in manuscript. He excels in satire, and a vein of
sometimes rather strong humour pervades his poems. He is a tall slender
man, with plenty of beard, and still frequently dons the kilt.
The following poem was composed by the Kenlochewe bard on the marriage
of Sir Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Bart. of Gairloch. Appended is an English
version of the song which Professor Blackie has kindly made for this
book. It is a close translation:--
ORAN DA SHIR COINNEACH GHEARRLOCH AN OIDHCHE A PHOS E.
Chuala mi naigheachd ro thaitneach ri h-eis 'neachd,
Sgeula chaidh aithris am baile Dhun-eidin,
Sir Coinneach bhi seachnadh ard bhan-tighearnan Shasuinn,
Sa posadh ri ainnir, cho maiseach ri te dhiu'.
Nighean tighearn Ilè tha cinnteach ro uasal,
Cho fad sa theid firinn a sgriobhadh man cuairt dì',
Eireachdail, finealta, direach, ro-stuama,
Ailleagan priseil, bho shin i air gluasad.
'S ciatach a charaid 's iad Gaidh'lach le cheile,
Tha uaisle nan nadur thug bar air na ceudan,
"Ban-tighearn og Ghearrloch" an trath sa dha h-eigheachd,
'S cupaichean lana dha 'n traghadh le eibhneas.
Tein-aighir 's gach aite, le gairdeachas inntinn,
Bho iosal Strath Ghearrloch gu Braighé na tirè
An tuath-cheatharn laidir dha'm b-abhaist bhi dileas,
A dearbhadh an cairdeas 's an daimh nach da dhiobair.
Tha i' slean 'us uaislean san uair so aig feasda,
Ag innse gach buaidh a bha dualach dha'n teaghlach,
Nan suidhè gu h-uallach an guaillean a cheile
Ag guidhe bhi buan doibh, le suaibhneas 'us eibhneas.
A bhan-tighearn og aluinn tha'n traths air an tir so,
A dh-fhior fhuil nan Armunn bha tamh ann an Ilè,
Na Caimbeulaich laidir, bho chrioch Ar-a-Ghaidheil,
Toir buaidh air an namhaid 's gach ait anns am bi iad.
Tha cliu air na gaisgich dha'm b-aitreabh an tigh Digè,
'S priseil an eachdraidh th'air cleachdadh na sinnsear,
Bu mhoralach, maiseach, an curaidh Sir Eachainn;
Bha eis'neachd aig fhacal am Bailè na rioghachd.
Sir _Frank_, an duin' uasal, bu shuaircè ro choir e,
Meas aig an t-sluagh air, 's bha 'n tuath air an seol leis,
Sealgair na'm fuar-bheann, ceum uallach air mointich:
'S minic a bhuail e, na luath's an damh croiceach.
Buaidh 'us cinneachdainn piseach, 'us ainm dhoibh,
Slaintè 'us toileachdainn, sonas 'us sealbh dhoibh,
Saoghal fada, gun ghainnè, gun chearb dhoibh,
Gearrloch 'us Lagaidh, bhi pailt ann an airgiod.
EPITHALAMIUM ON THE MARRIAGE OF SIR KENNETH MACKENZIE, BARONET OF
GAIRLOCH, AND MISS EILA CAMPBELL OF ISLAY.
I heard a piece of news last night, good news that brings no
sorrow,
Good news that sped on lightsome wings from castled Edinboro',
That good Sir Kenneth wisely shuns an English maid to woo,
But he will marry a bonnie lass of Celtic blood and true.
A daughter of brave Islay's lord, a perfect lady she
From top to toe, this all who speak the truth will tell to thee;
Handsome she is, stately and tall, winsome and chaste and good:
In all she is, and all she does, a jewel of womanhood.
A noble couple, and well matched; this thing I dare to tell,--
Among a thousand ladies she will bravely bear the bell.
The Lady of Gairloch! I hear them shout with loud acclaim,
While brimming cups are freely poured to her high honoured name.
And bonfires blaze on all the heights, and all hearts are ablaze,
From the green shelter of the strath up to the hoary braes;
And all the clansmen stout and true attend with loyal pride,
To prove their fealty to their chief, and greet his noble bride.
Both high and low are feasting now, and telling man to man
The virtues that from sire to son flowed on to bless the clan:
Proudly they sit in friendly groups, and pray that evermore
On them and theirs a gracious God full horn of joy may pour.
The lovely lady long the pride of Islay's faithful strand,
Of old heroic stock, shall now rule o'er this happy land;
In west Argyll her kinsmen dwell, the clan of mighty name,
Who never flinched and never failed to conquer where they came.
In Tigh mor's goodly hall they sit, where deeds of great renown
The blazoned story of the clan from sire to son come down:
Sir Hector was a noble man, and when debate was stirred
At Dingwall or at Inverness they owned his mighty word.
Sir Francis was a gentleman, right courteous and polite,
And all his tenants loved the lord who always loved the right;
A hunter bold was he, and keen to mount from crag to crag,
With wary foot, and bring to ground the fleet high-antlered stag.
Good luck and joy be with the pair, favour from God and man;
Health and goodwill and acres broad well planted with the clan;
And length of happy days be theirs, and blessings without measure,
And a fat purse to serve their need and entertain their leisure.
Alexander Cameron, who may be called "the Tournaig bard," is a native of
Inverasdale, on the west side of Loch Ewe. He was born about 1848. He
has been manager of Mr Osgood H. Mackenzie's farm at Tournaig for some
sixteen years, and has been on the Inverewe estate since he was a boy of
fifteen. He is the author of a number of songs and poems of considerable
merit. Perhaps the best of them is a poem in twenty verses in praise of
Tournaig. The song in its original Gaelic appeared in the _Northern
Chronicle_ in 1883. I have had the pleasure of hearing Alexander Cameron
sing several of his own songs, and can testify to their graceful
intonation. He is tall, and rather slenderly built, and has the
courteous manner of a true Gairloch Highlander.
The following are twelve verses of the song in praise of Tournaig, with
an English version by Mr W. Clements Good, of Aberdeen:--
ORAN.
On's e'n diugh an dara Maigh
Bho 'na ghabh mi 'n Turnaig tamh,
Air leam fein nach b'olc an cas
Air a sgath ged' dheilbhinn rann.
Hurabh o gun tog mi fonn,
'S toil leam fein an Coire donn,
Diridh mi 'mach ris a mhaoil;
'S fallain gaoth a thaobh na meall.
'S gloirmhor obair Nadair fein,
Grian a g'oradh neoil nan speur,
Cuan na chomhnard boidheach reidh,
'S torman seimh aig seis nan allt.
Hurabh o, &c.
Turnaig aoibhinn, Turnaig aigh,
Turnaig shaoibhir, Turnaig lan,
Turnaig bheartach, 's pailte barr,
Turnaig ghnaiseach, ghranach, throm.
Hurabh o, &c.
Tha gach tlachd na d' thaic'air fas,
Sliabh is srath is cladach sail;
D'uillt do neamhneidibh cho lan
Far an snamh an dobhran donn.
Hurabh o, &c.
Tha do chladach clachadh, ard,
Geodhach, stacach, fasgach, blath;
H-uile sloc is lag is bagh
Loma-lan do mhaorach trom.
Hurabh o, &c.
Bradain mheanmnach na d' loch sail,
Iteach ballabhreac's earragheal tarr,
Suibhlach luath, na chuaich mar bharc,
Tigh'n on 'chuan gu tamh 'm bun d'allt
Hurabh o, &c.
Loch-nan-dail le chladach 'seoin,
Loch-nan-lach is glaise geoidh,
Iasgach pailt air bhailc nan ob,
'S gasd 'an spors do sheoid dhol ann.
Hurabh o, &c.
Air gach dail tha mart le laogh,
Anns gach glaic tha pailteas naoisg,
Air gach stacan, coileach fraoich
'Mach na d' aonach sgaoth chearc donn.
Hurabh o, &c.
Coill Aigeascaig gu ceutach cluth,
'S am beil legion coileach-dubh,
Sud an doire 'n goir iad moch,
Seinn am puirt le'm bus-ghuib chrom,
Hurabh o, &c.
Cuag chuldonn anns gach ait'
Seinn guggug an dluths 'nam barr,
Breacaidh-beith 'sa ghlas charn,
Snathadag is dreadhan donn,
Hurabh o, &c.
Smudan, smeorach, creothar, dnag,
Sud an ceol is boidhche sgread;
'S bru-dearg ruiteach gearradh fead,
Thuas air creagan os an cionn.
Hurabh o, &c.
Leam a b'ait bhi seal le'm ghaol,
G-eisdeachd cruitearan do chraobh;
Gabhail beachd air obair shaor
Nadair aonsgeulaich 's gach ball.
Hurabh o, &c.
SONG ON TOURNAIG.
Twice has the bright returning May
Inspired me to poetic lay,
Since Tournaig's hills first knew my tread
And cast their shadows o'er my head.
Hurrah, the chorus let me raise!
The Corrie be my theme of praise,
On whose brown ridge the heather grows,
And where the healthful north wind blows.
Here nature glories in her pride;
O'er heaven the clouds, all sunlit, glide;
Like polished shield the ocean glows,
The babbling burn sings as it flows.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Tournaig! thou home beloved by me!
With rich green crop and sloping lea,
With fruitful fields and white-fleeced sheep
Dotting afar each breezy steep.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
I ne'er can cease my praise of thee!
Here hill and strath and briny sea;
There streams which from the mountains glide,
Where pearls abound and otters hide.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
High is thy shore against the storm,
Yet lined with sheltered coves and warm;
Whilst shell-fish fill each rocky hole
Where never ocean's waves can roll.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
And he who gazes in the deep
May see the silvery salmon sweep,
With graceful curve and stately turn,
To seek his food below the burn.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Or we can haste to Loch-nan-Dail,
Where the brown trout will never fail;
Whilst flocks of duck and grey goose soar
From marshy haunts upon its shore.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
The shaggy herd each meadow feeds,
The snipe lies close within the reeds;
Each step the heather-cock may rouse,
Loud warning his less wary spouse.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Coille Aigeascaig,--shade from the heat!
Here is the blackcock's sure retreat;
Yonder they crow at early day,
With bent bills crooning forth their lay.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Wood pigeon, mavis, and night jar,
Make music sweet both near and far;
Full joyously the redbreasts call,
Perched on the rock high o'er them all.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
"Coo, coo," the cuckoo cries aloft,
The chaffinch sings in tones more soft,
The fieldfare, titlark, and the wren
All swell the chorus of thy glen.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
No symphony can rival thine;
Nor elsewhere do more clearly shine
The works of God in nature's face,
Harmonious in every place.
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Would that we two were wandering now
Where these wild woods could hear our vow!
Ne'er could we roam midst scenes more grand
Than in this rugged northern land!
Hurrah, &c. &c.
Alexander Bain, who is a crofter, thatcher, and dyker at Lonmor, was
born about 1849. He has composed a number of excellent poems and songs
in his native tongue. He is a much-respected and very worthy man, and is
a sergeant in the Gairloch volunteers. He is of middle height and good
physique.
Alexander Bain has composed the following elegy on the late well-known
Dr Kennedy of Dingwall, who died in 1884, and who might be termed the
bishop of the Free Church in the north-west Highlands. The doctor's
fervid eloquence was often to be heard during sacramental services in
the Leabaidh na Bàine at Gairloch. Appended is an English rendering of
the elegy, mainly contributed by Mr Good:--
MARBH-RANN.
Thainig sgeul gu crich,
Tha na bhochdainn do'n tir muthuath;
Fad's a mhaireas an linn's,
Bithidh luchd-aidmheil fo sgios le gruaim.
Thainig smal air an or,
Ged tha'n Soisgeul air doigh mur bha,
Bho'n chuir iad fo'n fhoid,
Doctear Iain bu bhoidhche cail.
Thainig freasdail mu 'n cuairt,
'S thug e rionnag nam buadh gu lar;
Bithidh a Ghaidhealtachd truagh,
'S cha dean gearan dhoibh suas am bearn.
Sguir an sruthan bu bhoidhche,
Bha toir misneach do dhoige nan gras;
'S bithidh an cridheachan leoint',
Gus an ruig iad air gloir 's aird'.
'S ann tha lot anns a Chleir
As an-d-imich a reult a baild',
Bha na cobhair do 'n treud,
G'an tabhair thairis gu freumh na slaint'.
Bha do bhuaidhean gu leir,
Air an unga le seula graidh,
'S cha n-fhaic sinne as do dheigh,
Fear a sheasas cho treun na d-ait'.
Thainig dubhar, 'us neul,
Air an Eaglais, nach clear dhi 'n drasd;
Thuit a geata fo priomh
Ged tha a bunnait cho fial 's a bha.
Am measg a cedair thu dluth,
'S thusa a meangan bu chubhraidh dhasan;
Bha thu taitneach fad d'uin'
Gu bhith labhairt air run fear daimh.
Bha do phearsa gun ghiomh
An's gach rathad an iarrte fas;
Ann an tuigse, 's an ciall,
Thug thu barrachd air ciad do chach.
Bha do sholus mur a ghriann
Cuir gach onair air Criosd amhain,
'S be sin toiseach do mhiann
Dol troimh ghleanneanaibh ciar a bhais.
ELEGY ON DR KENNEDY.
Sorrow overwhelms the Highlands;
Saintly Kennedy is dead!
Christian souls in woe bewail him
Sleeping in his narrow bed.
Though the truth shines 'midst the darkness,
Dimly burns the golden flame
Since beneath the sod they laid him,
Lovely in his life and aim.
Death's dark angel hovers o'er him;
Low our star of goodness falls;
Wild laments are unavailing,--
'Tis the Master gently calls!
Dried up is that fount of beauty,
Quenched that welling stream of grace;
Our sad hearts will bleed with anguish
Till in heaven we see his face.
All the elders, broken-hearted,
Mourn their guiding star; his flock
Mourn their pastor, him who helped them
To confide in Christ their Rock.
Bright above his many virtues
Shone the seal of love divine;
None can equal his brave spirit,--
None such noble powers combine.
Clouds and gloomy shadows gather
O'er the church for evermore;
Yet, though shaken are her bastions,
Her foundations still are sure.
In the grove of stately cedars
Thou the sweetest branch hast stood;
Eloquent thou wast, when preaching
Life through Christ's most precious blood.
Blameless was thy life-long journey,
With the choicest goodness blest;
In thy wisdom, sense, and knowledge
Thou wast high above the rest.
Like the sun thy light was shining,
Praising Jesus day by day:
Truly thou wast ever ready
Through death's vale to take thy way.