ANCIENT BALLADS.
“Thoir an eachdraidh Mhaighstir Dòmhnull
A tha chòmhnaidh ’n cois na tuinne;
An ùrnuigh bha aig Oisein liath-ghlas
Nach robh riamh ach ’na dhroch dhuine.”
ENGLISH:
_To Master Donald take the story;
There he dwells beside the billow;
The prayer said by Ossian hoary,
Who was aye a worthless fellow._
It has been well remarked that each of the literatures of the two
branches of our Celtic population was chiefly the utterance of
feeling stirred by a great struggle for independence, and that each
has at the heart of it “a battle disastrous to the men whose wrestle
with an overmastering power is the chief theme of their bards.” The
Gaelic struggle and literature began earlier, and its great battle is
that of _Gabhra_, said to have been fought in 284 A.D. In the later
Celtic literature of the Cymri the memorable battle described is that
of Cattraeth, said to have been fought in 570 A.D.
While _Cath Gabhra_ is the chief theme of the Gaelic bards,
individual combats, adventures, and other battles are also rehearsed
in the early ballads.
Macpherson’s “Ossian” and Smith’s “Old Lays,” whose authenticity
has been so fiercely disputed, are excluded from consideration at
present. They will be afterwards examined under the dates of their
production. The number of lines in these works and other two poems
respectively is:—
Macpherson’s Poems of Ossian 10,232 lines.
Smith’s Old Lays 5,335 ”
Clark’s Mordubh 758 ”
MacCallum’s Collath 504 ”
——————
Total 16,829 ”
Laying aside these 16,829 lines of suspected poetry, there is still
the 54,000 lines of ancient poems of unquestioned genuineness in
Campbell’s “Leabhar na Féinne,” enough surely to sustain the literary
character and genius of our early ancestors.
The ballads which we are now to consider are all genuine and old, and
may be found in manuscripts written ages before Macpherson was born.
The Ossianic or Heroic Ballads will be found in the following
publications:—The Dean of Lismore’s Book (1512, published 1862);
Hill’s (1780); MacArthur’s (1784); Young’s (1784); Gillies’s (1786);
Stewart’s (1804); Highland Society’s Report (1805); Turner’s (1813);
Grant’s (1814); MacCallum’s (1816); Campbell’s great work (1872).
Some of the ballads contained in these books were printed from old
manuscripts; others were taken down during the last two or three
centuries from the oral recitation of old men, living in all parts of
the Highlands.
These collections represent a good deal of industry and literary
activity, which reflect very creditably on men who had not the
stimulus of a vast reading public to work upon their minds.
THE GENUINE GAELIC BALLADS.
The place in time occupied by these compositions is one of
considerable length—it extends at least as far back as the third
century of our era. It is very interesting to note that this body of
oral popular literature has been loved, preserved, and rehearsed by
the Gaelic clans of Albin for at least a thousand years; for a much
longer period, indeed, if we rely on fairly credible tradition.
The inter-tribal struggles described in these ballads—the patriotic
resistance against the Norse attempts to obtain the supremacy, mixed
up as they are with the encroachments of Christianity within the
realms of heathenism—took place mainly within the Albinic area. The
geographical limits of this area in those early times were very vague
and shifting. In a general way they may be said to have embraced the
Western Islands, the North-west, and part of the central Highlands,
as well as the Isle of Man and Ireland. Over all these regions we
watch in these ballads the shadowy movements of our brave ancestors.
We hear the faint echoes of their names, and the fame of their deeds,
the war-cries and voices of their almost semi-mythic heroes.
We regard the tribes whose deeds are celebrated in these productions
under two classes—those of the Cruithne or Albinic race and those
who have become known as the Scottish Iro-Gaelic race. At that period
there were Cruithne or Picts in Erin as well as in Albin.
Previous to the arrival of Patrick in Ireland and to that of Columba
in the Highlands, there is strictly speaking no chronological history
of either country. Of the earlier movements of the clans and their
battles we have no authentic account. But there are traditions with
a highly probable basis of truth sufficient for the purposes of the
present Ossianic discussion. Two or three of the central facts of the
Finian period, as related in a preceding section, are as follows:—
Finn MacCumhaill lived in the reign of Cormac MacArt who ruled from
A.D. 227 to 266, and whose daughter Gràinne he married. Goll MacMorni
was a contemporary. Finn was slain in 283, but the bards bring him
somehow alive next year to pronounce a eulogy on his grandson,
Oscar, who fell in the battle of Gabhra. Ossian and Caoilte lived
for a hundred and fifty years longer; and the blind old heathen
bard relates the heroic achievements of his departed fellow-heroes
to St. Patrick who arrives in Ireland about 432. Chronology did not
trouble the old ballad-makers of Albin and Erin. Such an anachronism
as brings Ossian of the third, into conjunction with Patrick of the
fifth century, did not disturb their heroic muse.
Ireland claimed this Ossian as her own, and her learned doctors
declared that Macpherson stole his poems from their country. Two or
three words will be sufficient to dispose of all this: 1. Macpherson
never was in Ireland; and never kept up any correspondence with
Irishmen. 2. The Ossianic poems published by the Dublin Gaelic
Society and the Ossianic Society were all collected and made known
subsequent to the publication of Macpherson’s Ossian. 3. It is
admitted by the late Eugene O’Curry, one of the highest authorities,
that prior to the 15th century there existed in Ireland only
_eleven_ Ossianic poems, which are extremely short, and which will
be found in the Book of Leinster, compiled in the 13th, and in the
Book of Lecan in the 15th century. Of these, seven are ascribed to
Finn himself, two to Ossian, one to Fergus, and one to Caoilte.
This clearly disposes of Ireland’s claim to possess anything like
Macpherson’s work. Indeed it has been given up by some who advanced
it, while at the same time these writers and others laboured to
manufacture and publish poems _a la_ Macpherson; but to the great
chagrin of these learned sons of Erin the public will not assign them
the same distinction and appreciation, which have been accorded to
Macpherson’s productions.
Let us now glance at the genuine, and indisputably ancient Ossianic
ballads preserved in Scotland: 1. We have the tragic tale of
_Deirdri_ in the Glenmasan MS., bearing the date of 1238, now in the
Advocate’s Library. 2. There is a MS. of the 15th century, containing
a glossary and a poem of five quatrains, attributed to Ossian. A text
the same as this poem is in the Book of Leinster of the 13th century.
3. There is the Book of the Dean of Lismore, compiled between 1512-20
A.D. This book contains 28 Ossianic poems, nine of which are directly
attributed to Ossian, two to Fergus, one to Caoilte; two to Allan
MacRuairi, and one to GillieCallum Mac an Olla,—these two last bards
being hitherto unknown; and there are eleven anonymous ones, which
in style and subject belong to the Féinne. These twenty-eight poems
extend to 2500 lines, or one-fourth of all Macpherson’s Gaelic poems.
The rest of the extant heroic poetry has been collected in the
Highlands and Islands, chiefly within the last 150 years; and in the
main consists of versions of the same productions that we have in the
Book of the Dean of Lismore. They are genuine Highland compositions
of an ancient character, and some of them are instructive as showing
how far oral transmission during the last 400 years has affected
their style and language.
We thus find that the work begun by Sir James Macgregor upwards
of 400 years ago, has been taken up at intervals by others since
his time. Towards the end of the last, and the beginning of the
present century the principal collectors of these ballads appeared.
Old men in all parts of the Highlands and Isles, famous for their
mnemonic and reciting powers were sought out by educated natives and
strangers, and their versions of the old ballads taken down. The last
and the greatest of the ballad and tale-collectors was Mr Campbell,
who in 1859-60 traversed the whole Gaelic area; and assisted by
intelligent Highlanders formed large collections, of which he has
given a considerable quantity to the world, in his four volumes of
tales. All these are genuine productions of the Gaelic popular mind.
No stigma or suspicion attaches to them. Some of them are at least as
ancient as the time of Dean Macgregor—400 years ago; and they were
regarded as ancient then. In character and spirit they resemble—are
in many cases only Scottish versions of—the kindred literature of the
Gael of Ireland; and possess much definite value to the student of
social life and the philologist.
Although many of those heroic compositions have been probably lost
and others marred in their oral transmission, yet enough remains to
interest the literary student and the historic antiquary. Upwards of
54,000 lines have been preserved, and are accessible in that truly
excellent and scientifically arranged work _Leabhar na Féinne_. In
this body of literature we have indubitable proof of the existence of
a large mass of popular literature among the ancient Gaels, who it is
evident must have developed considerable taste for ballad, song, and
story.
It is hard to assign any date to the composition of these ballads.
They may have been composed centuries before they were committed to
writing. We have fragments such as the Glen-mason MS. which were
written as early as the 12th century, scarcely anything earlier.
These are written in the hand and language common to the learned in
both Albin and Erin at the time. The book of the Dean of Lismore,
however, is written phonetically to represent the spoken language
of his day, and is mainly in the Perthshire dialect. The various
collections of ballads made between 400 and 70 years ago exhibit
different styles of writing, and the unsettled modes of orthography
prevalent at the time.
The poetic form of these productions is generally that of the
quatrain. Some pieces do not exceed a few stanzas in length, others
extend to 80 or 100 quatrains or to between 300 or 400 lines. Many
archaic expressions are to be met with; but on the whole when
presented in modern orthography they are understood by an ordinary
Highlander. Not a few of these phrases, though not generally
understood, have been preserved and transmitted even in the oral
versions taken down within the last 100 years.
Some of the most ancient ballads relate to Cuchulin and his deeds of
deathly valour; others tell the tragic tale of Deirdri; others relate
to the Norse wars; and not the least romantic describe the fierce
combats and heroic conflicts in which the brave heroes of the Féinne
indulged on the shores and plains of Albin and Erin. On many a field
of fame, east and west, had the banners of the Finian heroes gleamed
and gained renown; but with all their victories they always fell as
they went forth to the battle, until they all faded and disappeared
“like sungleam in wintry weather.”
THE COCHULIN BALLADS.
Taken in chronological order, the Cochulin ballads come up first for
consideration. Much credit is due to Mr Campbell for his attempt at a
chronological classification of these productions, a very difficult
matter, considering the vagueness, historically, of everything
connected with the heroic period. As far as dates of composition are
concerned, all that can be safely affirmed is that these ballads were
composed between the Christian era and the thirteenth century, some
of them undoubtedly belonging to the earlier, and some of them to
the later centuries of that period. Copies of many of them were made
by Sir James Macgregor, Dean of Lismore, between 1512-26. Then they
were regarded as very ancient. Those relating to Cochulin and to his
son Conlach are:—_Cochulin and Evir_; _Cochulin’s Sword_; _Cochulin’s
Car_; _Garbh Mac Stairn_; _Conlach’s Death_; _The Heads_. According
to ancient annals Cochulin lived in the first century. _Connal
Cearnach Mac Edirskeol_ is the author of the last-mentioned ballad,
_The Heads_, and the most ancient of all the Heroic poets. Cochulin
was his foster-son; and when he was slain Connal revenged himself
on his enemies by putting them all to death. In the ballad, Evir,
the wife or betrothed of Cochulin, is told the names of those put to
death, whose heads he carried on a withe. There is a heroine of Dun
sgathaich, Skye, called Aoife, who also is mixed up with Cochulin’s
story. The length of the ballad is 96 lines. The following is a
literal translation of the first six stanzas:—
Connal, these heads are little worth,
Though in their blood thine arms did’st soil;
These heads thou hast upon the withe
Tell me their owners, now thy spoil.
Daughter of Orgill of the steeds,
Evir, whose words sweet feelings waken,
’Twas to avenge Cochulin’s death
That I these many heads have taken.
Whose is that nearest thy left arm,—
That mighty, hairy, dusky head,—
That head whose colour has not changed,
With cheeks than any rose more red?
The king of fleet steeds owned that head,
Said Cairbar’s son, keen lance in war;
’Twas to avenge my foster-son
I took that head and bore it far.
Whose is that head I see beyond
Inwrapt with soft and flowing hair,
His eye like glass, his teeth like bloom,
With beauty that is peerless there?
Manadh, the one that owned the steeds,
The son of Aoife—pirate true;
I left his trunk without its head,
His people every one I slew.
THE DEIRDRI BALLADS.
The next class is that of the _Deirdri Ballads_. The story of
_Deirdri_ and _Clan Uisneach_, or the three brothers, Naos, Ainle,
and Ardan, sons of Uisneach, is very affecting and tragic. Mr
Campbell says:—“The story of Deirdre is related to Indian Epics, and
is an Aryan romance which pervades the whole world. A beautiful girl,
shut up to baulk a prophecy, is beloved by an old King. She runs away
with a family of brothers, and after adventures of many kinds, the
story ends in a tragedy.” Connachar, King of Ireland, whose reign is
placed about the middle of the first century, was preparing to marry
the beautiful princess, Deirdri, when she ran away with the three
sons of his sister, Naos, Ainle, and Ardan. They went to Scotland,
where they were well received. The names of places in the ballads
indicate that it was in Argyllshire they settled. While the brothers
were away on some expedition, to Lochlin, it is supposed, Deirdri
was left in charge of a “black-haired lad,” it is said, in an islet
north of Jura till they would return. The “lad” began to make love to
Deirdri in their absence, but they came back opportunely to save her.
By this time Connacher sent them a message of peace from Ireland; and
believing that the once wrathful monarch was sincere they returned
to Ireland. But they were at once met with the hostile forces of
the King; and after a fierce struggle the King slew his nephews.
When Deirdri saw her beloved Naos and his brothers fall, she rushed
forward, bewailing them, and died upon their bodies. There are six
or seven versions of this story, the oldest being in the MS. dated
1208, in the Advocates’ Library. It was written at Glenmasan, in
Cowal. The versions vary in length. The longest contains upwards of
400 lines. The ballad is sometimes divided into several parts, and
some collectors give only one or two parts. It is the part in which
Deirdri laments her departure from Scotland that is here translated.
This and the Book of Deer are the earliest specimens that we possess
of written Gaelic in Scotland.
The glens and other places mentioned in the following farewell of
Deirdri are readily identified. The large number of proper names
occurring in the piece renders it difficult to give anything more
than a very stiff translation, which is almost absolutely literal:—
“Do dech Deardir ar a hèise ar crichibh Alban, agus ro chan an
Laoidh”:—(_Deirdri looked back on the land of Albin, and sang this
Lay._)
Beloved land, that eastern land!
Alba with waters wide:
With Naos in those happy glens
I wish I could abide!
Beloved Dunfigha and Dunfin;
The Dun above them seen;
Beloved is Inis-Draighnde;
Beloved is fair Dun Sween.
Coille-Chuan! O Coille-Chuan!
Where Ainle comes no more!
Too short, I ween, was there my stay
With Naos on Albin’s shore.
Glen-Laye! O Glen-Laye!
Oft by its stream I lay;
Fish, flesh and fat of badger
My repast in sweet Glen-Laye.
Glen-Masan! O Glen-Masan!
Where fairest boughs are seen;
Lonely was my place of rest
By Inver-Masan green.
Glen-Eitive! O Glen-Eitive!
There my first home was raised;
Beautiful were its woods in morn
When there the sun had blazed.
Glen-Orchay! O Glen-Orchay!
Straight vale of ridges smooth,
Full joyful there round Naos
Were the Glen-Orchay youth.
Glen-Daruadh! O Glen-Daruadh!
I love its men—I love it!
Sweet are the cuckoos on the boughs
On the grey hills above it.
Beloved is Drayen—its sounding shore;
Beloved is Avich of pure sand;
Oh, that I might not leave the east,—
Beloved and happy land.
On this tale, and on its connection with Scottish topography, Dr
MacLauchlan says:—“This is one of the most touching in the catalogue
of Celtic tales, and it is interesting to observe the influence it
exerted over the Celtic mind by its effect upon the topographical
nomenclature of the country. There are several Dun Deirdres to
be found still. One is prominent on the vale of the Nevis, near
Fort-William, and another occupies the summit of a magnificent rock
overhanging Loch Ness, in Stratherrick.” _Ness_, the name of the
loch, is thought to be from Naos. Dr Skene remarks—“Adomnan, in
his life of St. Columba, written in the seventh century, appears
to mention only three localities in connection with St. Columba’s
journey to the palace of the King of the Picts, near Lochness, and
these are Cainle (Ainle), Arcardan (Ardan), and the flumen Nesae
(Naise). Two vitrified forts in the neighbourhood of Lochness
are called Dun-_Dearduil_.” The same authority also observes
that “the ancient legends of Cochulin and the sons of Uisneach
connect them with those remarkable structures termed vitrified
forts.” Dun-Sgathaig and Dun-mhic-Uisneachan are vitrified like
Dun-dhearduil. It is suggested that a mythic meaning underlies this
topography and story.
THE FINIAN BALLADS.
A class of ballads which is wholly taken up with the Finian heroes
proper—with their intercourse and doings among themselves—may be
described as _Finnic_ ballads. Finn is the central hero; and the
other Finian characters are his attendant satellites.
There was more than one class of heroes known as Féinn, or Fianna:—
1. Féinn of Albin: Albin was north of the firths of the Forth and
Clyde.
2. Féinn of Erin: The same class of heroes in Ireland.
3. Féinn of Breatan: Breatan was the southern districts of
Scotland, Dunbreatan, or Dumbarton, being the principal seat.
4. Féinn of Lochlin: These according to Tacitus, dwelt on the right
shore of the Suevic Sea, or the Baltic, and were called the Aestii.
There are some evidences which indicate that the last also were a
Celtic people, who spoke a Celtic language. The inhabitants of this
district now form part of the Kingdom of Prussia.
It is the Féinn of Albin and of Erin that the heroic lays generally
celebrate. Trenmor, the fifth from Baoisgne, from whom Finn and his
followers were called Clanna Baoisgne, was general of the Féinn;
Cumhal, his son, was the father of Finn. Oisein, Fergus, Raoidhne, or
Rayne, and Cairol were the sons of Finn. Oscar, the son of Oisein,
was his grandson; and Diarmad was his nephew, who eloped with his
queen, Gràine, daughter of Cormac Mac Art, King of Ireland, A.D. 227.
Caoilte, or Cailt, was a relative; and Goll, or Gaul, Conan, and
Garaidh were chiefs of the Clann Morna. But the heroes, one after
another, soon disappeared. The theme of several of the principal
ballads is the deaths of Oscar, Diarmad, Gaul, &c., and lastly, of
Ossian himself, who was left alone of all that noble band of heathen
heroes. In his last days the blind old bard came in contact with some
Christian Patrick, and dialogues of their discussions were for ages
repeated in Highland ballads. The following ballad, entitled the
“Sweetest Sound,” is a specimen of the less martial kind:—
Once when the kindly feast was spread
On Almhin’s golden slope,
The bards they sang of bliss and woe,
Despair, and love, and hope.
And heroes, as they drained the bowl,
With joy or sadness heard;
For those good harpers as they pleased
Men’s rising feelings stirred.
Lord of the feast there Fingal sat—
His fair hair touched with grey—
Near his first son, the warrior bard,
Strong as the noon of day.
The good MacLuy there conversed
With Oscar, young and bright,
And bald head Conan, rash and bold,
Who never shunned the fight.
And Diarmad there sat, beautiful,
And rolled his eye of blue,
When Fingal spoke, and all the board
His regal question knew.
“Come, tell me now, my chieftains good,
At Fingal’s feast who be,
What sounds are they that form for each
The sweetest harmony?
“What are the notes that charm you most,
And send your cares to flight—
What sound most charms your inmost core,
And thrills you with delight?”
The Conan—the rash Conan spoke—
Of all that company
The first to speak, the first to fight—
The last to think was he.
“The rattling dice I love the most,
When the play is running high;
And my coming chances strain my ear,
And almost blind my eye.”
“When heroes rush together,
When battle wakes around,
With clash, and clang, and crushing blows,
I hear my sweetest sound.”
So Oscar spoke.—Thus Diarmad said,
“When in my secret ear
Sweet woman whispers love for me,
My best loved sound I hear.”
“When first I catch my good hounds’ cry,
Where the proud stag stamps the ground,
And stands at bay,” MacLuy said,
“I hear my sweetest sound.”
Then Fingal said, “My music is
The banner’s fluttering fold,
When winds blow free, and the brave I see
Beneath its streaming gold.”
Alas! alas! my sweetest sound
Was once in Fingall’s hall;
To hear bards sing and heroes speak,
And now they’ve perished all!
The above has been translated by Pattison, and I use his rendering.
It gives us a good picture of a social gathering of the Finian
heroes. The bowl goes round, the harpers begin, and the warriors
deliver themselves successively on the objects which most moved
their hearts. Fingal sat there as lord of the feast, and directed
their intercourse. Conan, rash and thoughtless, but bold, loves
the rattling dice; Oscar loves the waking of battle, Diarmad the
whispering of woman’s love, MacLuy the hound in the chase. Fingal
himself delights in the banner fluttering over the brave in battle,
and Ossian, as usual, regretfully declares that his sweet sound was
once in the hall of Fingal, who now with his heroic followers have
all perished.
The titles of some of the other ballads are _Ossian’s Lament_,
_Cailte and the Giant_, &c. We have a special set in several
dialogues between Ossian and Patrick on the Féinn and their exploits,
and on the comparative merits of the Christian religion and the
stories of the Féinne. One of them is called _Oisein agus an
Cleireach_, or Ossian and the Cleric, in which we have a description
of a battle between the Finians and the Norse. The saint is very
agreeable in this poem, very unlike what he is in _Ossian’s Prayer_,
and concedes much to the bard, so much, indeed, that he is willing
to rear an altar, not to God, but to Finn! It is difficult to say
whether the ballad refers to a Manus, or Magnus, of the third or of
the twelfth century. Actually known historic facts favour the latter.
The length of the ballad varies; some of the versions are upwards of
two, some three hundred lines long.
I here translate the first few verses:—
_Ossian._—O Cleric, that singest the psalms!
Rude are thy thoughts I ween;
Hearest thou a little my songs
On the Féinn thou hast never seen?
_Cleric._—’Tis thine to delight in the songs
Of the Féinn whom thou didst see—
Sounds of psalms on my lips are sweeter
Than Finian rhymes to me.
_O._—If thou darest liken thy psalms
To the Finian arms blood-red,
Cleric! I swear I would sever
By blade from its trunk thy head.
_C._—Great Bard! I compare them not;
The lay of thy lips is sweet;
Let us raise an altar to Finn,
And render him praise complete.
_O._—Kind Cleric! if thou wert south-west
At the Fall of the soft-flowing stream
Where it hastens to join the sea,
The Féinn thou wouldest greatly esteem.
_C._—Blessed be the soul of that hero!
Who fought in his violent might—
Mac-Cuhail, the chief of the host,
Renowned in the field of fight.
_O._—One day we were hunting for red-deer,
And failing to meet with game,
Ten thousand barks were seen,
And towards the shore they came.
We all stood there on the plain;
Fins gathered on every side;
Round the son of the daughter of Teig,
Flocked full seven tribes in their pride.
Their galleys they rushed ashore,—
That host of the blades blood-red;
They were many the tents of cloth
That they reared above their head.
They hastened along from the woods,
And put on their armour bright,—
The weapons on shoulders great
As they moved from the shore for fight.
To his heroes Mac-Cuhail spoke,—
“These foes you have known before?
You know how this cruel race
Wakes warfare along our shore?”
It was then that Conan replied,—
“Who are these that came o’er the sea?
Knowest thou who is chief, Finn of battles?
The flower of Norse Kings is he!”
_F._—“Who will go from the ranks of the Féinn
To get word from the hostile host?
My favour he’ll have if he brings
Tidings sincere from the coast.”
Then Conan made answer again—
“Whom should’st thou send, O King,
But Fergus, thy prudent son;
Wise word, I ween, he’ll bring.”
“Let my curse take thee, bald-headed Conan,”
Said Fergus of gentlest face;
“I will go, but ’tis not at thy voice,
To get word from this Lochlin race.”
Young Fergus, all armed, went off
Those heroes to meet on the way;
He mildly inquired, “What people
Came over the sea that day?”
Magnus, all bloody and fierce,
Son of the red-shielded Bede,
Was Chief King of Lochlin—well fitted
Proud armies of men to lead.
“What moved thee, thou cruel man,
From the kingdom of Lochlin’s shore?
Unless thou hast come our heroes
To multiply more and more.”
“I vow by thy hand, mild Fergus,
Though brave be the Féinn of thy pride;
We’ll make no terms with Finn without Bran,
And his wife we will take from his side.”
“Ere Bran thou shalt get our heroes
Will try all thy strength in the strife,
And Finn thou must meet in fierce combat
Ere thou canst take captive his wife.”
Since the days of Eve and Helen women have been the cause of much
evil and strife; and many of the sore troubles of the Féinn arose
from the bewitching charms which their Gaelic maidens and mothers
possessed. The chief King of the Lochlins came to the shore of Albin
with “ten thousand barks”—the Northmen’s galleys must have been very
numerous in those times, our British navy of the present day would
be small in comparison—determined to possess himself of the dog and
wife of Finn, the Caledonian monarch. In these days this might seem
a small _casus belli_ indeed; but it must be remembered that the
dog Bran was a most remarkable one; the posthumous poetic honours
that have been paid to this canine worthy have far exceeded those
that Byron has given his favourite. As to the Caledonian Queen, the
elopement of Graine with Diarmad must not be forgotten; indeed, it
may help to explain the formidable descent of Magnus on the shores of
Albin. To put chivalrous heroes under _geasan_ was then a favourite
pastime among Gaelic ladies. And, being the weaker sex, it was
well that they should be invested with enchanting or supernatural
power that would somehow afford them protection in the midst of the
turbulent, ruthless forces by which they were surrounded in those
days. The battle and its results are described in thirty verses
more. The Norse invaders were worsted; Finn and Magnus met in single
combat; “stones and the heavy earth were wakening under the soles
of their feet.” At last the unfortunate Magnus was overcome. Though
unbecoming a king, he was bound hands and feet; but ultimately he
receives kind and chivalrous treatment from Finn; and he repents of
his conduct towards him, to whose mercy he said he would trust when
he heard the bald Conan—who was “ever drinking”—express a wish to be
allowed to sever his head from his body. The author—the ballad is
put into the mouth of Ossian of course—concludes with the declaration
that he and his father and Gaul performed the greatest feats that
day, though they are now “without strength,” compelled to listen to
psalm-singing clerics.
A particularly interesting poem—one of the many dialogues between
Ossian and Patrick—is called _Ossian’s Prayer_. I translate a few
verses of the beginning of Macnicol’s version, which will give an
idea of the piece. It is about 150 lines in length. The author makes
Ossian a thorough heathen, who prefers the glories of Finian deeds
and fame to all the Christian prospects that Patrick can unfold.
_Ossian._
O Patrick of the reading
To me a story tell;
Say do the Féinn of Erin
In Heaven high now dwell?
_Patrick._
Let me tell thee truly, Ossian,
To whom fame is given;
That thy father, Gaul and Oscar,
Can not be in Heaven.
_O._ Sorry be the tale, O Patrick,
Which thou art telling me;
If Erin’s Féinn are not in Heaven
Why should I Christian be?
_P._ Grievous be thy story, Ossian,
Fierce thy words have grown;
What are all the Féinn of Erin
To one hour with God alone?
_O._ I would rather see one battle
Waged by valiant Finn
Than to see that Lord of heaven
And thou cleric chaunting sin.
_P._ Although the humming fly be small
A mote beneath its wing
Can not be hid unknown to Him
Who reigns as mighty King.
_O._ Think you that He was like Mac Cùil,
The brave and mighty Finn?
Into whose presence all on earth
Could freely enter in?
_P._ Ossian, long art thou in slumber;
The psalms make thy delight,
Since thou hast lost thy strength and fame,
And ne’er again can fight.
_O._ If I have lost my strength and fame,
And nought of Finian worth remains,
Thy cleric rank I slightly prize
With all its gloomy strains.
Poor Ossian will not receive the new doctrine of the saint; and
his arguments with Patrick are not of a very edifying character.
The saint, in order to convey to the bard some conception of the
Creator’s omniscience, says that it would not be possible for the
smallest midge to enter heaven without His knowledge. But the bard
exclaims in reply, that that was very different from Finn, son of
Cuhal, in his hospitable hall. Thousands might enter, partake of
his cheer, and depart without notice. At last Patrick gets somewhat
impatient with his rather unsatisfactory pupil, and requests Ossian
to give up his elegiac strains over the departed glory of the Clan
Baoisgne, and relate the particulars of some hunt, battle, or
adventure. The old warrior-bard is nothing loth, and is consoled
for the moment by the recital of the deeds of his perished kinsmen,
the Fianna. As usual he ends with a wild burst of sorrow for having
survived them all.
“_Ossian and Evir-Alin_” has been a great favourite. In this ballad
we have the great poet’s wooing of the beautiful Evir described.
He sets out with twelve youths to ask the daughter of Branno “of
the silver beakers.” Hitherto the maiden refused the sons of kings
and nobles, and even the great gloomy chieftain Cormac, whom she
particularly disliked. After necessary preliminary questions the
ballad (in Pattison’s translation) proceeds:—
“High is the place, O Ossian!
Do men’s tongues to thee assign;
If I twelve daughters had,” said Branno,
“The best of them should be thine.”
Then they opened the choice and spare chamber,
That was shielded with down from the cold;
The posts of its door were of polished bone,
And the leaves were of good yellow gold.
And as soon as the bright Evir-Alin
Saw Ossian, great Fingal’s son,
The love of her maiden youth
By me, proud hero, was won.
Then we left the dark lake of Lego
And homeward took our way;
But Cormac, fierce Cormac, waylaid us,
Intent on the furious fray.
Eight heroes had followed their Chieftain,
And their men behind them stood;
The hillside flamed with their armour,
Their spears were raised like a wood.
Eight came with Ossian the lofty,
All equal to shield him in war.
Then the heroes met face to face, and the strife was fierce and long.
Ossian and Cormac at last met in personal combat with the following
result:
Five times he dashed on my buckler;
Five times I hurled him back,
Ere I struck him down on the greensward,—
Cormac in conflict not slack.
I swept the head from his shoulders,
And held it up in my hand;
His troops they fled, and we came with joy
To Fingal’s mountain land.
Oscar, the peerless son of Ossian, and the favourite grandson
of Finn, is one of the bravest and finest characters among the
Fingalians, and his early death greatly affected the hilarity of that
happy band of heroes and hunters. The following verses from Gillies’s
collection record, instructions and precepts which were inculcated by
his royal grandfather; (my own translation):—
“Son of my son,” said the King,
Oscar, thou young prince of might,
When watching thy glittering blade, ’twas my pride
To see thee triumph in the fight.
Cleave thou fast to thy fathers’ fame,
And keep unsoiled their honoured name.
When Treunmor the prosperous lived,
And Trahal, great warriors’ sire,
They were victors on every field,
Winning fame in the conflict dire.
Their names shall flourish in story and verse,
Which the bards hereafter shall rehearse.
Oh! Oscar, spare not the armed hero,
But the needy and feeble sustain;
Like the spring-tide stream rushing in winter
Attacking the foes of the Féinn;
But gentle as summer’s breathing wind—
To all that seek thy succour kind.
Such was the victor Treunmor,
And after him Trahal the brave;
And Finn, too, befriended the weak
From the power of the tyrant to save.
I would meet him with welcome hand,
And shield him beneath my brand.
These are indeed noble sentiments and precepts from a semi-barbarian
monarch such as Finn is supposed to have been. It may fairly be
questioned whether this is not one of the more recent productions.
One line, “’na aobhar shininn mo lamh”—_in his cause_, &c., reminds
us of Christian conceptions. Such a word as _aobhar_, cause, does
not, so far as I am aware, occur in the purely heathen poems.
The ballads on the deaths of Diarmad and of Oscar are among the
best, and have been great favourites with popular reciters. The _Lay
of Diarmad_ seems to have given names to many places in Scotland
and Ireland. The names of the heroes of the Féinn in general we
find embedded in the nomenclature of the soil, especially the name
of Finn, their great leader. This is evidence of the early era in
which they lived, as well as of the affection with which the people
cherished their memories. The death of Oscar is a very long ballad.
What follows is a free rendering of upwards of the first half:—
The feast was over and the morn
Shed round its brilliant blaze;
The halls of Cairber gleamed afar
Beneath the sheen of rays;
The light within lit up the face
Of heroes stout and tall,
Who started early to their feet
To leave that ancient hall.
Brown Oscar from the Albin shore
Was there among the rest—
Of beauteous form and boldest eye
He stood in might confessed.
“But ere we part,” red Cairber said,
In accents rude and strange,
“Brown Oscar, come from Albin land,
Our spear-shafts we exchange.”
“Why so exchange,” young Oscar said,
With calmly moving lips,
“Thou red-haired Cairber, why exchange,
Chief of the port of ships?”
“Not much for me—not much for me,”
The frowning Cairber said,
“Though every warrior in your isles
To me a tribute paid.”
“Whatever, Cairber, thou shouldst ask
Of gold or precious thing,
All that without disgrace might be
Asked by a manly King,
“Were thine at once; but this exchange
Of shafts without the heads,
With ruthless scorn tears all the garb
Of kindness into shreds.
“Hadst thou not known, thou coward prince,
That Fingal is not by,
Thou hadst not dared to speak such words,—
Less loud would be thy cry.”
“Though Fingal and thy father both
Were here, with sword in hand,
I would have asked, and I should have,
All that I now demand.”
“If Fingal and my father both
Were here, with sword in hand,
Thou wouldst not, if they chose, retain
One foot of Erin land.”
“I make a vow,” quoth Cairber Red,
“Away to drive the deer
From Albin’s sea-girt hills, and bring
The spoil to Erin here.”
“I make a vow—a vow ’gainst that,”
Quoth Oscar. “With this spear
I’ll drive thee back from Albin’s hills
To Erin mount and mere.”
Then Cairber roared, “I make a vow;
This spear of might possessed,
Ere that, fair Oscar, thou shalt see,
I’ll plant beneath thy breast.”
“A vow! a vow!” cried Oscar fierce,
“Ere that shall happen me,
Red Cairber! in thy forehead proud
This spear shall planted be!”
Cold fear and rage alternately
The other warriors shook,
When they had heard the dreadful vows
Both heroes undertook.
They saw fierce gloom was gathering
On Cairber’s knitted brows;
They marked how like the breaking storm
The wrath of Oscar rose.
’Twas then a bard upon his harp,
Gentle as evening’s breath,
Poured forth the numbers that presage
A mighty hero’s death.
Then Oscar seized with rage his arms,
And cast a glance around,
To see where stood his Albin chiefs—
The few that there were found.
Great was the host of Cairber there;
But Oscar’s friends were few,
Still they were brave and undismayed,
And well their arms they knew.
The strife began. We heard the shouts
That came to us afar,
And all the din of deadly clash
From the dread scene of war.
Then up we rose and hastened
To join the widespread fight;
Each joined the battle as he reached
With furious delight.
The bitter struggle lasted long,
And many fell in death;
Our smaller force still smaller grew
On that dark fatal heath.
Though Oscar’s sword—his friends oppressed—
Was failing in its might,
We saw him struggling fiercely on
Amid the woful fight,
Like a hawk darting on the birds
That scattered in their flight!
His course was like the rushing roll
Of surges with their roar
When winter storms have poured their force
Upon the suffering shore.
The Sunbeam of the battle rose—
Finn’s standard we did know—
Then slowly backward, foot by foot,
Retired the treacherous foe—
Scattered like sheep, and fall’n like leaves:
The wild pursuit rolled on;
And on that field of dread were we
In silence left alone.
And there lay Oscar bleeding much
Upon the mournful plain;
And every living Finian there
Had friends among the slain.
The bard Fergus is asked to relate to Finn how the Féinn fared in the
conflict. In this part I follow a literal rendering of MacLauchlan’s,
modified by Morley:—
“Say, Bard of the Féinn of Erin,
How fared the fight, Fergus, my son,
In Gabhra’s fierce battle-day? say!”
“The fight fared not well, son of Cumhal,
From Gabhra come tidings of ruin,
For Oscar the fearless is slain.
The sons of Cailte were seven;
They fell with the Féinn of Alvin.
The youth of the Féinn are fallen,
Are dead in their battle array.
And dead on the field lies MacLuy,
With six of the sons of thy sire.
The young men of Alvin are fallen;
The Féinn of Britain are fallen.
And dead is the king’s son of Lochlin,
Who hastened to war for our right—
The king’s son with a heart ever open,
And arm ever strong in the fight.”
“Now, O Bard—my son’s son, my desire,
My Oscar of him, Fergus, tell
How he hewed at the helms ere he fell.”
“Hard were it Finn to number,
Heavy for me were the labour,
To tell of the host that has fallen,
Slain by the valour of Oscar.
No rush of the waterfall swifter,
No pounce of the hawk on his prey,
No whirlpool more sweeping and deadly,
Than Oscar in battle that day.
And you who last saw him could see
How he throbbed in the roar of the fray,
As a storm-worried leaf on the tree
Whose fellows lie fallen below,
As an aspen will quiver and sway
While the axe deals it blow upon blow.
When he saw that MacArt, King of Erin,
Still lived in the midst of the roar,
Oscar gathered his force to roll on him
As waves roll to break on the shore.
The king’s son, Cairber, saw the danger,
He shook his great hungering spear,
Grief of Griefs! drove its point through our Oscar,
Who braved the death-stroke without fear.
Rushing still on MacArt, King of Erin,
His weight on his weapon he threw,
And smote at MacArt, and again smote
Cairber, whom that second blow slew.
So died Oscar, a king in his glory.
I, Fergus the bard, grieve my way
Through all lands, saying how went the story
Of Gabhra’s fierce battle-day.” “Say!”
I take the following lines of the close of this grand ballad from
Pattison’s blank-verse translation. Finn was beside his grandson
before he breathed his last. Oscar heard the great king’s wailing
cry, and looking round on all he sighed and said, “Farewell! I shall
return no more.” Finn, who never wept before in sight of man but
once, when Bran died, strode a pace away and wept. But—
Then Finn came back; and, standing near my side,
He bent again o’er Oscar, while he said:—
“The mournful howlings of the dogs distress me—
The groanings of the heroes old and grey—
The people’s wailing and their blank despair.
O son! that I had fallen in thy stead,
In the dire battle with thy treacherous foes,
And thou hadst loved to be a chief and leader,
And bring the Finians east and west with joy!
O Oscar! thou wilt never rise again!
O’er thee, my old heart, like an elk, is leaping!
Thou wilt return, thou wilt return no more!
’Twas rightly said, ‘I shall return no more!’”
These are some of the scenes of the great battle of _Gabhra_, the
Temora of Macpherson, fought about the year 284 A.D.
Strong-minded ladies in these days clamour for women’s rights; but
if men are wise they will, before conceding these, consider what
use was made by women in the early days of Finian chivalry of the
rights which they then enjoyed. In these Islands in ancient days the
gentler sex appears to have possessed some extraordinary powers and
to have exercised terrible privileges which were sometimes abused.
If a lady put _Geasan_ (obligation) on a knight or chief there was
no escape from the execution of her wishes. He had to obey her,
however unreasonable the request might be. Thus when the great Finn
himself was in the earlier stages of his barbarian youth, before
he became the celebrated General of the Féinn, and when he had no
better raiment than the skins of the animals he slew for food, he
came across one fine morning a grand assemblage of ladies resting
on one bank of a great chasm, and a party of gentlemen on the
other. One of the former, a proud Princess, insisted in her lover’s
case that he should clear that chasm before she gave him her hand;
but the poor fellow kept clapping his arms round his body till he
could screw his courage to the springing point. Finn understood the
conditions, and observed the unfortunate fellow’s predicament, and
modestly asked if she would take himself for her wedded lord on his
accomplishing the task. She replied that he looked a personable
enough man, though marvellously ill clad, and that if he succeeded
she would give him the privilege. Finn did succeed, but she laid
_Geasa_ on him that he should accomplish the same task every year.
This was not the only one that laid _Geasa_ on Finn. Another fair
tyrant insisted on his leaping over a dallan as high as his chin,
with a similar pillar-stone of the same dimensions borne upward on
the palm of his hand. In after days he acknowledged in confidence to
his father-in-law, that this was the most difficult feat he had ever
performed, and few indeed would be disposed to doubt his assertion.
On one occasion Finn nearly failed in one of these exploits; the
cause of his failure was thought to be his meeting a red-haired
woman on the road, and that it was a Friday morning. It is evident
that these Gaelic princesses were a little too exacting, and that it
would not do for every one to undertake satisfying their somewhat
unreasonable demands. That the laying on of _Geasa_ was attended at
times with much discomfort and danger is illustrated in the history
of the beautiful but unfortunate Diarmad MacDoon.
Diarmad appears to have possessed one fatal gift—the
_ball-seirce_—that of kindling love in all the women he met. It
is said that there was a spot of beauty on his forehead which
captivated all the ladies that saw him. He was the nephew of the
king; and full proud was Finn at times of the deeds of valour which
his sister’s son had achieved. He was generally described as the
young, the beautiful, the brown-haired Diarmad. He was as brave and
gallant as he was handsome, and a universal favourite among the
Féinn. But he was soon to come under the influence of the inexorable
_Geasa_ which decided “the woful fate of MacDoon.” At the wedding
feast of Finn and Gràine, the daughter of King Cormac, the bride
lays _Geasa_ on Diarmad to carry her off; and though this was highly
repugnant to his loyal feeling, and in direct contravention to his
military oath, as well as against his personal interests, he was
obliged to comply. With what result the well known ballad, called
“The Lay of Diarmad,” describes. There are many versions of this
ballad; the one translated here is that found in “The Book of the
Dean of Lismore.” It is here entitled “Bàs Dhiarmaid;” or, “_The
Death of Diarmad_. “A houdir so Allane M’Royree,” or “_The Author of
this is Allan M’Rorie_,” is prefixed. MacRorie was probably a mere
reciter. The ballad begins thus:—
Here is Glen-Shee of the elk and deer,
Where we hear the sweetest sounds!
Where oft on its strath the Féinn
Have hunted with eager hounds.
On the fair brows of blue Ben-Gulbin
The sun its bright rays has shed,
Where Finn oft pursued the chase,
And the streamlets ran down blood-red.
Come, harken a little; I sing
Of one of these heroes great—
Of Ben-Gulbin and generous Finn;
Of Diarmad’s sorrowful fate.
In other versions the name of Gràine and her elopement with Diarmad
are introduced here, as well as some sharp colloquy between the
latter and Finn.
Mournful was Finn on that day
That the fair ruddy Diarmad died,
When he followed the terrible boar
That yet had all spears defied.
’Twas left to bright-armed MacDoon
To meet with the dreaded boar;
It was Fingal’s deceitful plan
That the others should flee it before.
Few were beloved like him—
MacDoon of that lovely band!
By beautiful women bewailed
As he lay with his spear in hand.
Bravely he roused the boar
On the hillside where it had lain—
The old boar of the sweet Glen-Shee,
The fiercest that ever was slain.
There Finn of the ruddiest hue sat down
’Neath Ben-Gulbin’s grassy side;
Whence issued the boar for the woodland;
Oh, the ill that did there betide!
’Twas the clank of the Finian arms,
And the echoing shout of the men,
That wakened the slumbering monster:
Before them he rushed down the glen.
He attempted to distance the heroes—
The old boar of the bristling hide—
Which the spear and the shaft of the quiver
Of the hunter so often defied.
In another version Finn is here represented as saying to Diarmad—“Son
of Doon, dost thou wish to win honour?”—thus the king spoke
wrathfully; and added—“Slay that boar by thyself, thou gay victor,
which the heroes so long has defied.” Diarmad attempts the task.
Then MacDoon of the keen-edged arms
Comes up with the monster fierce,
With his strong poisoned spear he tried
The side of the boar to pierce.
But his spear broke—shivered in three—
On that tough and bristling hide;
With his warm and blood-red hand
That spear he vainly plied.
Then from its sheath he drew
His blade of renown—thin-leaved;
And with it MacDoon slew the monster
While no hurt he himself received.
Finn is greatly disappointed at Diarmad’s success. He evidently
calculated that in his struggle with the boar alone his nephew would
receive his death-hurt. This was not the case, and—
Then Finn of the Féinn grew sad,
And sat on the side of the hill;
It grieved him that brave MacDoon
Escaped without wound or ill.
From the first Finn cannot be said to have adopted a very magnanimous
plan for punishing his nephew; but jealousy being cruel as the grave,
he has formed now a cruel expedient for compassing his death:—
After long silence he spoke—
These evil words spoke he—
“Diarmad, measure the boar from the snout,
Tell how many feet long he be.”
Finn he had never refused—
Alas! him no more we meet—
He measures the back of the boar—
MacDoon of the lightsome feet.
In the other versions it is told that Diarmad’s feet were bare, and
that the length of the boar was sixteen feet. Finn denied that he was
so long, and insisted on a second measuring.
“Diarmad, measure with care again,
The boar _against the hair_;”
Mournful it was to see
That deed of the hero fair.
He went on that errand sad,
And measured the boar again;
But he trod on a poisonous bristle,
And he felt in his heel a pain.
The hero fell on the field—
MacDoon that had no deceit;
He lay there beside the boar:—
Now, there is the tale complete.
At this part of the relation another version adds that Diarmad, in
asking several times for a drink at the hand of Finn, rehearsed how
he served him “eastward and westward.” But the king replied that the
ill he had done him in one hour outweighed all the good exploits he
could tell. “Thou shalt yet get no drink from my shell.” Diarmad
then addresses a melancholy farewell to Ben-Gulbin, the hill of his
love, and to courtship. He keenly feels his sorrowful plight as
his life-blood is ebbing away; and true to his character his last
thoughts are, as he dies, of “the maids of the Féinn.” Finn then
relents, and pronounces a regretful eulogy over the dead body of
Diarmad. In the Dean’s version it is the bard himself that pronounces
the praise of the dead, in verses which describe his person and
character:—
Pierced to the heart he lies,
MacDoon in the battle brave,
The suffering son of the Féinn;
On this hillock I see his grave.
The blue-eyed hawk of Essroy,
The victor in every fight,
Pierced by the poisonous bristle—
There he lies on the height!
By the jealous design of Finn
Fell the bright-souled MacDoon
Redder his lips than the cherry,
Whiter his breast than the sun.
His tresses flowed golden yellow;
Long eyelash ’neath brow so fair;
Blue and gray in his eye;
Pretty and curled his hair.
Gentle and sweet in his speech
Was that champion clothed with might;
With elegant hands and a faultless form,
And a skin of purest white.
Fair winner of women’s love,
MacDoon of the witching eyes;
In courtship he’ll ne’er engage,
For there ’neath the sod he lies.
Nor with steed nor with hunter shall Diarmad
Go forth for the chase again;
The loved son of beauty and valour
Is left there, alas, in the Glen!
The _Death of Diarmad_, like the _Death of Oscar_, has been a
great favourite with reciters. But believers in the authenticity
of Macpherson’s “Ossian” regard the former as inferior poetry.
The author of the version translated above, Allan Macrorie, lived
probably in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Glen-Shee,
mentioned in the poem, is a well-known locality in Perthshire, and
Ben-Gulbin is a hill in Glen-Shee. But this is not the only place
that is said to be the scene of the slaying of the boar and of
Diarmad’s death. The district around West Loch Tarbert, Kintyre,
also affords topographical indications of the famous hunt having
taken place there. Nor can the claims of our friends, the Irish, be
forgotten; they also have their _Sliabh Gulbin_.
When some of the ballads are described as _Ossianic_ it is not to
be understood that they were composed at the time that Ossian is
supposed to have lived, but that the theme is Ossianic. Of this class
is a eulogistic poem on Finn in the Book of the Dean of Lismore.
Although written nearly 400 years ago it has yet a modern ring about
it as compared with many of the other ballads. The earlier versions
of these Ossianic ballads were composed probably in Pagan times,
but as the Pagan reciters of them were dying off, the minstrels
nominally Christian would take their place, and adapt the old
ballads to the new state of things. The elder productions would be
undergoing continual transformations in the hands of every new class
of reciters. While the theme is the same, sometimes the versions are
so different that no single verse in the one can be found in the
other. It is in this manner that their chronology becomes a puzzle.
Anachronisms abound. Ossian, who flourished upwards of two hundred
years before, is introduced by the Christian and post-Ossianic
reciters as holding converse with St. Patrick.
“Actor hujus Ossane M’Finn;” or _The Author of this is Ossian, the
Son of Finn_, is prefixed to the poem of which I am now to give a
translation. In the course of the ages, Ossian has had to accept
the paternity of many productions; but people took this as a matter
of course until the appearance of the celebrated works of James
Macpherson 250 years after Sir James Macgregor prefixed Ossian’s
name to this poem. The poetry of this piece is not of a very high
order, but is interesting as giving the popular conceptions regarding
Finn 400 years ago. It was probably composed by an ecclesiastic, the
number of which class at the time in the Highlands was considerable.
It begins thus:—
For twice three days and one great Finn I did not see;
And ne’er before a week such sorrow brought to me.
The son of Teigi’s daughter, king of deeds and might,
My teacher and my strength, my guidance and my light.
Both poet he and chief, a king my love commands;
Finn, monarch of the Féinn, the lord of many lands.
Leviathan at sea, a lion on the shore,
Keen as the air-borne hawk, and wise in art and lore;
He’s courteous and just, a ruler firm and true,
Full polished in his ways, deceit he never knew.
A lofty chief is he in song and in the fight,
Resistless to the foe, to friends their fame and might.
His skin is like the chalk, his cheek is like the rose,
His eye transparent blue, his hair like gold down flows.
The trust of all his men, with every charm of mind,
Prepared for worthy deed, to women meek and kind.
Great champion was he, loved son of field and flood,
The brightness of the blades, the tree above each wood.
Full generous was the king—good and rich wine he poured
From the large green-hued bottle on the festive board.
We never read in the older ballads of such non-primitive things as
bottles. _Am botul mor glas_, which the liberal Finn would place on
the table, must have belonged to the fifteenth century. The good
qualities of Finn are not yet exhausted.
Of noble mind and form and of a winning mien—
His people’s Head—he walked with step so firm, serene.
In Banva of the hills the fame of war he sought;
There battles twice fifteen the royal Fingal fought.
Assistance for the weak MacCuhail ne’er withheld,
In heart and on his lips no falsehood ever dwelled.
Finn never grudged his aid, his people ne’er oppressed—
The King above all kings, the sun above the rest.
In Erin of the saints before his mighty hand
The monsters left the lakes, the serpents fled the land.
I never could declare, though mine were endless days,
I ne’er could tell one-third of his good deeds and praise.
It is rather curious to find the stereotyped “Erin of the Saints,”
in a composition of the fifteenth century. While suggesting the
ecclesiastical character of the author, it does not prove that he was
a very zealous “saint” himself; for we find that he quietly ascribes
to Finn exploits which the Irish ecclesiastical world has all along
attributed to St. Patrick. “He cleared the lakes of monsters and the
land of serpents.” As usual, Ossian himself is described as _an deigh
na Féinne_:—
But sad am I, and Finn of the brave Fianna dead;
With him, the princely chief, my pride and joy have fled.
Well may my tears outpour, for no delight survives
The princes and the chiefs and all their royal wives.
I lean on death’s cold arm—I’m like the shaking reed;
I’m like an empty nut—I seem a reinless steed.
A feeble kern am I, with sorrow sore within—
Ev’n Ossian I, the bard, the son of noble Finn.
In his forlorn state the bard now remembers the house and court of
Finn, his royal father:—
Since Finn now reigns no more, all that I owned is gone—
His house had seven sides—the house of Cuhal’s son;
And seven score of shields did hang on every side;
There fifty robes of wool had been the king beside—
Fifty warriors filled the robes, who were the royal pride.
There were ten bowls full bright for drink, where Finn did dine,
Ten horns of gold, and ten blue flagons of good wine.
How goodly was that house! how grand the home of Finn!
Mean grudging hands, false lustful hearts, there ne’er had been.
Each man had equal rights among the mighty Féinn;
To emulate the King his followers were fain.
He was our chief renowned so far, so nobly good,
Who never to the meanest man was proud or rude.
None empty left his house, good, generous was he;
No gifts were e’er like his—gifts scattered wide and free.
In _Cnoc-an-air_, an Irish poem, there is a description of the
treasures of the Finians, which were said to have been hidden under
Loch _Lene_ (Killarney), that reminds us of the robes of wool in
Finn’s house. The Irishman and the Highlander got the conception
probably from the same source:—
This is the lake—the fiercest to be seen,
That is under the sun truly;
Many treasures belonging to the Fians,
Are in it doubtless secured this night.
There are in the northern side
Fifty blue-green coats of mail;
There are in the western side
Fifty helmets in one pile!
And hundreds of swords, “broad” and “glittering,” and shields, and
gold and raiment in plenty. The Scottish author, perhaps because his
ideas were cast in a more ancient mould, was somewhat more modest in
his description of Finian wealth.
THE NORSE BALLADS.
The Norse ballads constitute another class. The wars between the
Féinn and the Lochlins are the theme of many of the ancient Ossianic
ballads. It is impossible to say exactly to what age they severally
belong. The Vikings, or sea-rovers, began their visits to the Western
Isles and Ireland as early as the first century, and continued
these visits for more than a thousand years. The name Viking has no
connection with King being derived from vic, a bay—vicing, baysman—as
Mr Robertson has clearly shown. The erroneous translation _sea-kings_
has been used by several writers. It is the same word as the Gaelic
_Uig_, the name of places on the west sides of Skye and Lewis. In
English it assumes the form of _Wick_—Inner_wick_. It also means a
bay or creek in Gaelic, as found in the words of a poet, “_uigean
saile_.” In 794 the Western Isles were ravaged and Iona destroyed.
The monastery of Iona was burnt in 802 by these Vikings; and in 806
the family of Iona, sixty-eight in number, were slain. The abbot of
Iona then retired to Kells, Ireland, and Iona ceased to be the centre
of Gaelic learning, while all relics of Gaelic culture were removed
to Dunkeld and other places.
The Gaelic people of Albin and Erin call the Danes and the Vikings
Lochlins. The Vikings were originally half Celtic, if not altogether
a Celtic race. Indeed the substrata of many of the Germanic tribes
were originally Celtic.
The following ballad probably relates to the wars of the eleventh
century:—
THE FINIAN BANNERS.
The Norland King stood on the height
And scanned the rolling sea;
He proudly eyed his gallant ships
That rode triumphantly.
And then he looked where lay his camp,
Along the rocky coast,
And where were seen the heroes brave
Of Lochlin’s famous host.
Then to the land he turn’d, and there
A fierce-like hero came;
Above him was a flag of gold,
That waved and shone like flame.
“Sweet Bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,
“What banner comes in sight?
The valiant chief that leads the host,
Who is that man of might?”
“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon
His is that banner bright;
When forth the Féinn to battle go,
He’s foremost in the fight.”
“Sweet bard, another comes; I see
A blood-red banner toss’d
Above a mighty hero’s head
Who waves it o’er a host?”
“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs
To good and valiant Rayne;
Beneath it feet are bathed in blood
And heads are cleft in twain.”
“Sweet bard, what banner now I see
A leader fierce and strong
Behind it moves with heroes brave
Who furious round him throng?”
“That is the banner of Great Gaul:
That silken shred of gold,
Is first to march and last to turn,
And flight ne’er stained its fold.”
“Sweet bard, another now I see,
High o’er a host it glows,
Tell whether it has ever shone
O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”
“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,
“It proudly peers in sight;
It won its fame on many a field
In fierce and bloody fight.”
“Sweet bard, another still I see;
A host it flutters o’er;
Like bird above the roaring surge
That laves the storm-swept shore.”
“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,
“Young Oscar’s banner, see:
Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs
The proudest name has he.”
The banner of great Finn we raised;
The Sunbeam gleaming far,
With golden spangles of renown
From many a field of war.
The flag was fastened to its staff
With nine strong chains of gold.
With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;
Before it foes oft rolled.
“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Finn;
“And show your deeds of might
To Lochlin as you did before
In many a gory fight.”
Like torrents from the mountain heights
That roll resistless on;
So down upon the foe we rushed,
And brilliant victory won.
The above set of verses occur in several ballads with considerable
variations. It was a sort of national war-song among the Finian
leaders in their frequent conflicts with the Norwegians. In the
translation several verses are taken from different sources.
Heroic daring and deeds are ascribed by the bard to each of the
warrior-chieftains. Brown Diarmad MacDoon is foremost in the fight;
the valiant Rayne leaves cloven heads behind him; great Gaul is ever
the first to fight, and never turns his back on the foe; Cailte has
won his fame on many a field; Oscar bears the proudest name of all
the chiefs; and, finally, Finn himself comes before us, his banner,
Deo-greine (Sunbeam), gleaming with its spangles of fame over that
heroic band, whom he now invites to sweep down on the Lochlins.
The specimens now given of the ancient ballad poetry of the Gael will
be sufficient to indicate its character and style. It only remains
now to mention in connection with the heroic ballads the names of a
few more of the better known ones.
There is a very fine ballad on the death of _Dearg_ or Dargo.
Others are the Expeditions or _Imeachd_ of Finn, of _Naoinear_,
or Nine, &c., and the Great Distress of the Fingalians—_Teantachd
Mor na Féinne_. A Norwegian _Hag_ is the theme of a good deal of
composition, while the _Invasion of Magnus_ or _Manus_ is a ballad of
considerable length and interest. This was probably the celebrated
Magnus Barefoot, so well-known in the Hebrides, and throughout the
north-west. From the Orkneys to the Isle of Man and Ireland, along
the west coast of Scotland, the Lochlins traversed the seas for
centuries and held rule; and well did they and the Highlanders know
one another.
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