BARDS OF THE ANGLO-GAELIC ERA.
“Here one thing springs not till another die,
Only the matter lives immortally.”
—SYLVESTER’S DU BARTAS.
The authors whose works come under notice in this chapter may be
described as belonging to the Anglo-Gaelic era of Highland history,
when the influence of English thought, movements, and manners began
to penetrate into the most sequestered corners of the north west.
This influence came in through the two channels of the religious
literature of English Puritanism and Imperial politics. When the
Highlander came under the spell of the former in such works as those
of Bunyan, he no longer cherished alien feelings towards Bunyan’s
fellow-countrymen, many of whose struggles and sufferings were akin
to his own; nor did he want any longer to nurse a spirit of mere
Gaelic separatism that might conflict with the national purposes
of the latter. We, therefore, find traces of English reading and
culture in all the Gaelic poetry that has been produced since the
commencement of this era. Even very early last century there is
evidence that English thought began to exercise some influence on the
compositions of the Highland poets. As already pointed out, English
literature contributed not a little to the development of Dugald
Buchanan’s sacred muse. The chief Gaelic poets of this period were
fairly well educated, and knew the English language well. Several
of them were clergymen who had gone through a course of training in
Scottish Universities.
There are three elements of sadness that enter into the poetry of
this period—first, the sorrowful cry of baffled Jacobitism; second,
the vain cry of enthusiasts over the disappearance of Gaelic habits
and customs; and again, the intense wail of a fatherland spirit over
the depopulation of the Highlands. Along with greater devotion to
the cultivation of erotic poetry these are the themes of the bards
of this era, who feel painfully conscious that the ground of this
transition period is fast slipping away from under their feet.
ROBERT MACKAY.
This famous Sutherlandshire Bard, better known as Rob Donn, or Robert
the Brown, was born in the parish of Durness in 1714. He is said to
have composed verses between his third and sixth years, like some
other poets, early lisping in numbers. For a long time before his
death he filled the humble office of principal herd for his chief’s
(Lord Reay) cattle. He died in 1778, when he was sixty-four years of
age. Although most of his pieces cannot be said to be religious—some
much the reverse—we are told that he was an elder in the national
Presbyterian Church. His death was deeply regretted over the whole
country, where his memory is still most warmly cherished.
His poetical works were collected and edited early in this century
by the late Rev. Mackintosh Mackay, LL.D., who wrote a memoir of
the bard. Sir Walter Scott directed Lockhart to review Mackay’s
Poems eulogistically in _The Quarterly Review_, giving him a place
among the real sons of the muse. The monument to his memory has
inscriptions on it in Gaelic, Greek, and Latin, so that Rob Donn has
had fair justice done him.
Mackay wants imagination and the overpowering feeling we find in two
or three others of the Gaelic bards. But although he does not stand
among the very first of the Gaelic poets, he is yet a powerful,
refreshing, and influential singer, with a good deal of wit, point,
and satire. He is a shrewd and sensible man, with a Wordsworthian
tendency to exalt the commonplace into fit themes for poetry.
His _Elegy on Ewen_ is one of his best-known pieces. The morning he
composed it he heard of the death of Pelham, then Prime Minister to
King George the Second; and he contrasted his death with the dying
state of poor Ewen, in whose house he had stayed the previous night.
Ewen could not converse with the bard, who, after kindling the fire
in the morning for the dying man, composed the poem from which the
following stanzas translated by a clansman of the bard—Mr Angus M.
Mackay—are taken:—
’Tis thus thou dost instruct us, Death,
That we should turn ere yet too late!
The longest lives are but a breath,
Thou callest hence both small and great!
But these thy latest actions ought
To ope at once our slumberous eyes—
Thy sudden leap from Britain’s court
To this low nook where Ewen lies!
Long time, O Ewen, yes, long time,
Has dread disease foretold thy fate;
Now nigh Death’s door dost thou repine,
With no one to compassionate!
If unimproved the time has passed,
And many a crime been done therein,
Yet hope remains while life shall last,
O yet repent thee of thy sin!
If we believe thy word, O Death,
These lessons we shall ne’er let slip!
There is no mortal drawing breath
Too vile for thy companionship!
The solemn truth when will we learn,—
Death’s vision is both high and low—
From Ewen’s sores thou didst not turn,
Great Pelham felt thy mortal blow.
Thou makest grief in court and hall
When at thy touch earth’s glories fade,
The ragged poor man thou dost call
For whom no mourning will be made!
All men, O Death, thy face shall see,
And all be forced with thee to go!
Watchful and ready we should be
’Twixt Pelham high and Ewen low!
And all around thy victims fall,
Unseen thy sudden bullets fly;
The noises round us loudly call
That we should be prepared to die.
Thou that art lowest in the throng,
Hast thou not heard that Ewen dies?
And thou whom riches render strong,
That low in death great Pelham lies?
Friend of my heart, and shall not this
Make all our thoughts to heaven tend?
Society a candle is
That flames away at either end!
Where shall we find a humbler man
In Scotland than thy father’s son?
And in all Britain greater than
This Pelham, save the king, was none!
Long time, O Ewen, &c.
This old beggar did not yet lose his power of hearing, and feeling
insulted by the manner in which his name was introduced into the
moralising verses he snatched up a club towards the close of the
song, and creeping behind the bard aimed a blow at him with all the
strength of his withered arm. Rob barely escaped, and tried to soothe
the enraged old man.
Mackay shows great detestation of greed in his poems. One is a
dialogue between the world and the greedy man. The wants of the bard
in his humble station were few and easily supplied, so he could
contemplate with sorrow the growing spirit of selfishness that began
to creep in along with advancing civilisation and change of habit.
This spirit he rebukes in the following verse from an address to Lord
Reay:—
Hadst thou by nature been a man of greed,
How soon had grown the tempting glittering hoard;
If thou to pity’s tears hadst deigned no heed,
And hard-wrung rents with human curses stored!
But no, for when the yearly rents were paid,
It was more joy to thee a thousand-fold
To see a glad face in God’s image made,
Than the king’s image on the yellow gold!
Like many of the bards, Rob appears to have suffered from a sore
affair of the heart. A yellow-haired Annie deceived him, and ran
away with a fair carpenter from the south, and he sang _Is trom leam
an àiridh_. It seems the courting was carried on at a shieling, a
favourite place of resort for fond swains and tender maidens:
Oh, sad is the shieling,
And gone are its joys!
All harsh and unfeeling
To me now its noise,
Since Anna—who warbled
As sweet as the merle—
Forsook me—my honey-mouthed,
Merry-lipped girl!
* * * * *
Ach, ach, now I’m trying
My loss to forget—
With sorrow and sighing,
With anger and fret.
But still that sweet image
Steals over my heart;
And still I deem fondly
Hope need not depart.
So fancy beguiles me,
And fills me with glee,
But the carpenter wiles thee,
False speaker! from me.
Yet from Love’s first affection
I never get free;
But the dear known direction
My thoughts ever flee.
The above verses are Pattison’s translation. It is said that the
deceitful “Anna” led an unhappy life afterwards, and never recovered
her old spirits after the memorable parting at the “shieling,” of
which the bard sings so pathetically.
While Rob Donn is not equal to Macdonald or Macintyre in the highest
qualifications of the poet, he is their superior in power of
satire. His two rival bards have confounded vituperative language
with satire, but Mackay never. He is a great favourite with his
countrymen, who are very proud of him, and have laudably done all
they could to make known his poetry and perpetuate his fame.
In many respects Mackay is a typical representative of the northern
counties, where the intense Celtic spirit and feelings of nationality
which characterise Argyllshire Celts do not prevail so extensively.
The Teutonic element brought in by the Norse is stronger in the
North, and may partly account for this apparent lack of Celtic
enthusiasm and of the usual Celtic grace of style. In his own way,
though exercising his sportive muse in a more confined and humbler
sphere, Rob Donn might be described as a sort of Highland Praed or
Calverley.
The bard was in the service of two of his clan on whom he has
composed well-known elegies. These two were Lord Reay and John
Mackay. The elegy on the latter has been translated as follows by the
clansman already referred to in a good sketch which appeared some
years ago in a London periodical:—
Some keep the verbal law of man,
And yet hard creditors are they;
They store what legally they can,
What the law _makes_ them, that they pay!
Though want and misery they see,
Not less through pity grows their sum;
Shut eyes and purse alike will be
Against the poor and needy one!
This bastard honour grows apace—
The creed of numbers beyond ken,
Who, greatly to their own disgrace,
Would rather owe to God than men!
Theirs will be loss beyond recall
When God shall sum up all their debt—
“Thou heededst not the poor man’s call,
I also will thy prayers forget!”
* * * * *
If thou another’s want didst know
Thou couldst not in thy goods rejoice;
Towards the poor thy heart would glow
Although his wants ne’er found a voice.
Ah, sooner lose a pound of gold
Than take to thee an ounce of sin,—
The waters shall bring manifold
For all thy treasures cast therein!
I saw the gentle who was poor,
And he was full of gloom and grief,
He passed the once wide-opened door
Where now no more he finds relief!
I saw the widow in her tears,
I saw the beggar hungering;
The orphan now unclothed appears
Unnoticed by the unpitying!
Who needs advice must want it now,
And see the prosperous times depart;
All clouded is the poet’s brow,
With none to reverence his art.
None seek to make the poor rejoice;
And when I ask why joys are fled,
They answer me with tearful voice—
“Alas! is not MacEachainn dead?”
I see the gathering of the poor—
Now poor indeed since thou art dead,
And closed for aye the open door
Where Love consoled and Bounty fed!
And strangers now are praised to me
As lib’ral—I knew only _one_—
But ah! the wandering stars we see
After the setting of the sun!
DUNCAN MACINTYRE.
This bard, Mac-an-t-Saoir—the Irish MacTear—meaning the son of the
joiner or carpenter, a recent intruder among the names of the Gaelic
clans, is one of the great Highland poets to whom the Gaelic patriot
refers with a pardonable measure of pride. Ossian, Macdonald, and he
are the chief names on the roll of our bardic annals.
This famous hunter bard, frequently called Duncan _Ban_, or
_fair-haired_, was born on the 20th of March 1724, at Druimliaghart,
in Glenorchay, Argyllshire. His parents lived in an out-of-the-way
spot, far from the parish school, so Duncan never learned to read
or write. Yet, rising from a humble sphere of life, with only the
education that the traditions, the popular poetry and scenery of his
native hills could afford, he has left us compositions which we would
not willingly allow to perish. Highly cultivated some of his mental
powers must have been. His memory was something wonderful; and yet
there have been at all times in the Highlands men equally trained
like Macintyre to remember and rehearse thousands of lines of poetry.
Upwards of six thousand lines of poetry composed by himself have been
published. All this he carried about with him for years, along with
the poetry of others, an immense mass of which he knew and was able
to repeat, until the Rev. Dr Stewart of Luss, one of the translators
of the Bible, was at the trouble of taking them down to the poet’s
own dictation some time before 1768, when they were first published
in one 12mo volume of 162 pages. A second edition appeared in 1799
and a third in 1804. These were all the editions before his death
took place in the year 1812. But thousands knew them who never read
them; while many of his more popular pieces found their way into
other Gaelic collections. There have been several other editions
since Macintyre died.
The first song of Duncan Bàn was composed on a sword with which he
was armed at the Battle of Falkirk, where he served on the Royalist
side as a substitute for Mr Fletcher of Glenorchay. The sword was
lost or thrown away in the retreat, and his employer refused to pay
the sum for which he had engaged the bard. But Duncan’s song became
popular and incensed Fletcher so much that, meeting the poor poet one
day, he suddenly struck him on the back with his walking-stick, and
bade him “go and make a song about that.” Macintyre appealed to his
patron the Earl of Breadalbane, who compelled Fletcher to pay the
bard the stipulated sum, 300 merks Scots (£16 17s 6d).
Soon after the noble Earl—always kind to the bard—appointed him
forester and gamekeeper in Coire Cheathaich and Ben-Dorain, the
subjects of his two chief and finest poems. He was afterwards in
the same capacity with the Duke of Argyll at Buachaill-Eite. Then
he joined the Fencible Regiment raised in 1793 by the Earl of
Breadalbane, where he served as a sergeant until 1799, when it was
disbanded. He afterwards served in the City Guard of Edinburgh till
1806, when he was enabled to live comfortably on his own savings
and on the profits of the third edition of his poems. He died in
Edinburgh in May 1812, in the 89th year of his age, and was buried in
the Greyfriars Churchyard, where a monument has been raised for him.
Duncan Bàn, in some respects, is the first of the Gaelic bards;
Professor Blackie seems inclined to rank him above Ossian. He is
certainly less artificial than the Gaelic Ossian of 1807—more in
harmony with the life and sentiments of the Highlanders. He is the
natural outcome as well as the true exponent of the spirit and
manners of the period of Highland history which was then drawing to a
close. His powers as a poet are of the highest order. But the sphere
of his life being so circumscribed, and the themes on which his muse
was exercised were so temporary and local in their character, that
Duncan Bàn can never receive from the world that homage to which his
wonderful and lofty genius entitles him. He has been called the Burns
of the Highlands; and, perhaps, his genius is equal to that of Burns,
taking into consideration the difference in their education. Burns,
however, shows more intensity of conception and stormy passion; while
Macintyre dwells with more luscious delight on the beauties and
glories of the external world.
Professor Blackie is a great admirer of Duncan Bàn, and has given
us what will always remain a delightful translation of Macintyre’s
unique poem, _Ben-Dorain_. The translator of Goethe’s “Faust”—whose
new edition of his translation of the great German bard’s work must
ever be regarded as the best—possesses the poetical ingenuity and
subtilty, as well as deftness in rhyme, necessary in a translator of
_Ben-Dorain_. _Coire Cheathaich_ is a poem equally celebrated with
_Ben-Dorain_, translated into English by Pattison, whose version has
been utilized by Mr Robert Buchanan, the distinguished dramatist and
poet, with slight alterations, in one of his works. Through these
translators the English reader is put in possession of some fair
knowledge of the muse of the Hunter-Bard of Glenorchay.
Here is the first verse of _Coire Cheathaich_, or The Braes of the
Mist:—
My misty Coire! where hinds are roving;
My lovely Coire! my charming dell!
So grand, so grassy, so richly scented,
And gemm’d with flowers of sweetest smell.
Thy knolls and hillocks in dark-green clothing,
Rise o’er the green sward with gentle swell,
Where waves the cannach, and grows the darnel,
And troop the wild deer I love so well.
Duncan’s chief love-song is characteristic. It is composed for his
“spouse newly wedded” and not for an unmarried maiden. This is how
the bard describes the manner in which he made choice of “Fair Young
Mary”:—
My net I cast in the waters clear,
And strained hard to draw it to land,
And lo! I had caught a bright sea-trout,
That lay like a swan on the strand.
Pleased was my soul with the fortune
That came with such joy to my hand;
My spouse! thou art the star of the morning!
Blest be thy slumbers and bland!
“Aged and grey” he visited the hills for the last time, and composed
his “Last Farewell to the Hills,” one of the most pathetic of his
poems. Taking a retrospect of the past, he sorrowfully sings:—
And yesterday I trode yon moor—
How many a thought it moved!
The friends I walked with there of yore,
Where were those friends I loved!
I looked and looked, _and sheep, sheep still_,
Were all that I could see:
A change had struck the very hill—
O world! deceiving me.
Few descriptive poets excel Macintyre in his representations of
external things, whether animate or inanimate. Everything he touches
he invests with the glow and the beauty of poetry. The hills with
their mist and deer, the streams and lochs with their teeming
inhabitants, and all the natural inhabitants of his native glens
and mountains, were congenial themes of his muse. “His Address to
his wife—Mairi Bhan Og—may be read beside the sweetest and most
expressive of the Lowland lyrics, while it certainly breathes a
refined courtesy and a purity of sentiment which these do not always
possess, and which is not in any way insignificant in such a man,
whether taken as an index of his moral nature, of his intellectual
endowments, or of the kindliness of nature in gifting him with such
unaffected manliness and good taste.” Macdonald could be sweet and
tender when he chose; it was far from being his nature. Macintyre is
generally genial and tender, for it is the habitual attitude of his
mind and heart. We are told “he was like the rest of the poets, very
fond of company and a social glass, and was not only very pleasant
over his bottle, but very circumspect.”
I give here a specimen of his poem, _Ben-Dorain_, of which we have a
translation from the pen of Professor Blackie:—
My delight it was to rise
With the early morning skies,
All aglow,
And to brush the dewy height,
Where the deer in airy state
Wont to go;
At least a hundred brace
Of the lofty antlered race,
When they left their sleeping-place
Light and gay;
When they stood in trim array,
And with low deep-breasted cry,
Flung their breath into the sky,
From the brae:
When the hind, the pretty fool,
Would be rolling in the pool
At her will,
Or the stag in gallant pride,
Would be strutting at the side
Of his haughty-headed bride,
On the hill.
And sweeter to my ear
Is the concert of the deer
In their roaring;
Than when Erin from her lyre
Warmest strains of Celtic fire
May be pouring;
And no organ sends a roll
So delightsome to my soul
As the bravely-crested race
When they quicken their proud pace
And bellow in the face
Of Ben Dorain.
Nor will they stint the measure
Of their frolic and their pleasure
And their play,
When with airy-footed amble
At their freakish will they ramble
O’er the brae.
With their prancing and their dancing,
And their ramping and their stamping,
And their plashing and their washing
In the pools,
Like lovers newly wedded,
Light-hearted, giddy-headed
Little fools.
No thirst have they beside
The mill-brook’s flowing tide
And the pure well’s lucid pride
Honey-sweet;
A spring of lively cheer,
Sparkling, cool, and clear,
And filtered through the sand
At their feet;
’Tis a life-restoring flood
To repair the wasted blood,
The cheapest and the best in all the land;
And vainly gold will try
For the Queen’s own lips to buy
Such a treat.
From the rim it trickles down
Of the mountain’s granite crown
Clear and cool;
Keen and eager though it go
Through your veins with lively flow,
Yet it knoweth not to reign
In the chambers of the brain
With misrule;
Where dark water-cresses grow
You will trace its quiet flow,
With mossy border yellow,
So mild, and soft, and mellow,
In its pouring.
With no slimy dregs to trouble
The brightness of its bubble
As it threads its silver way
From the granite shoulders grey
Of Ben-Dorain.
Then down the sloping side
It will slip with glassy slide,
Gently welling,
Till it gather strength to leap,
With a light and foamy sweep,
To the corrie broad and deep,
Proudly swelling;
Then bends amid the boulders,
’Neath the shadow of the shoulders
Of the Ben,
Through a country rough and shaggy,
So jaggy and so knaggy,
Full of hummocks and of hunches,
Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,
Full of bushes and of rushes,
In the glen.
Through rich green solitudes,
And wildly hanging woods,
With blossom and with bell,
In rich redundant swell,
And the pride
Of the mountain-daisy there
And the forest everywhere,
With the dress and with the air
Of a bride.
The number and variety of Macintyre’s compositions is very large,
all sorts of themes being regarded as fit for the exercise of his
poetic fancy. Like those of the Highland bards, however, his subjects
are generally more of local and personal than of the larger human
interests—a fact which is not at all surprising when his education,
calling, circumstances, and surroundings are considered.
Personal satires and eulogies, as well as the ordinary events of
Highland humble life and occupations, form the circle of themes with
which his muse is occupied. But wherever he gets the opportunity of
seizing upon new subjects he straightway rushes at them, and turns
them over in the rural though rich alembic of his intellectual and
ethical processes, with results which show shrewdness, sagacity, and
poetic powers of observation of a high order. In the corrie, on the
hillside, or after the chase, Duncan Bàn is at home, and his poetry
then rises to the highest pitch of the true pastoral. Elsewhere
his muse necessarily travels on lower planes. But, like all his
countrymen, inspired by visions of the great bens and far-reaching
valleys, he is ever eager to extend his sphere of observation as well
as his horizon of knowledge.
In his suggestive poem in _Praise of Dunedin_, or of Edinburgh, where
the patriarchal poet died at the good age of eighty-nine, there is
a current of pleasant and pawky observation which reminds us of
the great changes that have come over the Scottish capital as over
_Ben-Dorain_ of the poet’s “Farewell.” The following verses of a very
literal rendering describes the author’s impressions of what usually
attracted his gaze in “Bonnie Dunedin”:—
There’s many a noble lady
A poor man here may meet
In gown of silk or satin
That sweeps along the street;
And every pretty thing wears stays,
To keep her straight and spare;
And beauty-spots on her fair face
To make her still more rare.
Each one, as well becomes her,
Polite among the rest;
And proud, and rich, and ribbony,
And round and gaily dressed:
The clothes on the young maidens
Just showing to your eye
A strong and pointed well-made shoe—
I thought the heels too high.
When I went into the Abbey,
It was a noble sight
To see the kings in order,
From King Fergus, as was right;
But now since they are gone from us,
Our Alba wants the Crown—
No wonder that her once gay court
Is like a desert grown.
There is a lantern made of glass,
With a candle in each place,
That yields a light to every eye
Around a little space.
Nor less a cause of pleasure
Are the instruments they play,
That give a sweeter music
Than the cuckoo does in May.
It is difficult to say how far the recovery of the regalia, her
Majesty’s frequent residence in the Highlands, the crowds of tourists
northward every year, and, above all, the Home Rule movement, might
affect the sentiment of the line—
“Our Alba wants the Crown”—
but undoubtedly in these days of gas illuminations and electric-light
glories, the “lantern made of glass with a candle” would be no “cause
of pleasure” to the most unsophisticated son of the mountains.
Macintyre composed an Elegy for himself, from which the following
expressions of a feeble faith are taken:—
Loudly shall the trumpet peal
With echoes in all quarters heard;
From the fields shall wake the dead
Left by others there interred;
All that perished in distress
In the storm or in the flood;
To Mount Zion go the host
To triumph through the Saviour’s blood.
To the world I say farewell,
To all there on pilgrimage;
Light and gay I lived my season
Until I am weak through age:
Changèd now my powers be
While death stares me in the face,
As I pray for welfare yonder
Savèd through my Saviour’s grace.
Contemporary with and immediately after the great singers Macdonald,
Mackay, and Macintyre were many other bards whose inspiration is
clearly traceable to their era. Some of them composed very largely,
although in many cases not more than one or two of their compositions
are remembered. Many of the composers were well educated, and had
they written in a language better understood in the world in general,
their names would have been better known. The present Highlanders,
while frequently singing their songs, do not know so much as the
names of the authors. The same may be said also of Lowlanders with
regard to many of their own songs.
RONALD MACDONALD.—The merits of this bard were overshadowed by the
great fame of his father, _Mac Mhaighstir Alasdair_. He was a man of
considerable attainments and of undoubted poetic gifts, and published
a selection of his own and his father’s poems in 1775. He was to
publish more, but did not meet with suitable encouragement.
LACHLAN MACPHERSON.—This writer, probably better known as
“Strathmasie,” his territorial designation, and described as a
gentleman and a scholar, was born about the year 1723, and died in
1767. He gave able assistance to James Macpherson of Ossianic fame in
his translations. The relation of Strathmasie to the work has been
a subject of very acrid discussion. His own acknowledged poems are
in good idiomatic Gaelic, and in style and metre are quite different
from the Gaelic poems of James Macpherson’s Ossian, but quite like
the poetry of the other Gaelic bards. In all his published poems
there is not a stanza or even a line _a la_ Ossian. In poetic power
and originality he is much behind Duncan Bàn and _Mac Mhaighstir
Alasdair_, but he has shown that he is quite able to write tolerable
poetry. The titles of his poems are—_An Elegy on Cluny_; _The
Fellowship of Usquebay_; _A Marriage_; _The Dun Breeks_; _A Hunting
Song_; _The Advice_; _An Amorous Piece_; _Satire on Mice_.
JOHN ROY STUART.—Colonel Stuart was a native of Kincardine in
Badenoch. He first served in the French army against the British
Government. He was afterwards with Prince Charles on the fatal moor
of Culloden. After lurking for some time in this country he managed
to escape to France, where he died. His signal bravery at Culloden
was observed by the Duke of Cumberland, who asked who he was: “Ah,
that is John Roy Stuart.” “Good God!” exclaimed the Duke, “the man I
left in Flanders doing the butcheries of ten heroes! Is it possible
that he could have dogged me here!” Stuart’s Poems—the principal
of them is on _Culloden Day_—are impetuous, racy, and vigorous.
An English bit of humorous verses, called _Roy Stuart’s Psalm_,
extemporised where he was hiding on one occasion, runs thus:—
The Lord’s my targe, I will be stout,
With dirk and trusty blade,
Though Campbells come in flocks about,
I will not be afraid.
The Lord’s the same as heretofore,
He’s always good to me,
Though red-coats come a thousand more
Afraid I will not be.
KENNETH MACKENZIE.—This bard was born in 1758 at _Caisteal Leahuir_,
near Inverness. When quite a young man he went to sea, but returned
in 1789, when he began to collect subscribers’ names for his proposed
volume of poetry. Some time after the publication of his poems he
was procured the rank of an officer in the 78th Highlanders, through
the joint influence of Lords Seaforth and Buchan. After leaving the
army he got the situation of postmaster in an Irish provincial town.
He was living in 1837. His poems are of an high order, polished,
smooth, and well-finished. One of his songs has become a universal
favourite—_Am Féile Preasach_.
ALLAN MACDOUGALL.—This highly popular bard, better known as _Ailein
Dall_, or Blind Allan, was born in Glencoe in 1750. His parents
were poor, so Allan, incapacitated by his infirmity of blindness
for the usual spheres of industry, turned his attention to music as
a means of livelihood. He soon became well known as a fiddler in
the district, and by engagements at country weddings and raffles
earned a little to support himself. The poems also he composed helped
to make him popular; and with the assistance of Mr E. MacLachlan,
latterly of Aberdeen, who was then a tutor in the neighbourhood, a
volume was prepared and published. Soon after this Colonel Ronaldson
Macdonald of Glengarry took the poet under his patronage. In 1828 he
travelled the counties of Argyll, Ross, and Inverness for subscribers
for a new edition of his poems, but after procuring 1000 names, and
going to press in 1829, the poor poet died. He was buried in the
churchyard of Kilfinan. He has been regarded as the last of the
family bards. He was a man of true poetic gifts; many of his songs
are still highly popular, such as—
“Nam faighainn gille r’a cheannach.”
JAMES SHAW.—Poor James Shaw, otherwise called _Bard Lochuan-Eala_,
was born about 1758. He subsequently lived at Ardchattan, where he
received some kindness from General Campbell and his lady. He died in
1828 suddenly on board a steamboat when returning from Glasgow, where
he was trying to get his poems printed. He has been described as idle
and dissipated. _Bidh Fonn Oirre Daonnan_, one of his songs, is still
very popular.
DONALD MACDONALD.—Like the Bard of Lochnell this composer too fell a
victim to his own infirmities of character. Macdonald, also called
_Am Bard Conanach_, was born in 1780 in Strathconon, Ross-shire.
He was a sawyer by trade, which he pursued after he removed to
Inverness, where he did not fail to give scope to his convivial
disposition. His moral conceptions of things do not seem to have
been of a very high order, judging by his well-known song _Fhuair me
Sgeula moch an dè_.
ALEXANDER MACKINNON.—This composer, whose father was a farmer in
Morar, Arisaig, was born in 1770. Early in life he enlisted in the
92nd Regiment, and was present at the Battle of Alexandria in 1801,
where he was wounded. He was discharged, and enjoyed his pension for
some time; but disliking the quietness of civilian life, he again
joined the army, where he remained till he died at Fort-William in
1814. His principal poems are on _Landing in Egypt_, _The Battle of
Egypt_, and _The Battle of Holland_. These are characterised by much
poetic fire and warlike enthusiasm.
ANGUS FLETCHER.—This gentle and cultured bard, the author of the
highly popular production _Clachan ghlinn Daruadhail_, was born on
the west bank of Loch Eck, in Cowal, 1776. He was educated at the
parish school of Kilmodan. Afterwards he lived for some time in
Bute, till he became, in 1804, parochial schoolmaster of Dunoon. He
is also the author of some other songs that have become popular,
especially _The Lassie of the Glen_, which, in an English dress from
Fletcher’s own pen, is well-known. This song was first published in
the “Edinburgh Weekly Journal.”
ALLAN MACINTYRE.—Very few Highlanders have ever heard of this author.
Macintyre, known as _Ailein nan Sionach_, or fox-hunting Allan, was a
native of Kintyre. He published early in the century a small volume
of his own, and other poems, but few of his productions are now sung,
and his book is rather scarce.
DONALD MACLEOD.—This author published while he was still young a
volume of original and other poems in 1811. Young of Inverness was
the publisher, and probably he and others influenced the young author
in his selection of such pieces of questionable taste and authorship
as those of the _Ceisteir Crubach_ and _Mordubh_. MacLeod’s
productions are rated very highly by his countrymen who delight in
designating him, _Am Bard Sgiathanach_, or The Skye Bard. While
Macleod is undoubtedly a man of good poetic parts, he ranks much
below his far more distinguished and gifted son, Neil Macleod, whose
songs have deservedly taken a high place in popular esteem.
Other bards of various gifts, and authors of published volumes of
poetry during this period, are—
_Duncan Campbell_, who describes himself as a native of Kilmun,
Cowal, published a “Gaelic Song Book” at Cork, 1798.
_John Macgregor_, published a volume of 227 pages in 1801, at
Edinburgh. There is none of decided merit.
_Angus Kennedy_, a native of Ardgour, Argyllshire, published a volume
at Glasgow in 1808. One or two of his songs have become very popular.
_William Gordon_, a native of Creich, Sutherlandshire, published a
volume of 156 pages in 1802. He was a soldier, and in his latter days
composed religious hymns.
_Margaret Macgregor’s_ poems appear in Mackintosh’s Collection in
1831.
There were many other composers of one or a few songs or poems which
may be found in various collections of whom we know little or nothing
more than their mere names. To this class belong Donald Macintyre of
North Argyll, George Morison of the far North, William MacMurchie of
Kintyre, Alexander Macinnes of Glencoe, Maclachlan of Kilbride, and
some female composers who are only known as the wives or daughters
of men described as of certain localities. There does not appear to
have been a parish or clachan in the Highlands and Isles that has not
brought forth its own singer.
WILLIAM ROSS.
This sensitive and delightful poet was born at Broadford, Isle of
Skye, in 1762. He received good education at the parish school of
Forres, where he highly distinguished himself. He made a particular
study of his native language, and was also well acquainted with
Latin and Greek. He sang sweetly, and played on the violin, flute,
and other instruments with considerable skill. He became parish
schoolmaster of Gairloch, Ross-shire, where he was a very successful
teacher. He did not fill this situation, however, very long. He died
of consumption in 1790, in the twenty-eighth year of his age. His
early death is said to have been hastened by a love disappointment.
In _Cuachag nan Eraobh_, one of his best-known songs, he indulges in
melancholy and painful reflections. It is addressed to a cuckoo that
settled on the branch of a tree beside him. He remembers his false
love and sings:—
Nought to me but a sting all her bright beauties bring—
I droop with decay, and I languish;
There’s a pain at my heart like a pitiless dart,
And I waste all away with anguish.
She has stolen the hue on my young cheeks that grew,
And much she has caused my sorrow;
Unless now she renew with her kindness that hue
Death will soon bid me “Good morrow.”
Death did soon bid poor Ross “good morrow” and in this song, like
Michael Bruce, he sang his own elegy. How pathetically the poet cries
in the prospect of death!—
If she were thus low, with what haste should I go
To ask how the maiden was faring:
Now short the delay till a mournful array
The brink of my grave will be bearing!
Ross is a poet of a high order, and one of the sweetest minstrels
the Highlands have produced. Many of his songs are highly popular.
The exquisite sweetness and finish of Ross appear in his praise of
the “Highland Maid,” the first two stanzas of which are rendered as
follows by Mr Angus Macphail, whose early death has been a loss to
Gaelic literature:—
My pretty Highland maiden,
With tresses golden bright,
And blue eyes softly shading,
And soft hands snowy white;
O’er Scotland’s hills and plains
With thee I fain would go,
Wrapped in our native tartan plaids
That in the breezes flow.
Give me my Highland dress,
’Tis grand beyond compare;
Give me my Highland maid,
Sweet, smiling, young, and fair;
Then banish sleep and care,
From eve to rosy morn,
In happy love beneath our plaid,
The proudest dress that’s worn.
Ross is one of the best known and best loved of all the Gaelic bards.
His career, so similar to that of Keats, ends so prematurely and
pathetically that his memory has become engraven on the hearts of all
who hear his story and love to sing his songs.
EWEN MACLACHLAN.
Ewen MacLachlan, a poet of real culture, sweetness, and light, was
born in 1775, in Torracaltin, Coiruanan, where his ancestors, who
originally came from Morven, were for several generations. His
great-grandfather was a bard of note. He was educated first in the
parish school of Fort-William, and afterwards in King’s College,
Aberdeen. While carrying on his studies he was tutor successively in
the family of Cameron of Camishy, in that of Cameron of Clunes, and
in that of Macmillan of Glenpean. He distinguished himself highly at
school and at the University, especially in classics. He intended
to enter the Church, but on the eve of taking license some friends
dissuaded him from taking the step, recommending him to wait, and aim
at a professorial chair. Among these was the gentle author of “The
Minstrel,” Professor Beattie, who thought much of MacLachlan, and
became his fast friend. In 1798 MacLachlan published some of his own
productions in Allan Dall’s volume, which he himself committed to
writing for the Blind Bard. These were the “Songs of the Seasons,”
etc., and several books of Homer’s Iliad translated into Gaelic
heroic verse. In 1818 he published his “Metrical Effusions,” where
Greek, Latin, English, and Gaelic poems appear. He was engaged by
the Highland Society of Scotland to compile a Gaelic dictionary. For
this work he was eminently qualified, being intimately acquainted
with old Gaelic, as well as with Eastern and classical languages.
He died before the work was finished, in 1822, in the 47th year of
his age. When he died he was head master of the Grammar School of
Old Aberdeen, a post for which his classical attainments peculiarly
fitted him. A love-song by MacLachlan—_Gur gile mo Leannan_—is still
among the most popular in the language. He himself has furnished
us with an English equivalent, which will give a fair idea of the
more tender qualities of his genius. These simple and pretty verses,
usually sung to a plaintive air, come to us laden with the purity and
freshness of the mountain breeze:—
Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore;
Not so white is the new milk that flows o’er the pail,
Or the snow that is show’r’d from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud’s yellow wreath on the mountain’s high brow,
The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display.
When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o’er the grove,
Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love;
Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
Like the moon, when the stars are bedimm’d with her blaze.
The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn;
But the mavis is tuneless—the lark strives in vain,
When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.
When summer bespangles the landscape with flow’rs,
While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowr’s,
Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I’ll rove,
And feast unrestrain’d on the smiles of my love.
MacLachlan counted a number of distinguished men among his
friends—among others, Alexander, Duke of Gordon; the late Glengarry,
Sir John Sinclair, Dr Gregory, and Lord Bannatyne Macleod. His
funeral was attended by the Professors of the University and
Magistrates of the city to show their respect. His remains were
removed to his native Lochaber for burial. On the way to the burial
place at Killievaodain in Ardgour the hearse was met and accompanied
to the last resting-place by Glengarry and a number of his clansmen
dressed in their native garb. Few of MacLachlan’s talents and culture
in modern times have devoted their energies to the cultivation of
Gaelic literature. There is a reason: the practical spirit of the
nineteenth century has, perhaps desirably, cooled even the enthusiasm
of bardic natures.
JOHN MACLEAN.
Among the bards of some note who flourished in the first quarter of
this century is John MacLean, usually styled the Laird of Coll’s
Bard. He is one of the last of the order of family bards, or
senachies. But the office in his case does not appear to have been
of much advantage to himself—it was more honourable and ornamental
than remunerative. MacLean was born in the Island of Tiree in 1787.
As an instance of the tenacity with which Highlanders cleave to the
traditional pedigrees of their families, it maybe mentioned that he
traced himself back through the MacLeans of Treisinnis, of Ardgour,
and of Duart to the great _Hector Roy of the Battles_, who was killed
at Harlaw in 1411. But this is a small claim as compared with that
advanced by a Dublin schoolmaster, John O’Hart, who, in a pamphlet
dedicated to her Majesty Queen Victoria, whom he regards somewhat
as a fellow-sovereign, pretends to trace his pedigree to the mighty
monarchs of Eire who once reigned in “Tara’s Hall!” MacLean published
a collection of poetry, most of the pieces being his own composition,
in 1818; another volume of his own poems appeared at Antigonish in
1836. His works complete have since been issued in excellent style
under the title of “Clàrsach na Coille” (Harp of the Wood), edited
with intelligence and care by the Rev. A. M. Sinclair of Nova Scotia,
whose Gaelic scholarship and enthusiasm are well known on this side
of the Atlantic. It is said that “in the poet’s younger days the
people of Tiree led merry lives; they did not trouble themselves with
hard work; they had, however, plenty to eat and drink. The island was
full of distilleries, and whisky-drinking was carried on to a very
great extent. There were capital dancers in the place, and certainly
these men did not allow their legs to become stiff through want
of exercise upon the floor.” This picture of island-life suggests
the material which was frequently the source of inspiration to
bardic lucubrations. After learning the trade of shoemaking, MacLean
started for Glasgow, where he married. In 1810 he was drafted into
the militia, but was discharged next year. In 1819 he emigrated to
Nova Scotia, where he lived till the year 1848, much respected and
appreciated by all his countrymen who knew him. It appears that
MacLean has composed religious poetry, though little known—some of
his hymns being printed in Glasgow in 1835. Here is an account of
this side of his nature: “It was not till he had been several years
in Barney’s River that he turned his attention to this species of
composition. His hard lot in this world no doubt tended to direct his
attention to a better world. He had always led a good moral life—a
more truthful or a more honest could not be found. He had always
observed the worship of God regularly in his family.” MacLean is a
bard of considerable powers, but cannot be compared with the bards
whose names are known wherever the Gaelic language is spoken. One
song of his has been highly popular, mainly because of the sweet air
that is attached to it. The following verses will show the manner of
the song, _Och a rùin gur tu air m’aire_:—
Each day I sigh here a lonely stranger,
I cannot sing with my heart love-laden;
I was right foolish to give my promise
To her of Canna, the youthful maiden.
It was with gladness I left the island,
Home of my childhood and my devotion,
To seek the gold here that may be found not
In those bare islands amid the ocean.
How proud and happy I was with Allan
Beginning work in the gray of morning;
’Twere better far to be there than labour
A lonely stranger ’neath Lowland scorning.
I would not stay in my native island,
To my ambition the land was narrow;
When Lowland lasses inquire in English,
I say in Gaelic, “I came from Barra.”
This song is so painfully simple and commonplace, notwithstanding
its popularity, that it can scarcely bear translation at all, unless
the translator is permitted to introduce some of the stock sentiment
and phraseology of the muse. One of MacLean’s best pieces is on
the _Laird of Coll’s Boat_. Another of more than average merit was
written shortly after his arrival in Nova Scotia. It shows the bard
ill at ease in his new surroundings in the _Coille Ghruamach_, or
Gloomy Wood. It opens thus:—
I stray alone in these woods of shadows,
My thoughts are restless, I feel in pain;
This place conflicts with the laws of nature,
My strength forsakes me in heart and brain.
I cannot sing the old songs of Albin,
My bosom saddens to hear their strain;
My Gaelic dies since I speak no longer
That tongue still cherished beyond the main.
Alas! small wonder although I sorrow
Behind the hills in this gloomy wood,
In this lone desert by Barney’s River,
_With bare potatoes alone for food_.
Ere cultivation is seen rejoicing
O’er all the land and the trees are cleared,
My strength will fail in an arm exhausted
While yet the children are left unreared.
MacLean is one of the last of the old order of bards. His poetry
shows little or no trace of English reading; and the theme of the
majority of his poems is the praise of the Laird of Coll or some
kindred chieftain. Very appropriately might the happy couplet of Sir
Walter Scott describing the old and infirm minstrels of other days be
applied to MacLean—
“A simple race! they waste their toil,
For the vain tribute of a smile.”
It ought to be mentioned, however, that the Laird of Coll showed
on more than one occasion that he did not forget his enthusiastic
senachie.
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