POPULAR SONGS.
“Ho gur toigh leam! he gur toigh leam!
Ho gur toigh leam féin a’ Ghàilig!
’S toigh leam i ’sgach àit am bi mi;
Bheir i ann am chuimhn’ a’ Ghàidlh’ltachd.”
—CHORUS OF POPULAR SONG.
ENGLISH:
_Ho, I love the sweet old Gaelic!_
_It reminds me of the Highlands,_
_Hay, I love that tongue of heroes,_
_Everywhere in far or nigh lands._
Considerable activity was shown in the beginning of this century in
collecting the floating mass of poetry then extant in the Highlands.
Celtic patriots who dreaded the immediate decease of the ancient
language of Albin set themselves in praiseworthy fashion to the task
of rescuing this popular literature from the devouring jaws of time
and change. A brief survey of the various publications which were
the practical outcome of this happy determination will exhibit no
unworthy results. These results, in many cases achieved at great
self-sacrifice, are more deserving of notice when it is remembered
how expensive it was then to publish bulky volumes, especially in
the Gaelic language, and how limited was the constituency to whose
support the persistent patriots appealed. Their devotion to their
venerable mother-tongue, supposed to be on her death-bed, deserves
our gratitude; and if their ghosts occasionally revisit in the
glimpses of the moon, the scenes of their self-denying labours, they
must be gratified to hear still the echoes of their much-loved tongue
resounding as of yore through the glens and by the seashore as well
as in crowded halls in our large centres of population. Peace be to
their names! and long may the torch of Gaelic enthusiasm, which they
kept lighted, and handed down to us, be preserved a burning power in
the bosoms of our Highland countrymen.
It is not proposed to do here much more than the mere enumeration of
some of these collections of poetry. This itself will be sufficient,
along with the array of Gaelic bards that have already passed in
review before us, to show further how unfounded is the general dictum
that there is no Gaelic literature—no books in the language of the
Highlander.
Some popular songs of this period are—“Mairi Dhonn” and “Mairi
Ghreannar,” by Kenneth Mackenzie of Lochbroom; “’Scanail m’Aigne,”
and “Soraidh Slàn do’n Ailleagan,” by the brothers William and
Alexander Mackenzie, of Lochcarron; “An Làr Dhonn,” by Murdoch
Mackenzie, of Achilty, Ross-shire; “Thug mi’n Oidhche raoir san
Airidh,” by John Macgillivray; “Gaor nam Ban Muileach,” by Margaret
Maclean of Mull; “O’n tha mi fo Mhuladh air m’Aineol,” by the Rev.
Charles Stewart, D.D., of Strachur; “Nighean Donn na Buaile,” by
the Rev. Duncan Macfarlane, latterly of Perth; “Gu ma slàn a chì
Mi,” by Hector Mackenzie, an Ullapool sailor; “A Nighean Bhui Bhan,”
by Donald Macinnes; “Mo run geal Og,” by Christina Ferguson, of
Contin; “Thainig an Gille Dubh,” by Lady Malcolm Raasay; “A Mhairi
Bhòidheach,” by a North Uist schoolmaster; “Moladh Caber-Féidh,”
by Norman Macleod of Assynt, whose two sons, Professor Macleod of
Glasgow and the Rev. Augus Macleod of Rogart, were well known last
century.
Anonymous pieces are many: “An Gille Dubh ciar Dubh,” “Mo Nighean
Chruinn Donn;” “Fear a’ Bhàta;” “Cuir a Chinn Dìleas;” “An Nochd gur
faoin mo Chadal domh;” “Och mar tha Mi;” “Ho-ro Eileinich, Ho-gu”
(the three last being evidently composed by Islaymen); “Tha Tigh’n
Fodham” (MacDhughail, ’ic Lachuin?), a verse of which Boswell boasted
of being able to sing when he was with Johnson on his tour in the
Hebrides. The popular collections of songs will supply many more.
Since 1812 the following collections of miscellaneous pieces of
poetry have appeared:—P. Macfarlane’s (1813); in this volume was
first published a part of MacLachlan’s translation of Homer (the
3rd Book). P. Turner’s (1813), mostly culled from the works of the
well-known heroic bards. H. and J. MacCallum’s (1816), principally
Ossianic or heroic ballads. J. MacLean’s (1818), containing much
original matter. Inverness collection (1821, Fraser); James Munro’s
_Ailleagan_ (1830), which has maintained its popularity all along.
Other small things appeared early in the century—_Eoin Bheag nan
Creagaibh Aosda_ (1819); _Ceilleirean Binn nan Creagan Aosda_ (1819),
and a choice collection of Scotch Songs with Gaelic translations
(Inverness, 1829). “The Harp of Caledonia,” “An t-Aosdana,” “The
Mountain Songster,” “An Duanaire,” have been published more
recently, and are still in circulation. The most valuable of all the
collections is “The Beauties of Gaelic Poetry”—a magnificent volume,
on which much labour was spent, by John Mackenzie. The productions
of many of the Gaelic bards are given in this work, along with
biographical notices, and much critical and explanatory matter.
Mackenzie, who was a native of Wester Ross, was a man of great talent
and industry; but his æsthetic and moral tastes not being of a high
order, he allowed many pieces of an immoral tendency to appear,
which somewhat marred the work. It is the _magnum opus_ of Gaelic
literature. The “Oranaiche,” by Archibald Sinclair (1879) is another
large and excellent work, which does great credit to the compiler
and publisher. With the exception of the “Beauties,” which is of a
different sort, there is no collection in Gaelic like Sinclair’s,
whether we regard the variety, the extent, and the quality of the
contents.
While the “Beauties” contain the best productions of the principal
bards during the last three hundred years, the “Oranaiche,” gives
us the better known songs of the present century, many of the
lyrics being the compositions of living writers, from whom Mr
Sinclair, often at very considerable trouble to himself, obtained
the manuscripts, and took down the words at the author’s or others’
dictation. There are two hundred and ninety songs in this handsome
volume, many of them very long—a general characteristic of Gaelic
songs—and not a few, it must be admitted, more of the nature of
poems than of lyrics. The songs in this collection are of all
sorts—humorous, patriotic, satiric, and sentimental. The latter class
predominates; indeed, it constitutes three-fifths of the whole. In
considering the range of poetic culture discernible in this volume,
it is remarkable to note the almost total absence of martial songs.
The bards of this century would appear to have been baptised in the
perennial stream of the tender passion of which they sing with such
evidently luscious delight. This is the one great theme which they
take up with the devotion of their whole being. Another subject
which here and there gives a tinge of sadness to the book is the
depopulation of the Highlands, which is so fitted, like the troubles
of a jilted and suffering lover, to elicit, in all its intensity,
the melancholic element in the Celtic nature. _Mac-na-bracha_ (Son
of Malt) also comes in for frequent and hearty praise, drinking
_Deoch-slainte_ being capable at all times of invoking in many
Highland bosoms the purest and most generous feelings and sympathies.
It ought to be observed, however, as Sheriff Nicolson suggests in
his excellent volume of Gaelic proverbs, that although _usqueba_
is so much identified with the failings of the modern Highlander,
this exhilarating beverage was almost unknown to the Gael until
last century, the drink known till then being mostly “fion dearg na
Frainc,” _the red wine of France_. It has been remarked above, that
this volume does not present us with many martial lyrics. This fact
reminds us of the great change that has come over the Highlands. The
obvious explanation is that the warlike ardour which was wont to
flow forth in battle incitements has been toned down by the altered
circumstances of the people since the day of Culloden, and runs now
into the natural stream of the tender passion. On the other hand, if
we go back to the days of Finian chivalry we find a martial element
in all the productions of the bards; and this continued largely to
prevail as long as the Gael habitually carried about with him his
claymore, ready to fight for his person or follow his chief to the
field.
One of the best, and the only genuine martial song in the
“Oranaiche,” is the first in the volume, _Buaidh leis na Seoid_,
by Alexander Macgregor, schoolmaster at Dull. It contains sixteen
stanzas of four lines of twelve syllables in length, and having a
chorus takes a long time to sing it; but the martial enthusiasm it
breathes, along with many suggestive historical references, are such
that audiences sit frequently spellbound till the whole piece is
rehearsed. Of the humorous pieces in the volume mention may be made
of _The Dun Horse_, _The Minister and the Bailie_, and _The Advent
of an Escaped Irish Balloon on the shore of one of the Hebrides_.
The author of the last-mentioned represents the whole island as in
commotion when the monster approached the shore—old men and old women
taking for granted that this could be no less a personage than the
devil himself, who came at last to claim his own.
There are upwards of fifty names of composers in the “Oranaiche,”
many of whom are still living, and who are not known on the pages of
another book. With this fact before us surely it cannot be affirmed
that the race of bards is gone. I was once present at a meeting of a
Highland Association in Glasgow, where I was informed there were no
less than six bards, authors of published, well-known songs. It is
difficult to conceive how so many of the irritable genius could work
in harmony or dwell together in unity and in poetic brotherhood.
Among the fifty above-mentioned occur the following less known Celtic
names:—Lady D’Olyly D. Orr, MacMurchie, MacPhail, Macroy, MacLugas,
MacAffer, Wilkinson, etc. etc. Let us now glance at some of the
best-known songs.
_Gu ma Slan a chi Mi_, the composition of an Ullapool sailor, the air
of which is very pretty, is a highly popular song. I have tried to
render some verses of it thus:—
Full happy may I see thee,
My faithful auburn maid!
Sweet girl with flowing tresses
In pretty smiles arrayed.
My soul was oft-uplifted
By words thy lips have said;
And oft by strains of gladness
My fluttering heart allayed.
This night to me how dreary
Upon the ocean tide!
My slumber is full cheerless—
To thee my fancies glide.
Without thee here I sorrow,
My thoughts are at thy side;
I pine away in anguish
Till thou become my bride.
Warm eyes are thine like berries,
With lashes sweetly lined;
Fresh cheeks are thine like rowans,
In loveliness enshrined.
My heart is filled with fondness
For one so true and kind;
And ever since I left thee,
The days like years I find.
’Twas said I shunn’d thee, dearest,
Ere hither I was borne;
My kiss that I denied thee
While leaving thee forlorn.
Let no such tale, dear, grieve thee,
Reject their speech with scorn;
Thy breath to me smells sweeter
Than dewy grass in morn.
Some of the most popular songs are anonymous. _Ho-ro Eileinich_
belongs to this class, and is a great favourite at large Highland
gatherings on account of the swinging character of the air and metre.
Here are a few verses:—
O, green island of the sea!
Native home, I love but thee:
Fairest fields of earth that be,—
The bonnie braes of Landai.
There afar I see Ardmore,
Home of game that I adore;
There my heart is evermore
Among the hills of Landai.
Thy dark brow though rocky be,
Early shines the sun on thee;
Heights of deer! I long to see
Beyond the shore of Landai.
Oft there fell beneath my hand,
Spotted seal upon the sand;
Snowy swans upon the strand,
And heathcocks in fair Landai.
O! I love thee, Islay green,
Of my youthful days the scene;
Where the best of men have been
Who loved the songs of Landai.
One of the finest songs in the language is _Muile nam Mor Bheann_, or
Mull of the High Hills. On account of its peculiarity of metre, it
does not lend itself readily to easy translation. Some of its verses
run thus:—
In Mull of the woods there lives the maiden
For whom my poor heart is now love-laden:
Though dead be that love like joys of Eden
I woo no lasses in Cowal.
CHORUS.
All cheerless and lonely here I sorrow;
No fond ray of hope is seen each morrow,
My heart has refused fresh love to borrow;
It turns to the wood-crowned island.
Like beautiful sheen of rosy morning
The glow of thy cheek is sweetly burning;
The troth of my love if thou art spurning
Soon linen and sods will shroud me.
For thine is the charm that wins devotion
The graces of form that wake emotion,
As bright as the sea-gull on the ocean,
Or cannach on brows of Morven.
Were mine thy fond kiss I’d cease repining,
Thy love would restore my health declining,
O! let me behold the beauties shining
Around the maiden of Morven.
A glance into the _Oranaiche_ and other collections of Gaelic songs
will reveal to the casual student of Gaelic literature what vast
treasures of lyrics the language contains. These songs admirably
exhibit the emotional lyrical spirit of the Gael, and leads us to
much of the source of the genius of song which has rendered Scotland
so deservedly renowned.
The Rev. Angus Macintyre, late of Kinlochspelvie, composed several
poems of great merit. His love-song, “O’s runach leam an ribhinn
donn,” is very pretty. A translation by Mr H. Whyte will be found
in an interesting little volume recently published, “The Celtic
Garland.” Here are some verses:—
I dearly love my auburn maid
That dwells behind the mountain,
At eve I’ll meet her in the glade,
To roam by dell and fountain.
Though here with hounds I chase the deer,
Where streamlets bright meander,
To yonder glen, where dwells my dear,
My thoughts will ever wander.
The birds that round about me fly,
Pour forth their notes of gladness;
While here alone I sit and sigh
In sorrow and in sadness.
Her hair around her shoulders flows
With graceful waving motion,
Her snow-white bosom heaving goes
Like sea-gull on the ocean.
One of the popular songs and airs among Highlanders is that of
“Finary.” The verses that have become so well-known in connection
with this song are not those to which the air was attached
originally. The original song was “Irinn àrinn u horo,” by Allan
Macdougall, a lyric of fair merit, but which has never attained to
anything like the popularity of “Finary.” The author of “Finary”
appropriated an air already popular, like the author of “Màiri
Laghach.” The reputed author of “Finary” is the elder Dr Norman
Macleod, and certainly the theme of the song is founded on an event
in his personal history. It is a farewell to Finary, where the manse
of his father was situated, in Morven, on the occasion of Norman
leaving home to attend the first session at Glasgow University. The
sentiment is very pathetic and natural, and very readily lays hold
of the tenderest chords of the heart of the home-loving Highlander.
There is something about it, the antiquarian reference to the past,
and its touches descriptive of natural scenery, which remind us of
the genius of Macleod. Yet it has been doubted whether he was the
author of the original English version—the English one being regarded
as the original. Mr Neil Campbell, of County Down, now of Glasgow,
a man who knows a good deal of generally unknown facts relating to
the Gaelic literature of this century, once told the writer that the
Rev. Mr Kelly, of Campbeltown, once Dr Macleod’s friend and colleague
in that town, was the author of the English version, which, apart
from the home-loving sentiment and air, is rather poor poetry. The
following is the first verse, which shows reason but the veriest
imperfection of rhyme:—
The wind is fair, the day is _fine_;
Swiftly, swiftly runs the _time_;
The boat is floating on the _tide_.
That wafts me off from Finary.
But apart from the artistic execution of the verses, the sweet,
high-souled, and patriotic sentiments conveyed in them would always
recommend them to the warm-hearted and emotional Gael. The history
of “Fionnairidh” has always seemed to me something like that of “God
Save the Queen,” or “The Address to the Cuckoo.” The names of Bruce
and Lowe are connected with the last just as those of Macleod and
Kelly are with the first. One of the few who could authoritatively
decide the precise authorship of “Fionnairidh”—was that true and
highly-gifted Highlander the late Dr John Macleod of Morven; and also
his learned relative Dr Clerk of Kilmailie, who could write with
accuracy of the different versions, English and Gaelic, of _Eirich
agus tiugainn, O_.
The following Gaelic version—eight stanzas, there are four more—are
given as they came through the hands of the late Archibald Sinclair,
who had probably something to do with it. It was first printed on
a leaflet, was then copied into the “Gael” in 1872, and has been
several times published in whole or in part since:—
Tha ’n latha maith, ’s an soirbheas ciùin;
Tha ’n nine ruith, ’s an t-àm dhuinn-dlùith;
Tha ’m bat’ ’g am fheitheamh fo a siùil,
Gu’ m thoirt a null o Fhionn-Airidh.
Tha ioma mìle ceangal blath
Mar shaighdean ann am féin an sas;
Mo chridhe ’n impis a bhi sgaint’
A chionn bhi fagail Fionn-Airidh.
Bu tric a ghabh me scriob leam fhéin,
Mu ’n cuairt air lùchairt Fhinn an tréin;
’S a dh’éisd mi sgeulachdan na Féinn
’G an cur an céill am Fionn-Airidh.
’S bu tric a sheall mi feasgair Mairt
Far am biodh Oisein sinn a dhan;
A’ comhead gréin’ aig ioma tra
Dol seach gach la ’s mi ’m Fionn-Airidh.
Beannachd le athair mo ghraidh,
Bidh mi cuimhneah ort gu brath,
Ghuidhinn gach sonas is agh
Do ’n t-seaun fhear bhan am Fionn-Airidh.
Mo mhathair!—’s ionmhuin t’ ainm r ’a luaidh—
Am feum mi tearbadh uait cho luath?
Is falbh a’m’ allabanach truagh
An cian uait féin ’s o Fhionn-Airidh!
Soraidh leatsa, brathair chaoin,
Is fòs le peathraichibh mo ghaoil;
Cuiribh bròn is deôir a thaobh
’S biodh aoibh oirbh ann am Fionn-Airidh.
Beannachd le beanntaibh mo ghaoil!
Far am faigh mi fiadh le lagh:
Gu ma fad’ an coileach-fraoich
A’ glaodhaich ann am Fionn-Airidh.
The chorus consists of _Eirich agus tiugainn, O_, “Let us rise and
come away,” repeated three times, with a fourth line, “Farewell,
farewell to Finary.” The following rendering is an adaptation by the
writer. The form “Finorie” is used to preserve a sort of sympathetic
sympathy with and likeness to terms with similar endings in Lowland
ballads, such as “Glenorie,” etc. This form has also more sympathy
with the music:—
TRANSLATION:
The day is good, the wind is fair;
The sands of time the hour declare;
There rides the boat that hence will bear
Me far away from Finorie.
A thousand ties my soul enchain;
Like arrows they awaken pain;
My heart is nearly broke in twain
Since I must leave thee, Finorie.
Often alone I sought the hold
Where mighty Fingal lived of old;
Often I heard long legends told
Of Finian deeds in Finorie.
Often I viewed at Eve the spring
Where Ossian tuned his harp to sing;
Where sheen of gold the sun did bring
Upon the heights of Finorie.
Farewell, dear father, best of men,
Far from me in the Highland glen!
Heav’n smile on thee till back again
I come to see dear Finorie.
Mother! a name to me most dear;
To lose thy tender care I fear;
But in my snareful journey here
I think of thee and Finorie.
O brother of my love, adieu!
Dear sisters, hide your grief from view;
Your tears suppress, your joys renew;
Be happy while at Finorie.
Farewell, ye mountains capp’d with snow;
Ye wild resorts of deer and roe;
Long may the heath-cock live to crow
Among the braes of Finorie.
But matters are still further complicated in connection with this
favourite song. A gentleman from North Argyll assured the writer
that another Gaelic version was in general circulation long ago
in Mull and Morven. This might have been the original one by Dr
Macleod himself, from which Kelly translated; and the fact that the
original chorus, “_Eirich agus tiugainn O_,” has been known only in
Gaelic favours this supposition. Surely old folks in Morven must
still be able to repeat this supposed original version if it ever
had existence. If so, it is to be hoped that some one will take the
trouble of giving it to the world. But whoever the author was, the
song has obtained unquestionable hold of the Highland heart, no doubt
largely because it refers to an early event in the history of the
“Highlander’s friend,” the good, genial, and large hearted Norman
Macleod.
Poetry like that of A Mackay, of Moyhall (1821), of Archibald Grant,
of Glenmoriston (1863), of John Macinnes (1875), Callum Macphail
(1879), and of John Macfadyen (1890), shows excellent ease in
verse-making, and no small amount of humour at times; but it does not
demand serious examination. That so many volumes should be published
indicates much activity and energy on the part of an obscure Gaelic
muse.
Another bard of the name of Grant may be mentioned as belonging
to this class. Many of the popular lyrics have been composed by
authors who have not given us more than one or two songs. _Mo
Nighean Dubh_ was written by the Rev. Mr Morrison of Petty; _Mairi
Laghach_, by John Macdonald of Lochbroom; _Bonneid is it_, by
A. Macalister of Islay; _Eilein an Fhraoich_, by M. MacLeod of
Lewis. The mass of lyrics of this class is something enormous.
When translated into English they are felt to be simple—sometimes
painfully simple—metrical inartistic utterances of love-enkindled
hearts. Attached to tender and often very pretty airs they have lived
on the lips of thousands, and have cheered weary workers in the
field and at the fireside. Of the nameless class of plaintive lilts
is the following:—_Mo Run Geal Dileas_, well known throughout the
Highlands. There are many versions of it, and the number of verses
is scarcely ever the same. The chorus is rather unintelligible, and
may have belonged to an earlier set of verses. The verses translated
give a very fair conception of the merits and the spirit of the
original. Like the Laureate’s _Mariana_, many of these Highland
singers show much of the “a-weary, a-weary” condition of soul, and
people of pretended lofty moral culture condemn the poor lyrists for
manifesting such excess of feeling.
My faithful fair one, my own, my loved one,
My faithful fair one, return again;
O, I return not! my love, I may not;
For my own dear one is weak with pain.
O, that I were in the form of sea-gull,
That swims so lightly upon the sea;
Soon would I leave for the isle of Islay,
Where lives the maiden that grieved me.
O, that I were with the best of maidens!
In pleasant glades of the mountain side;
With none to hear us but woodland songsters,
I’d kiss my own one with loving pride.
I was a season in foreign regions—
In sunny climes that are far away;
None with thy beauty my eye could find there;
And with the fairest I would not stay.
I will not strive with the tree that bends not,
Though on its branch-tops sweet apples grow;
Farewell be with thee, if thou hast left me,
Ne’er came an ebb-tide without a flow.
_Mairi Laghach_ has become a great favourite, and has been translated
more than once. The author was John Macdonald, latterly of Crobeg,
in Lewis. He adopted the chorus of an inferior song which a _Muracha
nam Bo_ composed for his own daughter, who did not seem to elicit
much admiration from the ungallant bachelors in the neighbourhood.
Macdonald took up the air and composed the set of verses that are
now so popular. It is worthy of remark that in his case also the
subject of his song was a baby, and not a grown-up girl or woman.
Steering his barque across the Minch his thoughts reverted to the
friendly home he left behind him in Stornoway, and anxious to examine
his poetic gifts he composed his song to _Wee Mary_, as it might be
rendered, who then could not walk. Eventually she became his wife.
Once on a visit to Ireland, the author was surprised to hear, while
he himself was still a young man, his own song sung in an adjoining
room, which shows how readily a song that catches the popular ear and
taste will travel.
An endeavour is made to be as literal as possible in the following
translation, which must necessarily want much of the aroma of the
original:—
Early roved my Mary
With me through Glen-Smeoil,
When young love’s keen arrow
Pierced me to the soul.
With such living fervour
We together drew,
That none under heaven
Ever loved so true.
Oftentimes with Mary
To the hill I strayed,
Innocent and happy
Through the grassy glade:
Cupid ever busy
Teaching us to love,
As we rested fondly
In the sun-lit grove.
Though the wealth of Albin
Were assigned to me,
How could I be happy,
Dear one, without thee?
I would rather kiss thee,
As my own true bride,
Than possess the treasures
Found in Europe wide.
Thine the snowy bosom,
Filled with love for me,
Breast of beauty fairer
Than the swan on sea:
With the lovely tresses
Round thy ears that stray,
Golden curly wavelets
In their fond array.
All the pomp of princes
Did our pride surpass,
With our bed of grandeur
On the leaves and grass:
Flowers of the desert
Heart and soul to feed;
Streamlets from the mountains
Nourishing each seed.
Nought that men invented—
Pipe nor harp—could play
Music with the sweetness
Of our love-born lay:
With the larks above us,
Thrushes on the spray,
Cuckoos in the greenwood
Warbling to the May.
It is of course impossible to preserve the music of the original in
any translation; the renderings given above are intended merely to
indicate something of the spirit of the lyric treasures enshrined
in Gaelic. Any one turning to our collections of poetry, especially
to Sinclair’s “Oranaiche,” will at once see that the Highlands are
as rich as the Lowlands in song literature, and that the poetry
produced, is of an equally high order. There are hundreds of pieces
nameless and claimless on the lips of thousands which will continue
to be sung as long as there will be a tongue to speak the Gaelic
language. Such has been the poetic literature which for ages the Gael
has chiefly loved and cherished, and the better recognition of which
would enable the Highlander and Lowlander alike to show to the world
a body of song such as no country of the size of Scotland has ever
yet produced. Many suppose that the ancient language of Caledonia is
dead or dying;—it was never read nor written so extensively as now.
And it ought to be further remembered that the lyric genius of the
Highland Celt is not confined to what we have in Gaelic. Many men
of Gaelic extraction have exhibited their gift of song and music in
other spheres. Not to speak of the poets Ferguson and Burns, in whose
veins Celtic blood largely flowed, Thomas Campbell, was one of these.
Hector Macneill, the hope of Scotland after the death of Burns, was
another. The connection of Lord Macaulay with the lyric genius of
the Gael has been already pointed out. The songs of Dr Charles Mackay
are known to all the readers of English poetry; and those of Peter
Macneill of Tranent are on the full tide of popular esteem. The
names of George Macdonald and Robert Buchanan are familiar to all
the students of contemporary literature. In the kindred spheres of
music and the drama we come across the names of Mr Hamish MacCunn,
Dr A. C. Mackenzie, President of the Royal Academy of Music, and
the prima donna Miss Macintyre. Scores of others might be mentioned
whose genius is traceable to their Gaelic extraction, there being
scarcely a Highland clan name that has not its representative among
the crowned sons of song. In the ecclesiastical world the stars of
Celtic or Gaelic names are a legion. The position of Archbishop in
the great see of York has been attained successively by two men
of Gaelic extraction—the eloquent Magee being a descendant of the
Mackays of Islay, and his successor MacLagan being a member of a
distinguished Highland family which has given us the Gaelic bard
MacLagan, a profound Professor of Theology, late of Aberdeen—and now
the Archbishop himself.
The survey which we have just taken of our popular poetry clearly
indicates that the Gaelic is still the language in which many compose
and write. Many would heartily sing thus with Professor Blackie:—
Is there a Gael that dare despise
His mither tongue and a’ that,
And clips his words in Saxon wise?
He’s but a cuif for a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their hums and ha’s and a’ that,
We’ll still be true to speech we drew
Frae mither’s lips for a’ that.
The deep, full-breasted Highland tongue,
Wi’ _gairm_ and _glaodh_ and a’ that,
Ere Roman fought or Greeklings sung,
Was sounded loud for a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their classic lore and a’ that,
On Highland braes the Celtic phrase
Comes banging out for a’ that.
At the same time we have no wish to preserve Gaelic, as Professor
Blackie has said, in any artificial or galvanised existence. We
merely ask fair-play for it on the scene of linguistic competition.
And this fair-play it is now more than ever likely to receive, the
Highlanders having their own representatives now in Parliament and
in the county and parochial councils. As long as bards continue
to arise—and there is no sign that the supply will be readily
exhausted—and the people love to rehearse their strains, so long will
the Gaelic remain a living factor in the land. In these pages it is
attempted to show the extent and nature of this sort of literature
of the people; but as Highlanders we do not wish, in attempting to
bring the literature of our language before the world, to challenge
comparison with other bodies of literature. Our main purpose is
served if we succeed in showing to our fellow-countrymen, Highland
and Lowland, that there are national literary treasures which have
been hitherto comparatively overlooked, and which ought in an
important degree to add to the already high fame of bonnie Scotland
as a land whose glens and bens, whose rivers and lakes are everywhere
vocal with songs of love and patriotism.
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