BARDS OF THE CELTIC RENAISSANCE.
“That poet turned him first to pray
In silence; and God heard the rest,
’Twixt the sun’s footsteps down the west.”
—E. B. BROWNING.
Before the plough of cruel eviction from their homes cut deep furrows
into the Highland heart, the bards, such as Duncan Bàn, loved to
sing of the pleasures of the chase; but the second quarter of the
nineteenth century witnessed a change in this respect. A new, if
not a revolutionary spirit—at least one of discontent—got abroad
throughout the land. This “divine discontent” seized upon the
Highland bards, and the burning strains of Maclachlan of Morven and
William Livingston, no longer ran in the older moulds of Macintyre
and others. The extension of the franchise, the study of history
and the science of language, the growing sympathy with oppressed
nationalities, the revival of Christian forces, and the increasing
value attached to human life,—these and many other “cries of the
human,” helped forward a movement which may be fitly described
as a _Celtic Renaissance_. This Highland movement was reinforced
by kindred and sympathetic influences from Ireland, Wales, and
circles of social and linguistic learning on the Continent, until it
eventually bore statutory fruit in the Highland Land Act of 1886,
which constitutes an Imperial Charter of hereditary right to their
native land for the Gaelic-speaking communities of Scotland. This was
an achievement which even bards with millennial visions and hopes
could scarcely look forward to a generation ago.
The wails of the bards over Highland depopulation, however, nursed
the people’s discontent as well as their resolution to assert
themselves. A good proportion of the authors whose compositions come
under notice in this chapter come under the spell of the Celtic
Renaissance. Indeed this spirit of national resurrection is the
vital force pervading their productions which would be poor and
barren without it.
EVAN MACCOLL.
At the head of the Bards of the Victorian era stands Evan MacColl,
who was born in 1808 at Kenmore, Lochfyneside, Argyleshire, where
his father was a small farmer. Young MacColl eagerly seized on all
the sources of culture within his reach, and at an early age became
familiar with some of the chief works of English literature. He was
born and educated in the midst of strongly Celtic influences and
associations which continued to mould his mind and heart throughout
his whole career.
In 1836 he published “_The Mountain Minstrel; or, Clarsach nam
Beann_,” a series of English and Gaelic poems and songs. He is one
of the best known of our living Gaelic bards. Fletcher of Dunans and
Campbell of Islay, to whom the English and Gaelic parts of his volume
are respectively dedicated, befriended the young bard, who had proved
himself highly deserving of the patronage they extended to him. The
genius of MacColl is entirely lyrical, very few poems of any length
having come from his pen. His English songs are generally playful and
pleasant, but do not show much depth of passion. His Gaelic poems
have the same ring as his English pieces, but are more natural, and
show the bard at his ease in the use of language. MacColl is a sweet
and intelligent singer, but in real power of thought and expression
he is not Livingston’s equal. The following verses show MacColl in
his more vigorous style:—
“Ho! landed upon Moidart’s coast is Scotland’s rightful King!”
Such was the news to which the Gael once gave warm welcoming;
And soon, glad-buckling on their arms, stout chiefs and clansmen
true
Have sworn in his good cause to try what good broadswords can do.
No cravens they to count the cost of failure; man alive!
We’ll never see their like again—the Clans of ’Forty-five.
Brief time hath passed till Finnan’s vale is all alive with men
From east and west in loyal haste proud gathering to their ken,
The royal standard is unfurled—their prince himself is there,
Their loving homage to receive, their dangers all to share;
Grey chiefs, who for his fathers fought, the fire of youth revive,
To stirring pibrochs marshalling the Clans of ’Forty-five.
Let no man say that to restore a deed proscribed they arm—
They think but of _his_ loving trust, his Highland heart so warm,
His royal rights usurped—and they upon his princely brow
Would place his father’s crown or die. Too well they kept their
vow.
Let men who prate of loyalty in this _our_ day derive
Instruction in that virtue from the Clans of ’Forty-five.
Ay! let them think of brave Lochiel and Borrodale the bold—
Of Keppoch and Glengarry, too, those chiefs of iron mould—
The Chisholm, Cluny, Brahan’s lord, the Mackintosh so keen,
The Appin Stuarts and MacColls, the lion-hearts Maclean,
With many a Chief and Clan besides, who quickly did contrive
To make their names immortal in the famous ’Forty-five!
The poet, who entered the Liverpool Custom-House in 1839 through W.
F. Campbell of Islay, M.P. then for Argyleshire, removed to Canada
in 1850, where in a similar position at Kingston he remained until
he was superannuated in 1880. The venerable poet, now in the eighty
third year of his age, resides in Canada, where a son of his is an
able Congregational minister, and a daughter known as a poetess of
much merit.
None of the Gaelic bards had a wider acquaintance, nor a larger
outlook of life than MacColl. But in the midst of all new
associations and attractions, he remained at heart frankly and even
sternly Highland. The following verse of an address (1878), to a
well-known Highland patriot, Mr John Murdoch, illustrates this phase
of his character:—
I think I see thy manly form,
Firm and unyielding as Cairngorm,
The poor man’s cause maintaining warm,
Just like a true-souled Highlander;
I see the scorn within thine eye
_As some evicting Chief goes by—_
One whose forbears would sooner die
Than dispossess a Highlander.
Before Celtic things were held in such esteem as they are now, or
rather, perhaps, before their value was appreciated as recently,
men of Celtic extraction like Macaulay and Charles Mackay wrote of
the Highlanders and Highlands, not only without discrimination and
sympathy, but without knowledge, and even in a spirit of savage
contempt. The latter lived to express regret for his earlier conduct;
the former had not the same opportunity of modifying his earlier
impressions, and his Highland fellow-countrymen were not slow to
declare their minds on the subject. Among those who sought to pay
back the illustrious historian in his own coin was Evan MacColl. On
the occasion of Macaulay’s death some one had written “Macaulay now
is registered among England’s mighty dead!” On this MacColl wrote
verses the first and last of which are as follows:—
Hech, sirs! “Macaulay’s registered
’Mong England’s mighty dead!”
Let us hope that he lies buried near
Her first mean-mighty Ned.
Scotland can never well forget
The zeal of those two men,—
The one to stab her with the sword—
The other with the pen.
* * * * *
But let that pass,—he’s there—John Bull
Is not so much to blame;
He lived to magnify John’s rule,—
John magnifies _his_ name.
The wonder, after all, is how
John could be fooled so far
As a mere meteoric light
To worship as a star.
The warm and generous heart of the bard is revealed in much of his
poetry. His little poem, _Let us do the best we can_, shows his
sympathy with the struggling poor:—
Mark yon worldling lost in self,
Dead to every social glow;
Wouldst thou, to own all his pelf,
All life’s purer joys forego?
Truest wealth is doing good—
Doctrine strange to him, poor man!
If we can’t do all we would,
Let us do the best we can.
One of the best criticisms on MacColl’s poetry comes from the pen
of Hugh Miller: “There is more of fancy than of imagination in the
poetry of MacColl, and more of thought and imagery than of feeling.
In point, glitter, polish, he is the Moore of Highland song.
Comparison and ideality are the leading features of his mind. Some of
the pieces in this volume are sparkling tissues of comparison from
beginning to end.”
JAMES MUNRO.
A little volume, _Am Filldh_, mostly written by James Munro (1840),
author of the “Gaelic Grammar,” contains a great deal of first-class
poetry. In the composition of small pieces of the sentimental
kind, Munro is scarcely inferior to Livingston in freshness and
condensation, and is MacColl’s equal. We have in the “Filidh” several
pieces by other hands, as well as excellent translations from
the English. Munro was a man of thorough culture, and profoundly
acquainted with the extent and idioms of the Gaelic language. Of all
this there is undoubted evidence in his poetry. Here is a rendering
of one of Munro’s songs, which is attached to a very fine air:—
Dark winter is going;
Kind breezes are blowing;
The mountains are glowing
With colours more fair.
The face of the flowers
Grows fresh ’neath the showers;
And warmer the bowers
Appear in the glare.
The summer advances
With heat-shedding glances;
His sunny beam dances
With joy on the cold.
The little birds singing,
The woodlands are ringing;
The primrose is springing
To deck the green wold.
The sun in fresh power
Calls forth bird and bower
In robes of fair flower
Enchanting to see
But, honey-lipt lover,
Thy charms I look over;
In them I discover
Sweet beauties more rare.
Come with me, then, dearest,
To woodlands the nearest,
To plight troth sincerest
Of love evermore.
JOHN MACLACHLAN.
The late Dr Maclachlan of Rahoy, in Morven, stands high as a poet.
A little volume of his poems was published in 1868. Like all the
singers whose works have become popular in the Highlands, all that
he wrote was intended to be sung. He looks at nature as a man of
culture and tender sympathies, and with an independent eye; and what
he sings comes with all the freshness of the evening breeze as it
sweeps o’er the Highland loch. One theme he especially dwells on—the
depopulation of the Highlands. His heart is saddened as he sees the
Lowland shepherd, who has no sympathy with the place, the people,
or their language, treading with his dogs the glens and hillsides
where many expatriated Gaels had once their happy homes. He has
also written several love lyrics which are admirable in conception
and expression. A song on “Drink,” _Cha’n òl mi deur tuille_, is
the best of that sort in the language. Dr Maclachlan lived all his
days in Morven, beside his accomplished neighbour, the Rev. Dr John
MacLeod, himself a man of no mean poetic powers. Although a skilful
practitioner, and possessing considerable talents, he never sought
for a more ambitious sphere. He loved the people around—he was widely
known—and they loved him in return. He never married, and he lived
till he was an old man, not perhaps less liked by his neighbours
for his weakness for a dram, which he and they thought a necessary
beverage in chill and misty Morven. Here is a translation, well
executed by Mr H. Whyte, of one of Maclachlan’s poems:—
O lovely glen! as through a haze
Of tears that dim mine eye,
Upon thy futile fields I gaze,
Fair as in days gone by.
Thy stately pines their tall heads rear
O’er fairy knolls and braes;
Thy purling streamlets now I hear,
Like music’s sweetest lays.
Thy herds are feeding as of yore
With sheep upon the lea;
The heron fishes in the shore,
The white-gull on the sea.
The cuckoo’s voice is heard at dawn,
The dove coos in the tree;
The lark, above thy grassy lawn,
Now carols loud with glee.
Repose supremely reigns o’er all,
Low crowns the mountains hoar;
And vividly they now recall
The days that are no more.
Thy gurgling brooks, and winds that fleet
Through groves of stately pine,
Awaken with their converse sweet
Sad thoughts of auld lang syne.
Thy peaceful dwellings, once so bright,
In dreary ruins lie;
The traveller sees not from the height
The smoke ascending high.
To yonder garden once thy pride,
No one attention shows,
And weeds grow thickly side by side,
Where bloomed the blushing rose.
Where are the friends of worthy fame,
Their hearts on kindness bent;
Whose welcome cheered me when I came,
Who blessed me as I went?
Full many in the churchyard sleep,
The rest are far away,
And I forlorn in silence weep,
With neither friend nor stay.
Death in my breast has fixed his dart,
My heart is growing cold,
And from this world I’ll soon depart,
To rest beneath the mould.
A new edition of his poems, with a sketch of his life from the pen
of Dr Cameron Gillies, was published some twelve years ago under the
auspices of the Glasgow Morven Association, whose members had also in
hand the erection of a monument to the bard’s memory.
ANGUS MACDONALD.
The compositions of Angus Macdonald, the Glen-Urquhart Bard, show
poetic genius of a high order in the few poems of his which have yet
seen the light. He has left some poems in manuscript which it is
hoped, will some day be published. The poems in the _Gael_ and in
the _Inverness Transactions_ remind us of the productions of very
kindred spirits, Livingston and R. Macdougall. He and Livingston
seem to have diligently cultivated the style and manner of Ossian,
particularly of the Gaelic of 1807. He was a master of rich idiomatic
Gaelic, and having also the “accomplishment of verse,” he could make
himself terrible or tender, just as his muse was stirred. He had a
particularly true eye for the beauties of nature; and was always
accurate and graphic in his descriptions. He possessed a keen and
cultivated ear—was a teacher of music for some time; so his verse
is full of melody and harmonious cadences. He excelled in poetry of
the Ossianic type; but, like all masters of the art, he shows also
much tenderness in his love lyrics. He was appointed the first bard
of the Inverness Gaelic Society, an office filled by Mrs Mackellar
afterwards. He received in 1869 a medal for a prize poem from “The
Club of True Highlanders,” London. His daughter, Mrs A. Mackenzie of
Inverness, has inherited some of her father’s genius, and is herself
the author of compositions of considerable excellence.
MARY MACKELLAR.
A volume of goodly size, _Poems and Songs: Gaelic and English_, by
this poetess, was published in 1881. Mary Mackellar has for many
years been well-known as a woman of bright poetic powers; and her
talents in this respect were some time ago recognised by the Gaelic
Society of Inverness, when she was appointed Bard. Her poems are
characterised by much vigour and freshness, and evince a subtlety
of conception which is quite beyond the ability of the ordinary
Gaelic versifiers. It is premature yet to judge what position she
may take among the Gaelic bards. Her songs, superior as some of them
are, have not yet been accorded much popularity. There is a sort
of straining—an occasional abstruse Browning element in her Gaelic
pieces—which is probably the cause of this and which has evidently
resulted from too close a following of the abstract conceptions
of modern English poets, the natural utterance of which Gaelic is
somewhat unfitted for. She possesses keen and nervous sensibilities,
and looks at nature with a warm, sympathetic, and observant eye.
Like the brook from the gully she bursts forth with rich thought
and melody; but her poems frequently want breadth of basis. She has
generally the true inspiration, but she does not manage sufficiently
to lose her self-consciousness—to fall into that state of _abandon_
which is needed for the production of the highest forms of poetry.
At the same time she has proved herself one of the best Gaelic
poetesses the Highlands has produced. Her English pieces are vigorous
and readable. They are not inferior to her Gaelic poems, although
occasionally exhibiting want of Wordsworth’s “accomplishment of
verse” so keenly felt by Hugh Miller in his own case. All Highlanders
welcomed Mary Mackellar’s excellent contribution to their native
literature. She died in 1890 in Edinburgh, and members of the Cameron
Clan—her maiden name being Cameron—accompanied her remains to their
final resting-place in her native Lochaber.
DUGALD MACPHAIL.
This cultivated poet, a native of Mull, author of _An t-Eilein
Muileach_, one of the popular songs in the language, was a man of
strong and well-cultivated intellect, who did not at all give us
what might be expected from one of his rich poetic endowments. But
what he has done is first-class. The most of it will be found in
the “Oranaiche.” Macphail was also known as a most effective Gaelic
speaker, as well as a clever writer of Gaelic stories. He has done
good work in translating religious productions, his translation of
MacLaurin’s magnificent sermon on “Glorying in the Cross of Christ”
being one of the best little books in the Gaelic language.
* * * * *
There are several minor bards whose names have for a long time been
known in different parts of the Highlands—
ROBERT MACDOUGALL, author of “A Gaelic Guide” to Canada, where he
resided for some time, published an interesting volume of poems
in 1840. Along with original pieces of great merit he gives a
translation of _Tam o’ Shanter_, and of some poems of Byron, whom he
somewhat imitated. He was the first, along with James Munro, of the
new school of poetry to which Livingston, Angus Macdonald, and others
of the present day belong.
ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL, of Kinloch-Earn, brought out a neat volume of
songs and poems in 1831. One or two of them have become very popular.
His style is unaffected, and the sentiment natural. The whole volume
is fully of average merit.
JOHN CAMERON, of Ballachulish, author of “Dan Spioradail” (1862), has
written several poems and songs of considerable merit. The best-known
is _Duil ri Bailc-ehaolais fhaicinn_. Like Mary Mackellar, Cameron
did not continue a worshipper at the shrine of the sacred Muse, to
which he seems to have been devoted in his early days.
JOHN CAMPBELL, of Leadaig, is well-known as the author of several
excellent poems, one of which has been translated by Professor
Blackie. There is much taste as well as evidence of fair culture in
all that Campbell has written. His poetry is distinguished by the
pastoral sweetness and light of a simple Highland life.
JOHN MACKORKINDALE, a native of Islay, afterwards in Canada,
possesses true poetic insight, and had he continued to cultivate
Gaelic poetry he could produce excellent work. Parts of a poetic
dialogue on “Dun Bhrusgraidh” by him were reprinted in the first
volume of _The Gael_.
GEORGE CAMPBELL, late of Kinabus, in the same island, composed a
great deal of poetry of more than average merit, but his compositions
were never collected and published. _Fuirich a Ribhinn phriseal_
is to be found in the “Oranaiche.” The maiden addressed is Jean
Wodrow, daughter of the Kildalton minister, who published in 1771
a mellifluous rhyming version of _Fingal_, founded on Macpherson’s
English.
THE REV. DONALD MACRAE, a native of Plockton, late of Ness, Lewis,
was a true poet, although he did not produce much. A sweet, pathetic
poem, by him, _The Emigrant’s Lament_, written on the occasion of
many of his congregation in Lewis leaving for Canada, has been much
admired, and has been translated into English by a daughter of late
Rev. Dr Gibson of Glasgow:—
THE EMIGRANT’S LAMENT.
We’ve gone to the shore,
With those who no more
Shall see their own isle
For ever.
Th’ iron ship’s now their home,
Through white, curling foam
They speed, some in joy,
Some weeping.
See childhood’s glad eye;
But list woman’s sigh!
Even manhood’s stout heart
Is breaking!
Hot streaming tears flow,
Now silent in woe,
They’re looking behind
In sorrow.
Still sailing on west,
From the land they love best,
They gaze upon nought
But Muirneag!
See Muirneag depart!
Dear hill of their heart
Now lost to their view
For ever!
’Tis sunk in the sea,
Each cheek becomes pale!
Oh! list yon wild wail
For Muirneag!
Dear friends, loved so well,
Are left far behind,
Fond bleeding hearts swell
With anguish!
The bereaved pastor continues the wail further in a more religious
strain, hoping—
When time shall have passed
May all meet at last,
Safe at yon fair haven,
In glory!
WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.
The Bard of Lochfyne is probably the best-known hitherto of the
Gaelic _singers_ of this century; but his place is disputed by
the sweet lyrist of Rahoy. Though not so popular as these two, as
a mere singer, because he has produced so few songs suitable for
singing, William Livingston must be regarded as the most powerful
poetic personality among the Celtic bards of this century. Like
Browning among the English poets, Livingston is less known than
minor claimants for bardic recognition, because the general reader
of Gaelic poetry is not always capable of appreciating anything
higher in the poetic scale than smooth-flowing verse and mellifluous
rhymes that make no demand on the severer exercise of thought. But
his position as a bard among his contemporaries has been more than
once recognised by a few of the most distinguished Celtic scholars
and critics of his time. In competition for prizes offered by the
Glasgow Celtic Society, on three occasions Livingston obtained the
first prize, some of the adjudicators being the late Rev. Dr Smith
of Inverary; the late Rev. Duncan MacNab of Renfield Free Church,
Glasgow; and the late Rev. Duncan MacLean of Glenorchy;—the last
being himself a sacred poet of very considerable genius. Many of his
competitors on these occasions are authors of very popular songs, but
their productions must be credited with more rhyme than poetic power.
William Livingston was born in Gartmain, in Islay, in the year
1808. There are not many of his kith and kin in that island now,
nor is there any evidence that his humble progenitors were anything
else than some of those nomadic individuals or families, of a
Celto-Germanic character, unconnected particularly with any of the
well-known clans, but who, in the political economy of the Highlands
were ranged under the name of “siol Dhomhnuill,” or some other,
and in latter days became more unreasonably Celtic in their race
antipathies than the purer Celts themselves. The late notorious
Mitchell and the present leaders of the Irish Home Rulers are Irish
instances of what has been stated. The bard Livingston is a Scottish
instance; and the proximity of his native place to Ireland’s northern
coasts may have some suggestive value, especially when his training,
or rather no training, and the sources of his historical and social
knowledge are taken into consideration. There is another Livingstone
of Highland extraction—his family were originally from Mull—who has
had some connection with Glasgow like his namesake the bard; but Dr
David Livingstone, the devoted and distinguished African traveller,
turned his attention and directed his labours to the amelioration of
the condition of Africa’s benighted and dusky children. Livingstone,
the traveller, regarded all the sons of humanity, whether they were
black or white, of whatever race, as the sons of the one great
Father, equally good and precious in his sight, and all of one blood;
but Livingston the bard devoted all his energies to the patriotic
rehearsal, in prose and verse, of the doughty deeds and ancient
prowess of our Scottish ancestors; with him the Scotsman alone ought
to occupy the position of lord of creation, especially if it could
be proved he was a Celt,—and the Englishman especially, on account
of his continual oppression of the smaller kingdom of Scotland, he,
like Irishmen of a certain order, regarded with intense dislike, as
the universal tyrant throughout the civilised world. The bones of
the distinguished traveller Dr Livingstone were deposited in their
final resting-place in Westminster Abbey amid the sympathetic tears
of all civilised nations. He was a cosmopolitan patriot, one of the
few extraordinary men whom God vouchsafes in the progress of the
ages for the enlightenment of the dark places of the earth and the
promotion of the highest interests of universal humanity. Livingston,
the bard, whose pursuit after knowledge under unusually unfavourable
conditions, and whose indomitable perseverance and fervour of heart
were not unlike those of David Livingstone had but a very limited
vision of the functions of his mission into the world. The duties
which he assigned to himself were the magnifying of Scotland’s fame
and glory, the lashing in Wallace and Bruce fashion of the Teutonic
intruder from the south of the Tweed, and the special vindication
of the Celtic character from the continual aspersions of the
uncircumcised Saxon. He did his work with a will, but there was no
need for it. It was as uncalled for as Thomson’s work on _Liberty_,
which, undertaken in an unwise moment, notwithstanding its fine
poetry, the public, not without reason, condemned to “gather spiders
and to harbour dust.” When highly needed work goes without its reward
it cannot be a matter of surprise that unnecessary ebullitions of
patriotism do not always pay; so poor Livingston, like not a few of
the order of Bards, died somewhat neglected in an obscure street of
the philanthropic city of Glasgow. But he did not die unknown to a
few sympathising friends. The members of the Islay Association and
others were always anxious to relieve the necessities of the poet
when his temper and ways made it possible to be of some service
to him. In some respects his own independence was like that proud
independence of his native country, of which he was so fervent a
singer. He died in 1870, his wife predeceasing him a few weeks.
Much of the character of Livingston is traceable to his upbringing.
In youth he received no education, and his earliest training when a
boy was herding cattle. Was not Rob Donn, the Sutherlandshire Bard,
also a herd? But it was thought fit to set the embryo herd-poet
to learn a trade, and he served his time at tailoring, which he
carried on in a desultory fashion all his days, and in which he was
intelligently and sympathetically assisted by his frugal wife. He was
thus a grown-up man before he got any education, and all he ever got
was self-taught; and had his pride permitted him to tell the story
of his struggles after knowledge, English, Latin, French, Greek,
and a little Hebrew, it would furnish an interesting chapter in the
annals of the pursuit of learning under difficulties. The manuscripts
of his in possession of the writer show the extraordinary pains he
took with his work—his endeavours after a purer English style, even
when well-advanced in years—and what a long time he was a wooer of
the muses before he arrived at the intensity of poetical conception
which distinguished his later poetry. His earlier efforts do not seem
to have been very successful, and they are of a somewhat humorous
character. He almost stands alone among the prominent Gaelic bards in
having given us no love songs. The reason is that he was probably a
married man before the dormant powers of his poetic nature awakened.
While there is much tenderness in all his descriptions of nature, the
reader of his poetry must feel that he is always surrounded by an
atmosphere of martial enthusiasm and intense patriotic sentiment. He
was too wise to attempt the singing of a passion the power of which
did not evidently permeate his nature; but the love of fatherland,
the story of the gory struggle of Scottish independence were to him
all-absorbing sources of inspiration; and to these he always turns,
and finds in them the congenial themes on which he enthusiastically
lavishes the rich poetic gifts with which he was endowed.
Livingston published his first volume of poetry in 1858. A smaller
volume followed a few years afterwards, in 1865; and in 1868 a few
poems in pamphlet form, one of them being a prize production—being
the third piece for which he received a prize from the Glasgow Celtic
Society. The year before his death he began to arrange his poems
with a view to publishing them all in one volume, but before he
transcribed more than half a dozen of them his pen was arrested by an
invisible Power.
“Death’s subtle seed within,
Sly treacherous miner! working in the dark
Smiled at the well-concerted scheme.”
I well remember how the old bard, with his magnificent beard, which
he often stroked with evident admiration, and which seemed to be
growing up to his very eyes—small piercing eyes that scanned the
neighbours suspiciously—emphasised the hope that when the proposed
volume would appear, it would contain fully as much first-class
poetry as the works of either of the three Gaelic modern bards,
Mackay, Macintyre, or Macdonald. It is pleasant to know that the work
which the bard had so much at heart has been accomplished under the
auspices of the Islay Association, mainly at the suggestion and with
the assistance of a patriotic countryman—Mr Colin Hay—who is a great
admirer of Livingston’s poetry.
The longest of Livingston’s poems is a dramatic piece entitled _The
Danes in Islay_. It is the only proper dramatic poem in the language.
The subject is one that the poet could take up with much enthusiasm,
as he pictured to himself the Norse army in a fleet of sixty-three
sail entering the spacious Lochindaul, and dropping anchor there with
no friendly intent. The bard’s historical and antiquarian knowledge
stood him here in good stead. The great Macdonald, Prince of the
Isles, is the central figure, and next to him the aged but faithful
Mackay of Rhinns, both of whom are immediately informed by their
watchful scouts of the advent of those hereditary foes, the Norse
invaders, on the green shores of Islay, which was once in their own
possession. The fiery cross is sent all over the island to call
together the brave subjects of the Macdonald to defend their homes
and hearths. A battle takes place; and in the final struggle there
are many heroes who do great and incredible deeds, chief among whom
are—Nuagan Mor, a Norse prince; Raosbun, Gilleathain Thora, and
Donncha Mor Laorain. Though this is one of the most ambitious of
Livingston’s productions, yet it is not equal as a whole, and not so
finished, nor of so high an order as, for example, his prize poems;
but the lyrical portions of it are very fine, the marching song of
Mackay of Rhinns, to the tune of _Mnathan a’ Ghlinne so_, being quite
a gem. Here are some verses of a war chant which occurs in the poem.
The Norse invaders are supposed to rehearse the following wild and
fierce lyric as they drop anchor in the harbour of Lochindaul:—
Here we come, but we thus will not leave you—
The axe, axe;
To-morrow will startle and grieve you
With the axe, the axe.
A red blazing torch in each dwelling—
The axe, the axe;
Your goods plundered, your captured wives yelling—
The axe, the axe.
Fleeing, and cursing, and wailing—
The knife, knife;
The girth of your knees shall be failing
For the knife, knife,
They who meet us shall leave that place never—
The knife, knife;
Morn or eve shall they see them for ever—
The knife, knife;
None shall live to tell of the Reaver
With the axe, axe;
But the raven above shall be croaking—
The axe, axe;
And then feast on their limbs till he’s choking—
The axe, axe.
You now live who in blood then shall welter—
The knife, knife;
Cave or hole cannot hide you or shelter
From the knife, knife.
Through your throats the hoarse chorus ascending—
The knife, knife;
In that cry screams and groans shall keep blending—
The knife, knife.
All these ills shall your great men entangle—
The axe, axe—
Ere their heads on our green withs shall dangle—
The axe, axe;
The nerves of their necks we will rend them—
With the axe, axe;
To the anvil to roast then we’ll send them—
The axe, axe—
The head of Mackay shall we shinty—
The axe, axe—
Down the Rhinns, where his kin shall grow scanty,
With the axe, axe.
The _Danes in Islay_ is not the only _cath_ or battle that the bard
has sought to immortalise in tough classical Celtic. We have also
several vigorous poems on the battles of Scotland’s earlier struggles
for independence. Livingston’s muse is nearly wholly of a martial
order, which, while it explains his want of popularity among what
he would regard as a somewhat effeminate generation, is the more
remarkable when it is remembered how purely sentimental the most of
his contemporary bards have been. The titles of three other poems
are—_The Battle of Mona Phraca_, _The Battle of Dail-righ_—regarded
as his best—and that of _Tra-Ghruinard_, where the great Sir Lachlan
MacLean of Duart fell, pierced by the fatal shaft of the dwarf
_Dubh-Shee_, who offered services the Knight of Duart despised. The
dwarf is described by the bard in pretty expressive terms—“_Treoich
a ghuir an Diabhul ’san Lag an Diura!_” The best of all his poems is
the 100 lines (the number was limited) prize poem on the achievements
of the Highland regiments in the Crimean war. There is nothing
better, and not many poems equal to it in the whole range of Celtic
poetry. The best-known of his poems is _Fios thun a’ Bhaird_, or
Word to the Bard, supposed to have been sent to him in Glasgow from
a farmer’s wife in Islay, the late Mrs Blair, of Lonban, who showed
much kindness to the bard when on a visit to his native island, and
whose son is the popular minister, the Rev. Robert Blair, who was a
constant friend of Livingston, and who edited the complete edition of
his works (1881). In this delightful poem he describes in stanzas of
great beauty and tenderness the changes that have taken place, the
ruins of the depopulated districts, and the natural scenery of the
island. The following are the opening stanzas of the _Message to the
Bard_:—
The morn is bright with sunshine,
And soft the west wind sighs;
The loch is calm and quiet,
Since peace reigns in the skies.
Bedecked with canvas gaily,
Barks glide unwearily;
To the Bard rehearse the story
Of these things I hear and see.
This is the month of blossom,
When the herds of cattle go
To the glens of lonely corries,
Where they neither reap nor sow.
But in these green-clad inches
My kine now never be:
To the Bard rehearse the story
Of these things I hear and see.
On heathy heights in thousands
Stray flocks of kine and sheep;
And deer rush o’er the wild steeps
Where freshening breezes sweep—
The noble antlered race
Bedewed that tread the hills with glee,
To the Bard rehearse the story
Of these things I hear and see.
One of the most admired of Livingston’s poems is that on the
achievements of the Highland regiments under Sir Colin Campbell
in the Crimean War. As much of its beauty consists in a sort of
proverbial form of expression, of which the bard was a consummate
master, and in a rhythm of consonantal rhymes, much of what is
powerful in the original becomes quite prosaic when rendered
literally into English. Here is the first half of the poem, which may
indicate something of its manner:—
ALMA.
Tidings of awe came to my ear—
An ominous threat that war was near;
I sought out Albin’s central height,
To view the distant scene of fight.
I saw beneath one standard there—
The figure of the Northern Bear.
There thousands in their armèd might
Panted for battle’s fierce delight.
O’er Alma’s heights the Russians rolled,
Defiant, warlike, keen, and bold;
In war-array the hostile force
Stood there in ranks of foot and horse;
Then came the order for the Gael
Those scarpy brows of death to scale.
Down from that hoary rocky crest
Poured showers of fire into their breast;
Forward the fearless heroes leapt;
Mid clouds of slaughter on they swept;
“For Victory” the Lion roared;
The Finian clans unsheathed the sword,
Like rapid swollen floods in Clyde;
Grand, swift as Es-linn’s silver tide;
So rushed the heroes in their might
Of ardour to the field of fight,
Beneath that proud, unconquered shred
Of ancient fame the Gaels were led;—
With those broad brands ye did unsheathe
Ye left destruction, groans, and death;—
Ye from the land of hill and flood
Heroic thus the foe withstood;
And from those rocky heights of woe,
Ye swept disgraced that host of snow.
They trembled as they saw with dread
The lion, rousing, raging, red,
To scatter with resistless force
And ire their columns, man and horse;
Deeds sure to kindle our emotion
While earth remaineth wed to ocean.
BALACLAVA.
’Mid thund’ring guns and clash of arms
I saw amass the Russian swarms
On Balaclava’s dusky plain;
There waved the eagle fierce and fell
To widen more its ravenous reign,
Like a foul bird of restless hell.
Thousands responding bent on prey,
And gorging blood her power obey;
The hoarse-voiced horn began to bray;
The steeds of war began to neigh, &c.
Notwithstanding his exceeding patriotism it cannot be said that
Livingston was either very generous or magnanimous. While haunted
with painful suspicions he allowed the canker of vindictiveness to
mar the finer elements of his nature. His envy also rendered him
almost intolerable to all his Highland literary friends in Glasgow.
But these, as one of them once remarked, could afford to prize all
that was good in the bard and overlook his shortcomings. When this
friend was dying William came to ask his forgiveness, which he was
assured he had, with the remark, “William, my ghost will not trouble
you.” This gentleman knew the bard’s selfish motive in asking pardon,
and the superstitious reason for his so doing. Notwithstanding all
this, the man was not many days in his grave when the bard began to
attack him in a scurrilous letter in the newspapers, which, however,
was not inserted. He might be described as a Celtic brother of
Walter Savage Landor, whom he resembled in several respects. But the
sphere of life in which Livingston was born, and his want of early
education, ought to make us charitable in our judgments of the savage
element of his character. It must be acknowledged, at the same time,
that beneath the barbarian patriotism of his nature there lay a depth
of tenderness and warmth of a grateful heart, which we discern in
several of his pieces on individual persons. There can be no doubt,
also, that many of his eccentricities arose from finding himself out
of joint in the social world, where mere patriotism or poetic talent
cannot frequently obtain the means or influence which self-conscious
spirits so hopelessly look for.
_Blar Shunadail_, a piece of considerable length and merit, was
published in _The Gael_ after his death. The only other piece of
importance is _Driod-fhoitan Imhir an Racain_, a poem of five or six
hundred lines long.
It ought to be mentioned that two gentlemen, one belonging to Kintyre
and the other to Cowal, were constant friends to Livingston—the
late Mr Gilchrist, printer, Glasgow, and also Mr Duncan Whyte, of
the same city. Livingston was intensely Celtic in all his ideas and
habits. He has written a good deal of prose in English; but in that
language he is like a lion in chains. He published “A Vindication
of the Celtic Character,” a goodly volume of strong Celtic feeling
and prejudice, such as we would now expect from an Irish Celt; also,
several parts of a history of Scotland, which he did not finish,
he and the publishers having disagreed on account of the strong
anti-English feeling displayed by the writer. He swallowed the old
Scottish chroniclers, especially their anti-English prejudices, and
accepted as pure truth all that they have recorded. The Scotsman
of the days of Bruce and Wallace scarcely cherished so much of the
spirit of nationality and animosity against England as Livingston
did. At the same time there was an element of hollowness in his
assumed patriotism into which, however, he sought to thoroughly work
himself, like some others of his countrymen of the present day. It
can scarcely be denied that an element of unhealthiness prevailed in
the moral basis of his nature; but unlike many others of the Highland
poets, the smallest trace cannot be found in his works. A few years
ago a monument was erected to his memory in Janefield Cemetery,
Glasgow. Well has he described his own spirit in the following
quatrain of Scotch:—
We see the buckles glancin’
On his _fraochan_ shoon,
_He’ll mak’ the Lawlands Hielan’_
Ere he’ll lea’ the toun.
NEIL MACLEOD.
This author, the son of the well known _Bard Sgiathanach_, Donald
Macleod, is undoubtedly chief among the living singers of the
Gael. Several of his songs have become very popular, such as _An
Gleann ’san robh mi Og_. All his productions are characterised by
purity of style and idiom, freshness of conception and gentleness
of spirit, and liquid sweetness of versification. His “Clarsach an
Doire” contains as much variety of good popular songs as any volume
of a single author in the language. The Gaelic Society of Inverness
has just appointed him to the position of Bard to the Society in
succession to Mary Mackellar. May he long live to wear his laurels,
and continue to delight his countrymen with new songs of his native
land and people.
REV. DONALD MACCALLUM.
The Rev. Donald Maccallum, a native of central Argyleshire, now a
parish minister in Lewis, is the author of a small volume of songs
and poems entitled _Sop as gach Seid_. His works evince a genuine
poetic spirit,—a quiet meditative mood and thoughtful observation
that so many parts of the Highlands are so well fitted to produce and
nurse. Mr Maccallum has perfect command over the language and the
“mechanic exercise” of verse; but he will probably be more remembered
in Highland history as almost the only minister of the State Church
in Scotland who had the moral courage to stand up for the people in
the struggle of the crofter agitation in the years 1883-86.
DR JOHN MACGREGOR.
This writer, Surgeon-Major Macgregor, M.D., of the Bombay Army, a
native of Lewis, has kept alive the Gaelic muse for many years in
the far-off fields of Hindostan. In that land of many languages
and many races Dr Macgregor composed many excellent lyrics in his
native tongue of the Gael, and got them printed there as well.
In the midst of his honourable and successful career, the poet’s
fancies continually turn to home scenes and dear ones left in the old
country. Memories of _Mairi na h-Airidh_, “Mary of the Shieling,”
or some others, find pleasant embalmment in smooth-flowing verse.
In 1890 appeared a long English poem from his pen, _The Girdle
of the Globe_, which has been very well received by many who are
well-entitled to judge, some of the lyrics scattered throughout the
cantos showing the spirit and power of utterance of the true poet.
We look for much more some of these days from his pen, especially
when, as he may do before long, he retires from the honourable
service of his country to cultivate the favours of the muse at home.
MARY MACPHERSON.
Mrs Macpherson (née Macdonald), a native of Skye, had some bitter
experiences of life some twenty years ago or more, when she was
about fifty years of age, and then her latent powers of verse-making
began to assert themselves. In recent years she has composed largely
on themes of local interest,—on the land question, her favourites
among those by whom this question has been kept alive, and on her
own personal grievances. Like Rob Donn she has been very fortunate
in having some _patroni_ who have patriotically espoused the cause
of her muse and borne the expense of publishing in excellent style
her compositions. The highly competent pens of Mr John Whyte and
Mr Alexander MacBain have helped in the production of the volume
(Inverness, 1891). The one took down the poems in correct writing
from the composer’s dictation, while the other has supplied an
introductory biographical sketch. The portraits of the poetess in
various attitudes representative of Highland home industry are a good
feature of the volume.
* * * * *
If we follow the Highlander across the ocean we find him there as
fond of poetry and song as he was in his original home. The REV.
D. B. BLAIR, of Canada, has contributed a good deal to Gaelic
literature. He is the author of many original poems of much merit,
one on the Falls of Niagara being particularly excellent. He has
translated parts of Virgil’s Æneid from the Latin. It was said some
time ago that he had ready for the press a Gaelic grammar and a new
Gaelic version of the Psalms.
The REV. A. M. SINCLAIR, of Nova Scotia, is also a worshipper of the
muse. He, indeed, belongs to a family of bards. The Gaels on this
side are particularly indebted to Maclean Sinclair for his valuable
contributions to their literature, his last two volumes (1890) being
a handsome addition to the catalogue of good Highland books
But it is not in America alone that we find the cultivation of
the Gaelic muse. If we go to New Zealand we find there FARQUHAR
MACDONNELL, once of Plockton, a composer of considerable genius, and
one of whose songs has become a popular favourite.
It is not only in Canada and New Zealand but also in Australia that
the Gaelic muse is kept alive. Here are verses of a pretty poem in
Gaelic and English by the Rev. A. Cameron, a native of Lochaber, from
that broad continent in the Antipodes. The author holds communion
with the Ree waterfall, Nether-Lochaber, in a dream:—
I gaze on thee thou wondrous fall!
As I had done long years ago;
I travelled far on duty’s call
Since last I saw thy currents flow.
In days gone by, when joy was young,
’Twas my delight to sit me here;
When thy grave voice, so full and strong,
A pleasant song was to mine ear.
Methinks I hear thy waters say,
In greeting accents bathed in tears,
“Where did thy wandering footsteps stray
These many long and weary years?
“I missed thee on the rocky brink,
Thy youthful shadow on the pool,
When thou would’st say as thou would’st think
Thy daily lesson for the school:
“When none but I was to thee near
Save He who guides our weary ways,
To whom creation all is dear,
As joining in His glory’s praise.”
We have thus seen that throughout India, America, and Australasia
we can find singers and composers of Gaelic songs, representing
leal-hearted sons of the Highlands, who have nobly served their
country, their people, and their God.
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