To-night my mourning is great,
Thou tonsured priest whom I love,
While I reflect on the fight,
With red-tree[102] Cairbar we fought,
Son to great Cormaig O’Cuinn,
Woe to the Feinn whom he seized;
A king who ne’er shunned the fight,
And feared not the face of man.
The Feinn to a man did serve,
Finn and the good race of Conn,
Till the day of Cairbar Roy;
Nor evil nor weakness fear’d.
Brave Cairbar his people addressed,
Deceitful indeed was the speech.
In battle would he choose to fall,
The Feinn and he together,
Ere even as a King he’d live
With Erin beneath the Feinn.
Barrin then spoke boldly out,
Remember Muckrey[103] and Art;
How your great ancestors fell,
Resisting the Feinn’s deceit;
Remember their cruel bonds,
Remember their pride and guile;
And that we ne’er knew of war,
But such as was stirr’d by Mac Cùil.
Then did the race of Conn resolve,
In counsel with Cairbar Roy,
That they’d at once assail us,
And the whole of us destroy.
They’d have days of joy and feasting,
Great Alvin cleared of the Feinn.
Then would all grief be dead,
Nor could they a tax demand.
Fiercely and bravely we fought,
That fight the fight of Gaura;
There did fall our noble Feinn,
Sole to sole with Ireland’s kings.
From India far in the east,
To Fodla[104] here in the west,
The kings did all own our sway,
Till the battle of Gaura was fought.
But since that horrid slaughter,
No tribute nor tax we’ve raised.
Nor to us was tribute due,
Save by part of Erin’s soil.
Many were there on the earth
Of the folk who felt no grief.
To both sides how great the loss,
When we each other did destroy,
Should strangers fierce come over,
And seize on beauteous Erin.
Ossian, what would Finn have done
Were burdens laid on Erin?
By thy hand, most holy Priest,
There were none in all fair Banva,[105]
Save a few aged heroes,
And some younger untried men;
What king might there plant his foot,
Could Fodla have for taking.
No fight, no conflict he’d need,
No stratagem nor struggle.
Eastward we sent ambassadors,
To Fatha of Con’s great son;
That he might lead us on,
To seize on Erin’s kingdom.
Great grief had now come on you,
From Tara’s loud-spoken King:
New reason had ye given
Why all of you should perish.
Ossian, tell us now the tale,
When ye fought that sturdy fight.
Did thy son in battle die,
Or had he speech when you him found?
I bent me over valiant Oscar,
Soon as was the slaughter o’er;
Caoilte too did bend him o’er
His seven valiant sons;
Each living man among the Feinn
Bent him o’er his own dear friends.
Some of them had still their speech,
From others life had parted.
Priest of the crosier white,
Whoever saw that slaughter,
’Tis an everlasting grief,
Erin’s nobles thus to die.
Many were the hard round shields,
Many precious coats of mail,
And lifeless warriors on the field.
Nor would our people grieve for this
Were they not a vanquished race.
Little from that field was left us,
Save a king’s or chieftain’s spoil.
There found I my own dear son
Laid, on his left arm resting,
His shattered shield beside him,
While his hand still grasped his sword;
His precious blood on every side,
Flowed swiftly through his harness.
My spear I rested on the earth,
And o’er him stood as he lay;
Then thought I, O tonsured Priest,
What, now lonely, I could do.
Oscar towards me now turns,
’Twas for me a grievous scene;
Forth to me he stretched his hand,
Wishing I should him approach.
Then my dear son’s hand I seized,
And cried out with a bitter cry.
Forward from that time till now,
In this world I’ve useless been.
Thus to me my own son said,
As life was fast departing,
Thanks to the powers above,
That thou’st escaped, dear father.
Nothing do I tell but truth,
A word I could not answer.
Then approached the noble Caoilte,
Who to visit Oscar came.
Gently did Mac Ronain[106] say,
How find’st thou thyself, dear friend?
Just as thou would’st have me be,
Going to a better world.
Cairbar Roy’s spear had pierced,
’Neath the navel, red-armed Oscar;
The arm of Caoilte up to its bend,
Followed in its course the spear.
Caoilte did deeply search the wound,
And well saw how all stood there.
The wound was through to the back,
Torn by the murderous spear.
Mac Ronain gave a loud shriek,
And, fainting, fell to the earth.
Then spake Caoilte, the warrior brave,
Recovering from his faint,
Dear Oscar, no more art thou ours;
Thou and the Feinn must part,
So part must the Feinn with war,
Conn’s race the tribute shall raise.
We had been thus a brief space,
Thou priest, the son of Alpin,
When leaving the slaughter we saw,
All of Fail’s Feinn now living,
There were but two thousand men,
The old and the young together,
And none unwounded returned,
Even of these hundred score.
Nine wounds them grievously pierced,
There were few of them with less.
Then raised we the noble Oscar,
Aloft on the shafts of our spears;
To a fair green knoll we bore him,
That we his dress might remove.
Of his body one hand’s breadth
Was not whole, down from his hair,
Till you reached the sole of his foot,
Save his face, and that alone.
The entrails, the liver, the spleen,
Each draining the body till day.
The sons of the Feinn did then
To a fair knoll them betake;
His own son did no man mourn,
Nor did he mourn his brother:
As they saw how lay my son,
All, all did mourn for Oscar.
Thus was it with us a while,
Watching the fair-skinned hero,
When we saw approach at noon
Finn Mac Cumhail, mac Treinvor.
From the fierce slaughter escaped,
A third of the Feinn still lived,
When they laid the sons of Boisgne
Upon their biers, the fight being o’er.
With gashed limbs the men were halt,
The chiefs a dreadful sight.
We saw the standard of Finn
Raised on the shaft of a spear,
Which from the slaughter they bore;
Gladly to meet it we went.
All of us saluted Finn,
But no salute was returned,
As he climbed the warrior’s hill,
Where deadly-armed Oscar lay.
When by Oscar Finn was seen,
As o’er him sadly he bent,
He turned to him his face,
His grandfather saluting.
Then did my Oscar thus speak
To him who was first of us all:
In death I have my desire,
Noble Finn of pointed arms.
Sad it is, my brave Oscar,
Thou good son of my own son;
After thee I’m but feeble,
And after Erin’s brave Feinn.
The heavy curse of Art aenir
Is on us to our great grief,
From the east it me pursued,
Following me along the field.
Farewell to battle and fame,
Farewell to the victor’s spoils,
Farewell to the many joys,
Which in this body I’ve had.
When Oscar had heard Finn’s wail,
Convulsive pangs did him seize.
Both of his hands he stretched forth,
And his soft fair eyelid fell.
From us then Finn turned away,
And shed many bitter tears.
But for Oscar and for Bran,
Never did he shed a tear.
There was none but Finn and I,
Greater than him of the Feinn.
Then did the men give three shrieks,
Which rung through fair Erin all.
Five score hundred, ten hundred and ten,
There were who belonged to us,
Of the Feinn dead on the field,
The number was nothing less.
No lie it is that double,
With Erin’s king, great tale,
Perished on the other side,
Of Erin’s well-armed men.
Finn cheerful or peaceful never
Was from that down to his death;
Since that fight it touched him sore
That our kings should want their land.
Ever since Gaura’s battle
My speech has lost all its power.
No night or day has e’er passed
Without a sigh for each hour.[107]
To-night.
[101] This is the second composition of M’Rory’s given in the Dean’s
MS. The present is as purely Irish in its incidents as the former was
Scotch, the author having been in all likelihood, as already shown, a
Scotchman, but perfectly familiar with the events of Irish history, and
equally so with what is called the Irish dialect, although in the day
of the Dean it was common to the literature of both countries, with
a few variations. It will be seen, for instance, that in several of
these pieces the Irish negative _ni_ and the Scottish _cha_, are used
indifferently. This composition has been published at much greater
length than here, under the name of Ossian, but from MSS. apparently of
no antiquity. This poem is usually called “Cath Ghabhra,” “the battle
of Gaura,” or “Bàs Osgair,” “the death of Oscar.”
[102] The “red-tree” knights were the knights of Emania, or Ulster.
Cæsar mentions the order of _equites_, or knights, as one of the
three great leading classes into which the Gauls were divided; so
that the existence of such an order in Ireland, at an early period,
is in no way inconsistent with what history relates of ancient Celtic
policy. Cairbar was the son of Cormac, son of Art, son of Conn of the
hundred battles, Irish kings of the Emanian race. Finn, according to
O’ Flaherty, was married to a daughter of Cormac, so that this battle
with Cairbar was in reality with his brother-in-law. It seems to
have originated in the Feinn, who are said to have been a species of
militia, or rather a standing army in Ireland, becoming disposed to
stretch their prerogative farther than was agreeable to the monarch,
and that the object of Cairbar in this battle was to put them down.
It is said that the Feinn were supported by the provincial king of
Munster. This is Irish history, and it is remarkable to find these
events sung by a Scottish Poet.
[103] Muckrey, or “The island of Swine,” is an ancient name for
Ireland, derived obviously, not as it might be in modern times, from
the abundance of the animal in the country, where it is the sum total
of the family possessions in many instances, but from the place which
the sow held, as referred to already, in the national mythology. It is
obvious from the reference in this line to a difference with the Feinn,
that that was no new event in the history of the Irish monarchs.
[104] Another name for Ireland. O’Flaherty says there were five names
for the island, and quotes a scholiast of the name of Fiach, who lived
a thousand years before. The names are Ere, Fodla, Banba, Fail, and
Elga. Might we not add to these the much-disputed name of Scotia,
which our Irish neighbours claim, yet don’t possess. Surely it is time
now to perceive that the only true and satisfactory solution of the
question regarding it, is that the name was applied to both countries,
latterly under the distinctive appellation of Scotia Major and Scotia
Minor, as the countries of the Scots. Surely Scotland was as much a
Scotia as Ireland, and Ireland as much as Scotland, in so far as they
were both occupied by Scottish inhabitants. This identity of race,
language, and at an early period religion, is not sufficiently allowed
for in discussing questions involving the several claims of Scotland
and Ireland to much of what was common to both. Scotland has suffered
more than Ireland from the destruction of her early archives; but is
not the life of Columba, so recently given to the world under the able
editorship of Dr. Reeves, in reality a Scottish work?
[105] “Banva” is another name for Ireland. This is the Gaelic name for
a _sucking-pig_, so that it also is probably mythological. It is in all
likelihood the same name with our Scottish Banff.
[106] Another name for Caoilte.
[107] It may be interesting to many readers to have here a specimen
of this poem, as taken down from the oral recitation of a Christina
Sutherland, an old woman in the county of Caithness, in the year 1856.
It commences thus:
Is trom an nochd mo chumha fein,
Guilgeantach mo rian,
Smuaineachadh a chath chruaidh,
Chuir mise ’us Cairbar claon ruadh,
Am macsa Chormaic O Chuinn,
Is mairg sinn a thàradh fo ’laimh;
Laoch gun ghràin cha do chuir,
Annsa dh’ a laimh iuthaidh, etc.