Displeased am I with the south wind,
Which hinders the coming of John,[244]
And that he is kept away out,
On his way from the north to M’Leod.
Janet’s son, of whitest sails,
Well would he like to cross the sea;
But the south wind will not listen
To John, William’s son of swift steeds.
By night or by day as I sleep,
From the beach I see to the north,
The rushing bark of whitest sails,
The bark of him who stays defeat.
This is the fame which every man
Awards to M’William from Clar Sgith,[245]
An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth,
One who for aught he did ne’er mourned.
This is the eighth day without John,
Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye;
Like he is in mien and strength
To the great house of liberal heart.
Cheerful he is, does nought conceal,
Such is the fame of sharp-armed John.
In battle’s day he takes the lead,
Ever ready fame to win.
William’s son, my foster child,
Son to Janet, royal her race,
Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north,
All my gloom would disappear.
[243] This name is very indistinct in the MS., and cannot be given with
certainty.
[244] In 1480, William Macleod of Dunvegan was killed at the battle of
the Bloody Bay, and was succeeded by his son Alexander, usually called
“Alastair Crotach,” or _hump-backed_ (Greg. High. p. 74). The charters
give no information as to John, if a son of this William Macleod. But
William’s father was John, whose father was also in all likelihood a
William; and this John, whose _floreat_ was early in the fifteenth
century, might be the person here meant.
[245] The old name for Skye, and throws some doubt on the derivation of
the name “Sgiathanach,” usually accepted.
The author of this is Mac Gillindak,[246] the man of songs.
Lords have precedence of chiefs,
It has been so from the beginning;
It is commendable in young men,
That each should have knowledge of this.
The first who was lord of this land
Was Duncan beg (little) of the great soul,
He who as a legacy has left
Their bravery to clan Gregor.
Duncan, great by many spoils,
Was the blessed father of Malcom;
Grandfather he was to princely John,
Him who never broke his pledge.
Gregor, excellent son of Duncan,
Was son to John, and was his heir;
Famous man he was of the country,
From the bright shore of Loch Tullich,[247]
Swarthy John, so pure in speech,
Princely son of John M’Gregor,
Hunter of the well-formed deer,
He like a king aye led the fight.
Malcom of unbending truth,
Know thou John, succeeds his father,
Southwards in fair Glenurchay,
Handsome he was amongst its valleys.
The first place ’mong their ancestors
Is given by the Saxon to clan Gregor,
Of whom were three chiefs loved the hunt,
And were most active in the fight.
In the days of Conn of hundred battles,
I heard of something like this,
Of Finn of spears and sharp sword,
Cumhal’s son of famous deeds:
That of Erin the hunting and lordship
Belonged to Mac Cumhal of long locks,
Patrimony and lordship he hadn’t
Over the lands of the race of Gaul.
Forest right they had all his life,
From Kerry north to Carn Valair.
But he possessed the old rights
Which previously were his.
From Hallowmas on to Beltin,
His Feinn had all the rights.
The hunting without molestation,
Was theirs in all the forests.
Many the tributes I cannot tell,
Belonged to Finn and his men.
Tribute in Erin possessed
By Mac Cumhail from the forests.
A noble’s forest right to the Feinn,
On the banks of every stream.
But Malcom’s large tributes
Did not belong to Mac Muirn;[248]
Finn himself would never hunt
Without first asking leave.
The hunting of Scotland, without leave,
Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom.
Constant in the hunt together
Are M’Gregor and his fierce men;
No oftener did the blood-red hounds
Enter the fort of clan Boisgne.
A fighting band of chieftains
Arose with him in battle’s day,
Men whose dress sparkled with gold,
Men who conquered in the fight.
The head of clans and of huntsmen
Is the common fame of his race.
No trial of bravery or skill
Will show weakness in M’Gregor.
Many in his halls are found together,
Men who carried well-sharped swords,
Red gold glittered on their hilts,
The arms of the lion of Loch Awe.
Harmonious music among harps,
Men with dice-boxes in their hands,
Those who leave the game of tables,
Go and lead forth the hounds.
Mac Gregor of red-pointed palms,
Son of Dervail, the Saxon’s terror,
No hand like his amidst the fight,
He ’tis that ever victory won.
Liberal he ever was to bards,
Gifts which Mac Lamond[249] knows to earn.
Famous for managing his hounds,
A hand so ready with its gifts.
Mary, who stands by his side,
Of noble mind and handsome form,
Poets unite to give her praise,
Her with cheeks as berries red.
Lords.
[246] We have no tradition respecting this poet. But he must have been
a bard of the M’Gregors’. The allusion to the Feinn will be understood
by referring to the war-song of Gaul.
[247] Elsewhere translated Loch Tummell. “Tolve” is the word in the
original. Loch Tullich lies at the head of Glenurchay.
[248] This is usually the name of Gaul, but here it is Finn, whose
mother’s name was Muirn.
[249] Probably the chief bard of the MacGregors.