Oh, the young doe so frisky,So coy, and so fair,That gambols so briskly,And snuffs up the air;And hurries, retiring,To the rocks that environ,When foemen are firing,And bullets are there.Though swift in her racing,Like the kinsfolk before her,No heart-burst, unbracingHer strength, rushes o'er her.'Tis exquisite hearingHer murmur, as, nearing,Her mate comes careering,Her pride, and her lover;—He comes—and her breathingHer rapture is telling;How his antlers are wreathing,His white haunch, how swelling!High chief of Bendorain,He seems, as adoringHis hind, he comes roaringTo visit her dwelling.'Twere endless my singingHow the mountain is teemingWith thousands, that bringingEach a high chief's[111]proud seeming,With his hind, and her galaOf younglings, that followO'er mountain and beala,[112]All lightsome are beaming.When that lightfoot so airy,Her race is pursuing,Oh, what vision saw e'er aFeat of flight like her doing?She springs, and the spreading grassScarce feels her treading,It were fleet foot that sped inTwice the time that she flew in.The gallant array!How the marshes they spurn,In the frisk of their play,And the wheelings they turn,—As the cloud of the mindThey would distance behind,And give years to the wind,In the pride of their scorn!'Tis the marrow of healthIn the forest to lie,Where, nooking in stealth,They enjoy her[113]supply,—Her fosterage breedingA race never needing,Save the milk of her feeding,From a breast never dry.Her hill-grass they suckle,Her mammets[114]they swill,And in wantonness chuckleO'er tempest and chill;With their ankles so light,And their girdles[115]of white,And their bodies so brightWith the drink of the rill.Through the grassy glen sportingIn murmurless glee,Nor snow-drift nor fortuneShall urge them to flee,Save to seek their reposeIn the clefts of the knowes,And the depths of the howesOf their own Eas-an-ti.[116]
Oh, the young doe so frisky,So coy, and so fair,That gambols so briskly,And snuffs up the air;And hurries, retiring,To the rocks that environ,When foemen are firing,And bullets are there.Though swift in her racing,Like the kinsfolk before her,No heart-burst, unbracingHer strength, rushes o'er her.'Tis exquisite hearingHer murmur, as, nearing,Her mate comes careering,Her pride, and her lover;—He comes—and her breathingHer rapture is telling;How his antlers are wreathing,His white haunch, how swelling!High chief of Bendorain,He seems, as adoringHis hind, he comes roaringTo visit her dwelling.'Twere endless my singingHow the mountain is teemingWith thousands, that bringingEach a high chief's[111]proud seeming,With his hind, and her galaOf younglings, that followO'er mountain and beala,[112]All lightsome are beaming.When that lightfoot so airy,Her race is pursuing,Oh, what vision saw e'er aFeat of flight like her doing?She springs, and the spreading grassScarce feels her treading,It were fleet foot that sped inTwice the time that she flew in.The gallant array!How the marshes they spurn,In the frisk of their play,And the wheelings they turn,—As the cloud of the mindThey would distance behind,And give years to the wind,In the pride of their scorn!'Tis the marrow of healthIn the forest to lie,Where, nooking in stealth,They enjoy her[113]supply,—Her fosterage breedingA race never needing,Save the milk of her feeding,From a breast never dry.Her hill-grass they suckle,Her mammets[114]they swill,And in wantonness chuckleO'er tempest and chill;With their ankles so light,And their girdles[115]of white,And their bodies so brightWith the drink of the rill.Through the grassy glen sportingIn murmurless glee,Nor snow-drift nor fortuneShall urge them to flee,Save to seek their reposeIn the clefts of the knowes,And the depths of the howesOf their own Eas-an-ti.[116]
In the forest den, the deerMakes, as best befits, his lair,Where is plenty, and to spare,Of her grassy feast.There she browses freeOn herbage of the lea,Or marsh grass, daintily,Until her haunch is greased.Her drink is of the well,Where the water-cresses swell,Nor with the flowing shellIs the toper better pleased.The bent makes nobler cheer,Or the rashes of the mere,Than all the creagh that e'erGave surfeit to a guest.Come, see her table spread;Thesorach[117]sweet display'dTheealvi,[118]and the headOf the daisy stem;Thedorach[119]crested, sleek,And ringed with many a streak,Presents her pastures meek,Profusely by the stream.Such the luxuriesThat plump their noble size,And the herd enticeTo revel in the howes.Nobler haunches never sat onPride of grease, than when they battenOn the forest links, and fattenOn the herbs of their carouse.Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,When the supper-timeCalls all their hosts from roaming,To see their social prime;And when the shadows gather,They lair on native heather,Nor shelter from the weatherNeed, but the knolls behind.Dread or dark is none;Their 's the mountain throne,Height and slope their own,The gentle mountain kind;Pleasant is the graceOf their hue, and dappled dress,And an ark in their distress,In Bendorain dear they find.
In the forest den, the deerMakes, as best befits, his lair,Where is plenty, and to spare,Of her grassy feast.There she browses freeOn herbage of the lea,Or marsh grass, daintily,Until her haunch is greased.Her drink is of the well,Where the water-cresses swell,Nor with the flowing shellIs the toper better pleased.The bent makes nobler cheer,Or the rashes of the mere,Than all the creagh that e'erGave surfeit to a guest.Come, see her table spread;Thesorach[117]sweet display'dTheealvi,[118]and the headOf the daisy stem;Thedorach[119]crested, sleek,And ringed with many a streak,Presents her pastures meek,Profusely by the stream.Such the luxuriesThat plump their noble size,And the herd enticeTo revel in the howes.Nobler haunches never sat onPride of grease, than when they battenOn the forest links, and fattenOn the herbs of their carouse.Oh, 'tis pleasant, in the gloaming,When the supper-timeCalls all their hosts from roaming,To see their social prime;And when the shadows gather,They lair on native heather,Nor shelter from the weatherNeed, but the knolls behind.Dread or dark is none;Their 's the mountain throne,Height and slope their own,The gentle mountain kind;Pleasant is the graceOf their hue, and dappled dress,And an ark in their distress,In Bendorain dear they find.
So brilliant thy hueWith tendril and flow'ret,The grace of the view,What land can o'erpower it?Thou mountain of beauty,Methinks it might suit thee,The homage of beautyTo claim as a queen.What needs it? AdoringThy reign, we see pouringThe wealth of their store inAlready, I ween.The seasons—scarce roll'd once,Their gifts are twice told—And the months, they unfoldOn thy bosom their dower,With profusion so rare,Ne'er was clothing so fair,Nor was jewelling e'erLike the bud and the flowerOf the groves on thy breast,Where rejoices to restHis magnificent crest,The mountain-cock, shrillingIn quick time, his note;And the clans of the grotWith melody's note,Their numbers are trilling.No foot can compare,In the dance of the green,With the roebuck's young heir;And here he is seenWith his deftness of speed,And his sureness of tread,And his bend of the head,And his freedom of spring!Over corrie careers he,The wood-cover clears he,And merrily steers heWith bound, and with fling,—As he spurns from his sternThe heather and fern,And dives in the dern[120]Of the wilderness deep;Or, anon, with a strain,And a twang of each veinHe revels amain'Mid the cliffs of the steep.With the burst of a startWhen the flame of his heartImpels to depart,How he distances all!Two bounds at a leap,The brown hillocks to sweep,His appointment to keepWith the doe, at her call.With her following, the roeFrom the danger of kenCouches inly, and low,In the haunts of the glen;Ever watchful to hear,Ever active to peer,Ever deft to career,—All ear, vision, and limb.And though Cult[121]and Cuchullin,With their horses and following,Should rush to her dwelling,And our prince[122]in his trim,They might vainly aspireWithout rifle and fireTo ruffle or nigh her,Her mantle to dim.Stark-footed, lively,Ever capering naivelyWith motion alive, aye,And wax-white, in shine,When her startle betraysThat the hounds are in chase,The same as the baseIs the rocky decline—She puffs from her chest,And she ambles her crestAnd disdain is express'dIn her nostril and eye;—That eye—how it winks!Like a sunbeam it blinks,And it glows, and it sinks,And is jealous and shy!A mountaineer lynx,Like her race that 's gone by.
So brilliant thy hueWith tendril and flow'ret,The grace of the view,What land can o'erpower it?Thou mountain of beauty,Methinks it might suit thee,The homage of beautyTo claim as a queen.What needs it? AdoringThy reign, we see pouringThe wealth of their store inAlready, I ween.The seasons—scarce roll'd once,Their gifts are twice told—And the months, they unfoldOn thy bosom their dower,With profusion so rare,Ne'er was clothing so fair,Nor was jewelling e'erLike the bud and the flowerOf the groves on thy breast,Where rejoices to restHis magnificent crest,The mountain-cock, shrillingIn quick time, his note;And the clans of the grotWith melody's note,Their numbers are trilling.No foot can compare,In the dance of the green,With the roebuck's young heir;And here he is seenWith his deftness of speed,And his sureness of tread,And his bend of the head,And his freedom of spring!Over corrie careers he,The wood-cover clears he,And merrily steers heWith bound, and with fling,—As he spurns from his sternThe heather and fern,And dives in the dern[120]Of the wilderness deep;Or, anon, with a strain,And a twang of each veinHe revels amain'Mid the cliffs of the steep.With the burst of a startWhen the flame of his heartImpels to depart,How he distances all!Two bounds at a leap,The brown hillocks to sweep,His appointment to keepWith the doe, at her call.With her following, the roeFrom the danger of kenCouches inly, and low,In the haunts of the glen;Ever watchful to hear,Ever active to peer,Ever deft to career,—All ear, vision, and limb.And though Cult[121]and Cuchullin,With their horses and following,Should rush to her dwelling,And our prince[122]in his trim,They might vainly aspireWithout rifle and fireTo ruffle or nigh her,Her mantle to dim.Stark-footed, lively,Ever capering naivelyWith motion alive, aye,And wax-white, in shine,When her startle betraysThat the hounds are in chase,The same as the baseIs the rocky decline—She puffs from her chest,And she ambles her crestAnd disdain is express'dIn her nostril and eye;—That eye—how it winks!Like a sunbeam it blinks,And it glows, and it sinks,And is jealous and shy!A mountaineer lynx,Like her race that 's gone by.
Her lodge is in the valley—hereNo huntsman, void of notion,Should hurry on the fallow deer,But steal on her with caution;—With wary step and watchfulnessTo stalk her to her resting place,Insures the gallant wight's success,Before she is in motion.The hunter bold should follow then,By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,And nestle in the gulley, then,And watch with deep devotionThe shadows on the benty grass,And how they come, and how they pass;Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,To quicken her emotion.With nerve and eye so wary, sir,That straight his piece may carry, sir,He marks with care the quarry, sir,The muzzle to repose on;And now, the knuckle is applied,The flint is struck, the priming tried,Is fired, the volley has replied,And reeks in high commotion;—Was better powder ne'er to flint,Nor trustier wadding of the lint—And so we strike a telling dint,Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]
Her lodge is in the valley—hereNo huntsman, void of notion,Should hurry on the fallow deer,But steal on her with caution;—With wary step and watchfulnessTo stalk her to her resting place,Insures the gallant wight's success,Before she is in motion.The hunter bold should follow then,By bog, and rock, and hollow, then,And nestle in the gulley, then,And watch with deep devotionThe shadows on the benty grass,And how they come, and how they pass;Nor must he stir, with gesture rash,To quicken her emotion.With nerve and eye so wary, sir,That straight his piece may carry, sir,He marks with care the quarry, sir,The muzzle to repose on;And now, the knuckle is applied,The flint is struck, the priming tried,Is fired, the volley has replied,And reeks in high commotion;—Was better powder ne'er to flint,Nor trustier wadding of the lint—And so we strike a telling dint,Well done, my own Nic-Coisean![123]
Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.
Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore Körner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one.
Oh! mony a turn of woe and wealMay happen to a Highlan' man;Though he fall in love he soon may feelHe cannot get the fancied one;The first I loved in time that 's past,I courted twenty years, ochone!But she forsook me at the last,And Duncan then was left alone.To Edinbro' I forthwith hiedTo seek a sweetheart to my mind,An', if I could, to find a brideFor the fause love I left behind;Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,"I ken a widow secretly,An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,To put her, Duncan, in your way."As was his wont, I trow, did heFulfil his welcome promise true,He gave the widow unto me,And all her portion with her too;And whosoe'er may ask her name,And her surname also may desire,They call her Janet[125]—great her fame—An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,No vexing gloom or look at hand,As high in rank and in degreeAs any lady in the land;She 's my support and my relief,Since e'er she join'd me, any how;Great is the cureless cause of griefTo him who has not got her now!Nic-Coisean[126]I 've forsaken quite,Altho' she liveth still at ease—An' allow the crested stags to fightAnd wander wheresoe'er they please,A young wife I have chosen now,Which I repent not any where,I am not wanting wealth, I trow,Since ever I espoused the fair.I pass my word of honour bright—Most excellent I do her call;In her I ne'er, in any light,Discover'd any fault at all.She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,Without a hidden fault, my friend;In her, defect I never found,Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!For money in a great degree;Ah, George's daughter—generous lass—Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;She keepeth me in drink, and staysBy me in ale-houses and all,An' at once, without a word, she paysFor every stoup I choose to call!An' every turn I bid her doShe does it with a willing grace;She never tells me aught untrue,Nor story false, with lying face;She keeps my rising familyAs well as I could e'er desire,Although no labour I do try,Nor dirty work for love or hire.I labour'd once laboriously,Although no riches I amass'd;A menial I disdain'd to be,An' keep my vow unto the last.I have ceased to labour in the lan',Since e'er I noticed to my wife,That the idle and contented manEndureth to the longest life.'Tis my musket—loving wife, indeed—In whom I faithfully believe,She 's able still to earn my bread,An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;I 'll have no lack of linens fair,An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,An' trust me that all worldly careNow gives me not the least concern.
Oh! mony a turn of woe and wealMay happen to a Highlan' man;Though he fall in love he soon may feelHe cannot get the fancied one;The first I loved in time that 's past,I courted twenty years, ochone!But she forsook me at the last,And Duncan then was left alone.
To Edinbro' I forthwith hiedTo seek a sweetheart to my mind,An', if I could, to find a brideFor the fause love I left behind;Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,"I ken a widow secretly,An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,To put her, Duncan, in your way."
As was his wont, I trow, did heFulfil his welcome promise true,He gave the widow unto me,And all her portion with her too;And whosoe'er may ask her name,And her surname also may desire,They call her Janet[125]—great her fame—An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.
She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,No vexing gloom or look at hand,As high in rank and in degreeAs any lady in the land;She 's my support and my relief,Since e'er she join'd me, any how;Great is the cureless cause of griefTo him who has not got her now!
Nic-Coisean[126]I 've forsaken quite,Altho' she liveth still at ease—An' allow the crested stags to fightAnd wander wheresoe'er they please,A young wife I have chosen now,Which I repent not any where,I am not wanting wealth, I trow,Since ever I espoused the fair.
I pass my word of honour bright—Most excellent I do her call;In her I ne'er, in any light,Discover'd any fault at all.She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,Without a hidden fault, my friend;In her, defect I never found,Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.
When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!For money in a great degree;Ah, George's daughter—generous lass—Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;She keepeth me in drink, and staysBy me in ale-houses and all,An' at once, without a word, she paysFor every stoup I choose to call!
An' every turn I bid her doShe does it with a willing grace;She never tells me aught untrue,Nor story false, with lying face;She keeps my rising familyAs well as I could e'er desire,Although no labour I do try,Nor dirty work for love or hire.
I labour'd once laboriously,Although no riches I amass'd;A menial I disdain'd to be,An' keep my vow unto the last.I have ceased to labour in the lan',Since e'er I noticed to my wife,That the idle and contented manEndureth to the longest life.
'Tis my musket—loving wife, indeed—In whom I faithfully believe,She 's able still to earn my bread,An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;I 'll have no lack of linens fair,An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,An' trust me that all worldly careNow gives me not the least concern.
Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,—of whom, after a distinguished career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.
Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian, in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic tohast thou anything to get of) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have," quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."
Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains—a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.
His poem entitled the "Song of Age," is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.
Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,The notes would betray the languor of woe;My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stoneThat, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.Theveteran of war, that knows not to spare,And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,For under the sun is no hope of release.'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheenOf the rosiest mien from their glory subside;How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lowerThe arm of our power, and the step of our pride.As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;Not a joint, not a nerve—so prostrate their verve—In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is heldBy thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;The friends of our love at thy call must remove,—What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?They leave us, deplore as it wills us,—our store,Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the faceTo hasten its race on the route to the tomb,To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,Even sympathy dies—and thy helper is none.We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'dThy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,And the ivory[128]tare from its sockets' repose.Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!Thou leper of fear—thou niggard of cheer—Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?Thou contempt of the brave—oh, rather the grave,Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;Thou bane of delight—when thy shivering plight,And thy grizzle of white,[129]and thy crippleness, comeTo beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;All unwelcome they call—from the hut to the hallThe confession of all is, "'Tis time he were dead!"
Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,The notes would betray the languor of woe;My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stoneThat, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.Theveteran of war, that knows not to spare,And offers us ne'er the respite of peace,Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,For under the sun is no hope of release.'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheenOf the rosiest mien from their glory subside;How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lowerThe arm of our power, and the step of our pride.As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;Not a joint, not a nerve—so prostrate their verve—In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is heldBy thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;The friends of our love at thy call must remove,—What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?They leave us, deplore as it wills us,—our store,Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us,Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the faceTo hasten its race on the route to the tomb,To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear,Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy'd,Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,Even sympathy dies—and thy helper is none.We see thee how stripp'd of each bloom that equipp'dThy flourish, till nipp'd the winter thy rose;Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,And the ivory[128]tare from its sockets' repose.Thy skinny, thy cold, thy visageless mould,Its disgust is untold, and its surface is dim;What a signal of wrack is the wrinkle's dull track,And the bend of the back, and the limp of the limb!Thou leper of fear—thou niggard of cheer—Where glory is dear, shall thy welcome be found?Thou contempt of the brave—oh, rather the grave,Than to pine as the slave that thy fetters have bound.Like the dusk of the day is thy colour of gray,Thou foe of the lay, and thou phantom of gloom;Thou bane of delight—when thy shivering plight,And thy grizzle of white,[129]and thy crippleness, comeTo beg at the door; ah, woe for the poor,And the greeting unsure that grudges their bread;All unwelcome they call—from the hut to the hallThe confession of all is, "'Tis time he were dead!"
The picturesque portion of the description here terminates. With respect to the moral and religious application, it is but just to the poet to say, that before the close he appeals in pathetic terms to the young, warning them not to boast of their strength, or to abuse it; and that he concludes his lay with the sentiment, that whatever may be the ills of "age," there are worse that await an unrepenting death, and a suffering eternity.
Single-speech Hamilton may be said to have had hismarrowin a Highland bard, nearly his contemporary, whose one effort was attended with more lasting popularity than the sole oration of that celebrated person. The clan song of the Mackenzies is the composition in question, and its author is now ascertained to have been a gentleman, or farmer of the better class, of the name of Norman Macleod, a native of Assynt[130]in Sutherland. The most memorable particular known of this person, besides the production of his poetic effort, is his having been the father of a Glasgow professor,[131]whom we remember occupying the chair of Church History in the university in very advanced age, about 1814, assisted by a helper and successor; and of another son, who was the respected minister of Rogart till towards the end of last century.
The date of "Caberfae" is not exactly ascertained. It was composed during the exile of Lord Seaforth, but, we imagine, before the '45, in which he did not take part, and while Macshimei (Lord Lovat) still passedfor a Whig. In Mackenzie's excellent collection (p. 361), a later date is assigned to the production.
The Seaforth tenantry, who (after the manner of the clans) privately supported their chief in his exile, appear to have been much aggrieved by some proceedings of the loyalist, Monro of Fowlis, who, along with his neighbour of Culloden and Lovat, were probably acting under government commission, in which the interests of the crown were seconded by personal or family antagonism. The loyal family of Sutherland, who seem by grant or lease to have had an interest in the estates, also come in for a share of the bard's resentment.
All this forms the subject of "Caberfae," which, without having much meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated "Lillibulero," to animate armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be imagined. The repetition of "the Staghead, when rises his cabar on," which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,—being a simple allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant. The cabar is the horn, or, rather, the "tine of the first-head,"—no ignoble emblem, certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity. The difficulty of the measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader's indulgence.
A health to Caberfae,A toast, and a cheery one,That soon return he may,Though long and far his tarrying.The death of shame befal me,Be riven off my eididh[133]too,But my fancy hears thy call—weShould all beup and ready, O!'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,Thine arm, inaction scorning,Assign their dues to the Munroes,Theirwelcomein the morning.Nor stood the Cátach[134]to his bratach[135]For dread of a belabouring,When up gets the Staghead,And raises his cabar on.Woe to the man of Folais,[136]When he to fight must challenge thee;Nor better fared the Roses[137]That lentMonrotheir valiancy.The Granndach[138]and the Frazer,[139]They tarried not the melee in;Fled Forbes,[140]in dismay, sir,Culloden-wards, undallying.Away they ran, while firm remain,Not one to three, retiring so,The earl,[141]the craven, took to haven,Scarce a pistol firing, O!Mackay[142]of Spoils, his heart recoils,He cries in haste his cabul[143]on,He flies—as soars the Staghead,And raises his cabar on.Like feather'd creatures flying,That in the hill-mist shiver,In haste for refuge hieing,To the meadow or the river—So, port they sought, and took to boat,Bewailing what had happened them,To trust was rash, the missing flashOf the rusty guns that weapon'd them.The coracle of many a skull,The relics of his neighbour, on,Monro retreats[144]—for StagheadIs raising his cabar on.I own my expectation,—'Tis this has roused my apathy,That He who rules creationMay change the dismal hap of thee,And hasten to restore theeIn safety from thy danger,To thine own, in joy and glory,To save us from the stranger.With princely grace to give redress,Nor a taunt to suffer back again;The fell Monro has felt thy blow,And should he dare attack again,Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,The flames to quench he 'll labour on,Of castle fired—when StagheadHigh raises his cabar on!I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,A gracious chieftain ever,The Cátach[145] self below thee,And the Gallach[145]cower'd for cover;But ever more their striving,When claim'd respect thine eye,Thy scourge corrected, drivingTo other lands to fly.Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,No panic fear shall turn them,With steel-cap, blade, andskenearray'd,Their banning foes they spurn them.Clan-Shimei[146]then may dare them,They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,Needs but a look—when StagheadOnce raises his cabar on.Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147]O!Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,That forays with the beagle, O!For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148]My song shall raise the mountain-deer;The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.His lodge is in the forest;—While carion-flesh enticingThy greedy maw, thou buriestThou kite of prey! thy claws inThe putrid corse of famish'd horse,The greedy hound a-strivingTo rival thee in gluttony,Both at the bowels riving.Thou called thetrue bird![149]—Never,Thou foster child of evil,[150]ha!How ill match with thy feather[151]The talons[152]of thy devilry!But when thy foray preys onOur harmless flocks, so dastardly,How often has the shepherdWith trusty baton master'd thee;Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,Else, not alone, belabouring,He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,Up-raising his cabar on.[153]Woe worth the world, deceiver—So false, so fair of seeming!We 've seen the noble Siphort[154]With all his war-notes[155]screaming;When not a chief in Albain,Mac-Ailein's[156]self though backing him,Could face his frown—as StagheadArose with his cabar on.To join thy might, when call'd the right,A gallant army springing on,Would rise, from Assint to the cragsOf Scalpa, rescue bringing on.Each man upon, true-flinted gun,Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157]When up rose thy cabar on!Came too the men of Muideart,[158]While stream'd their flag its bravery;Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159]That havock'd on the cavalry.Macalister,[160]Mackinnon,With many a flashing trigger there,The foemen rushing in on,Resistless shew'd their vigour there.May fortune free thee—may we see theeAgain in Bràun,[161]the turreted,Girt with thy clan! And not a manBut will get the scorn he merited.Then wine will play, and usquebaeFrom flaggons, and from badalan,[162]And pipers scream—when StagheadHigh raises his cabar on.
A health to Caberfae,A toast, and a cheery one,That soon return he may,Though long and far his tarrying.The death of shame befal me,Be riven off my eididh[133]too,But my fancy hears thy call—weShould all beup and ready, O!'Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,Thine arm, inaction scorning,Assign their dues to the Munroes,Theirwelcomein the morning.Nor stood the Cátach[134]to his bratach[135]For dread of a belabouring,When up gets the Staghead,And raises his cabar on.
Woe to the man of Folais,[136]When he to fight must challenge thee;Nor better fared the Roses[137]That lentMonrotheir valiancy.The Granndach[138]and the Frazer,[139]They tarried not the melee in;Fled Forbes,[140]in dismay, sir,Culloden-wards, undallying.Away they ran, while firm remain,Not one to three, retiring so,The earl,[141]the craven, took to haven,Scarce a pistol firing, O!Mackay[142]of Spoils, his heart recoils,He cries in haste his cabul[143]on,He flies—as soars the Staghead,And raises his cabar on.
Like feather'd creatures flying,That in the hill-mist shiver,In haste for refuge hieing,To the meadow or the river—So, port they sought, and took to boat,Bewailing what had happened them,To trust was rash, the missing flashOf the rusty guns that weapon'd them.The coracle of many a skull,The relics of his neighbour, on,Monro retreats[144]—for StagheadIs raising his cabar on.
I own my expectation,—'Tis this has roused my apathy,That He who rules creationMay change the dismal hap of thee,And hasten to restore theeIn safety from thy danger,To thine own, in joy and glory,To save us from the stranger.With princely grace to give redress,Nor a taunt to suffer back again;The fell Monro has felt thy blow,And should he dare attack again,Then as he flew, he 'll run anew,The flames to quench he 'll labour on,Of castle fired—when StagheadHigh raises his cabar on!
I 've seen thee o'er the lowly,A gracious chieftain ever,The Cátach[145] self below thee,And the Gallach[145]cower'd for cover;But ever more their striving,When claim'd respect thine eye,Thy scourge corrected, drivingTo other lands to fly.Thy loyal crew of clansmen true,No panic fear shall turn them,With steel-cap, blade, andskenearray'd,Their banning foes they spurn them.Clan-Shimei[146]then may dare them,They 'll fly, had each a sabre on,Needs but a look—when StagheadOnce raises his cabar on.
Mounts not the wing a fouler thing,Than thy vaunted crest, the eagle,[147]O!Inglorious chief! to boast the thief,That forays with the beagle, O!For shame! preferr'd that ravening bird![148]My song shall raise the mountain-deer;The prey he scorns, the carcase spurns,He loves the cress, the fountain cheer.His lodge is in the forest;—While carion-flesh enticingThy greedy maw, thou buriestThou kite of prey! thy claws inThe putrid corse of famish'd horse,The greedy hound a-strivingTo rival thee in gluttony,Both at the bowels riving.Thou called thetrue bird![149]—Never,Thou foster child of evil,[150]ha!How ill match with thy feather[151]The talons[152]of thy devilry!But when thy foray preys onOur harmless flocks, so dastardly,How often has the shepherdWith trusty baton master'd thee;Well in thy fright hast timed thy flight,Else, not alone, belabouring,He 'd gored thee with the Staghead,Up-raising his cabar on.[153]
Woe worth the world, deceiver—So false, so fair of seeming!We 've seen the noble Siphort[154]With all his war-notes[155]screaming;When not a chief in Albain,Mac-Ailein's[156]self though backing him,Could face his frown—as StagheadArose with his cabar on.
To join thy might, when call'd the right,A gallant army springing on,Would rise, from Assint to the cragsOf Scalpa, rescue bringing on.Each man upon, true-flinted gun,Steel glaive, and trusty dagaichean;With the Island Lord of Sleitè,[157]When up rose thy cabar on!
Came too the men of Muideart,[158]While stream'd their flag its bravery;Their gleaming weapons, blue-dyed,[159]That havock'd on the cavalry.Macalister,[160]Mackinnon,With many a flashing trigger there,The foemen rushing in on,Resistless shew'd their vigour there.May fortune free thee—may we see theeAgain in Bràun,[161]the turreted,Girt with thy clan! And not a manBut will get the scorn he merited.Then wine will play, and usquebaeFrom flaggons, and from badalan,[162]And pipers scream—when StagheadHigh raises his cabar on.
END OF VOL. I.
A-low, on fire.
Ava, at all.
Ayont, beyond.
Ban, swear.
Bang, to change place hastily.
Bangster, a violent person.
Bawks, the cross-beams of a roof.
Bein, good, suitable.
Bicker, a dish for holding liquor.
Boddle, an old Scottish coin—value the third of a penny.
Boggie, a marsh.
Brag, vaunt.
Braw, gaily dressed.
Busk, to attire oneself.
Buss, bush.
Cantie, cheerful.
Castocks, the pith of stalks of cabbages.
Caw, to drive.
Chat, talk.
Chuckies, chickens.
Chuffy, clownish.
Clavering, talking idly.
Cleeding, clothing.
Clishmaclavers, idle talk.
Clocksie, vivacious.
Cock-up, a hat or cap turned up before.
Coft, purchased.
Cogie, a hollow wooden vessel.
Coozy, warm.
Cosie, snug, comfortable.
Cowt, cattle.
Creel, a basket.
Croft, a tenement of land.
Croon, to make a plaintive sound.
Crouse, brisk.
Crusie, a small lamp.
Cuddle, embrace.
Curpin, the crupper of a saddle.
Cuttie, a short pipe.
Daff, sport.
Daut, caress.
Daud, blow.
Daunder, to walk thoughtlessly.
Dautit, fondled.
Dirdum, tumult.
Disjasket, having appearance of decay.
Doited, stupid.
Dool, grief.
Dorty, a foolish urchin.
Douf, dull.
Dowie, sad.
Draigle, draggle.
Dringing, delaying.
Drone, sound of bagpipes.
Dung, defeated.
Eerie, timorous.
Eident, wary.
Elf, a puny creature.
Fashious, troublesome.
Fauld, a fold.
Ferlies, remarkable things.
Fleyt, frightened.
Fogie, a stupid old person.
Foumart, a pole-cat.
Fraise, flattery.
Frumpish, crumpled.
Gabbit, a person prone to idle talk.
Gart, compelled.
Giggle, unmeaning laughter.
Gin, if.
Girse, grass.
Glaikit, stupid.
Glamrie, the power of enchantment.
Glower, stare.
Grusome, frightful.
Grist, the fee paid at the mill for grinding.
Gutchir, grandfather.
Gutters, mud, wet dust.
Hain, save, preserve.
Hap, cover.
Havens, endowments.
Henny, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry.
Hinkum, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread.
Howe, a hollow.
Hyne, hence.
Kail, cabbages, colewort.
Kebbuck, a cheese.
Keil, red clay, used for marking.
Ken, know.
Kenspeckle, having a singular appearance.
Leal, honest, faithful.
Leese me, pleased am I with.
Lyart, gray-haired.
Loof, the palm of the hand.
Lowin, warm.
Lucky, A, an old woman.
Luntin, smoking.
Mailin, a farm.
Maukin, a hare.
Mirk, dark.
Mishanter, a sorry scrape.
Mittens, gloves without fingers.
Mouldie, crumbling.
Mouls, the earth of the grave.
Mows, easy.
Mutch, a woman's cap.
Neip, a turnip.
Neive, the closed fist.
Nippen, carried off surreptitiously.
Ouk, week.
Owerlay, a cravat.
Perk, push.
Perlins, women's ornaments.
Poortith, poverty.
Preed, tasted.
Randy, a scold, a shrew.
Rate, slander.
Rink, run about.
Routh, abundance.
Rummulgumshin, common sense.
Sabbit, sobbed.
Scant, scarce.
Scartle, a graip or fork.
Scrimply, barely.
Scug, shelter.
Seer, sure.
Shaw, a plantation.
Shiel, a sheep shed.
Skeigh, timorous.
Skiffin, moving lightly.
Smeddum, sagacity.
Snooded, the hair bound up.
Spaewife,a female fortune-teller.
Spence, a larder.
Steenies, guineas.
Sud, should.
Sumph, a soft person.
Swankie, a clever young fellow.
Sweir, indolent.
Syne, then.
Tabbit, benumbed.
Tapsle-teerie, topsyturvy.
Ted, toad.
Thairms, strings.
Thowless, thoughtless.
Thraw, twist.
Tint, lost.
Tirl, to uncover.
Tocher, dowry.
Toss, toast.
Towmond, a year.
Trig, neat, trim.
Tryst, appointment.
Tyced, made diversion.
Vauntit, boasted.
Weel, will.
Whigmigmorum, political ranting.
Wile, choice.
Wist, wished.
Wizen, the throat.
Wow, vow.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.