Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,And Castlehill's white wa's appear,I spent ae day, aboon a' days,By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.The purple heath was just in bloom,And bonnie waved the upland broom,The flocks on flowery braes lay still,Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,I met a maiden fair to see,Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;Her beauty to the mind did bringA morn where summer blends wi' spring,So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,'Twas bliss to look—to linger there!Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,Wi' love to win and sense to charm,So much of nature, nought of art,She 'll live enthroned within my heart!Aboon her head the laverock sang,And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,By Manor stream an' Manor braes.I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fairKnew aught of love, wi' a' its care?She said her heart frae love was free,But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.The parting cam, as partings come,Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;Yet I 'll return, ere many days,To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.
Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,And Castlehill's white wa's appear,I spent ae day, aboon a' days,By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.The purple heath was just in bloom,And bonnie waved the upland broom,The flocks on flowery braes lay still,Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.
'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,I met a maiden fair to see,Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;Her beauty to the mind did bringA morn where summer blends wi' spring,So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,'Twas bliss to look—to linger there!
Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,Wi' love to win and sense to charm,So much of nature, nought of art,She 'll live enthroned within my heart!Aboon her head the laverock sang,And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,By Manor stream an' Manor braes.
I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fairKnew aught of love, wi' a' its care?She said her heart frae love was free,But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.The parting cam, as partings come,Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;Yet I 'll return, ere many days,To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.
Tune—"Roy's Wife."
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;Happier days may yet be mine,At least I wish them thine—believe me!We part—but by those dew-drops clear,My love for thee will last for ever;I leave thee—but thy image dear,Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.Fare thee well, &c.Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow—One farewell smile before we sever;The only balm for parting woeIs—fondly hope 'tis not for ever.Fare thee well, &c.Though dark and dreary lowers the night,Calm and serene may be the morrow;The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,Without some mingling drops of sorrow!Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;Happier days may yet be mine,At least I wish them thine—believe me!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;Happier days may yet be mine,At least I wish them thine—believe me!
We part—but by those dew-drops clear,My love for thee will last for ever;I leave thee—but thy image dear,Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.Fare thee well, &c.
Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow—One farewell smile before we sever;The only balm for parting woeIs—fondly hope 'tis not for ever.Fare thee well, &c.
Though dark and dreary lowers the night,Calm and serene may be the morrow;The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,Without some mingling drops of sorrow!Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;Happier days may yet be mine,At least I wish them thine—believe me!
'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne—'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,But tidings of summer the young roses bring.Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair—Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne—'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.
Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair—Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
Tune—"My ain Countrie."
Oh! why left I my hame,Why did I cross the deep?Oh! why left I the landWhere my forefathers sleep?I sigh for Scotia's shore,And I gaze across the sea;But I canna get a blinkO' my ain countrie!The palm-tree waveth high,And fair the myrtle springs,And to the Indian maidThe bulbul sweetly sings;But I dinna see the broomWi' its tassels on the lea,Nor hear the lintie's sangO' my ain countrie!Oh! here no Sabbath bellAwakes the Sabbath morn,Nor song of reapers heardAmang the yellow corn;For the tyrant's voice is here,And the wail of slaverie,But the sun of freedom shinesIn my ain countrie!There 's a hope for every woe,And a balm for every pain;But the first joys o' our heartCome never back again.There 's a track upon the deep,And a path across the sea,But the weary ne'er returnTo their ain countrie!
Oh! why left I my hame,Why did I cross the deep?Oh! why left I the landWhere my forefathers sleep?I sigh for Scotia's shore,And I gaze across the sea;But I canna get a blinkO' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,And fair the myrtle springs,And to the Indian maidThe bulbul sweetly sings;But I dinna see the broomWi' its tassels on the lea,Nor hear the lintie's sangO' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bellAwakes the Sabbath morn,Nor song of reapers heardAmang the yellow corn;For the tyrant's voice is here,And the wail of slaverie,But the sun of freedom shinesIn my ain countrie!
There 's a hope for every woe,And a balm for every pain;But the first joys o' our heartCome never back again.There 's a track upon the deep,And a path across the sea,But the weary ne'er returnTo their ain countrie!
Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,For the blithe happy days that never can return;When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain—There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.
Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?
They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.
I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,For the blithe happy days that never can return;When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.
Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.
Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain—There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,That waking we sall never see;Yet oh! how kindly was the smileMy laddie in my sleep gave me!I thought we sat beside the burnThat wimples down the flowery glen,Where, in our early days o' love,We met that ne'er sall meet again.The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,And gladden'd wi' his parting rayThe woodland wild and valley green,Fast fading into gloamin' gray.He talk'd of days o' future joy,And yet my heart was haflins sair;For when his eye it beam'd on me,A withering death-like glance was there!I thought him dead, and then I thoughtThat life was young and love was free;For o'er our heads the mavis sang,And hameward hied the janty bee!We pledged our love and plighted troth,But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;When, starting from my dream, I foundHis troth was plighted to the grave!I canna weep, for hope is fled,And nought would do but silent mourn,Were 't no for dreams that should na come,To whisper back my love's return.'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,That waking we sall never see;Yet, oh! how kindly was the smileMy laddie in my sleep gave me!
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,That waking we sall never see;Yet oh! how kindly was the smileMy laddie in my sleep gave me!I thought we sat beside the burnThat wimples down the flowery glen,Where, in our early days o' love,We met that ne'er sall meet again.
The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,And gladden'd wi' his parting rayThe woodland wild and valley green,Fast fading into gloamin' gray.He talk'd of days o' future joy,And yet my heart was haflins sair;For when his eye it beam'd on me,A withering death-like glance was there!
I thought him dead, and then I thoughtThat life was young and love was free;For o'er our heads the mavis sang,And hameward hied the janty bee!We pledged our love and plighted troth,But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;When, starting from my dream, I foundHis troth was plighted to the grave!
I canna weep, for hope is fled,And nought would do but silent mourn,Were 't no for dreams that should na come,To whisper back my love's return.'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,That waking we sall never see;Yet, oh! how kindly was the smileMy laddie in my sleep gave me!
William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (uisg-bea) in several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to the too susceptible poet.
Let the maids of the LowlandsVaunt their silks and their Hollands,In the garb of the HighlandsOh give me my dear!Such a figure for grace!For the Loves such a face!And for lightness the paceThat the grass shall not stir.* * * * *
Let the maids of the LowlandsVaunt their silks and their Hollands,In the garb of the HighlandsOh give me my dear!Such a figure for grace!For the Loves such a face!And for lightness the paceThat the grass shall not stir.* * * * *
Lips of cherry confineTeeth of ivory shine,And with blushes combineTo keep us in thrall.Thy converse exceedingAll eloquent pleading,Thy voice never needingTo rival the fallOf the music of art,—Steal their way to the heart,And resistless impartTheir enchantment to all.
Lips of cherry confineTeeth of ivory shine,And with blushes combineTo keep us in thrall.Thy converse exceedingAll eloquent pleading,Thy voice never needingTo rival the fallOf the music of art,—Steal their way to the heart,And resistless impartTheir enchantment to all.
WhenBeltaneis over,And summer joys hover,With thee a glad roverI 'll wander along,Where the harp-strings of natureAre strung by each creature,And the sleep shall be sweeterThat lulls to their song,There, bounding together,On the lawn of the heather,And free from the tether,The heifers shall throng.
WhenBeltaneis over,And summer joys hover,With thee a glad roverI 'll wander along,Where the harp-strings of natureAre strung by each creature,And the sleep shall be sweeterThat lulls to their song,There, bounding together,On the lawn of the heather,And free from the tether,The heifers shall throng.
There shall pasture the ewes,There the spotted goats browse,And the kids shall arouseIn their madness of play;They shall butt, they shall fight,They shall emulate flight,They shall break with delightO'er the mountains away.And there shall my MaryWith her faithful one tarry,And never be wearyIn the hollows to stray.
There shall pasture the ewes,There the spotted goats browse,And the kids shall arouseIn their madness of play;They shall butt, they shall fight,They shall emulate flight,They shall break with delightO'er the mountains away.And there shall my MaryWith her faithful one tarry,And never be wearyIn the hollows to stray.
While a concert shall cheer us,For the bushes are near us;And the birds shall not fear us,We 'll harbour so still.* * * * *Strains the mavis his throat,Lends the cuckoo her note,And the world is forgotBy the side of the hill.
While a concert shall cheer us,For the bushes are near us;And the birds shall not fear us,We 'll harbour so still.
* * * * *
Strains the mavis his throat,Lends the cuckoo her note,And the world is forgotBy the side of the hill.
The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerieIs the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50]Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;The half is behind, but the better is strayingThe shade of the hills and the copses away in,And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.I know why it wanders,—it is to be treadingWhere long I frequented the haunts of my dear,The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.It is to be tending where heifers are wending,And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.
The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerieIs the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50]Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!
Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;The half is behind, but the better is strayingThe shade of the hills and the copses away in,And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.
I know why it wanders,—it is to be treadingWhere long I frequented the haunts of my dear,The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.
It is to be tending where heifers are wending,And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.
The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter. On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who, with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree who were possessed of equal charms. With the same uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own music. Ross applies the story to his own case.
The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter. On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who, with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree who were possessed of equal charms. With the same uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own music. Ross applies the story to his own case.
Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while—"Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown,In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here!Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow,As rosy on the lip, is there—then, why so frantic thou?"The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured,Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured:But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide,A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly lookOf smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss—He almost thought he heard her sigh, "Come back again to bliss!"
Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while—"Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown,In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."
When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here!Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow,As rosy on the lip, is there—then, why so frantic thou?"
The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured,Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured:But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.
Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide,A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.
But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly lookOf smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?
Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss—He almost thought he heard her sigh, "Come back again to bliss!"
This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his mistress to another lover.
This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his mistress to another lover.
Reft the charm of the social shellBy the touch of the sorrowful mood;And already the worm, in her cell,Is preparing the birth of her brood.She blanches the hue of my cheek,And exposes my desperate love;Nor needs it that death should bespeakThe hurt no remeid can remove.The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,Even that has withdrawn from the scene;And, now, not a breeze can displaceA leaf from its summit of greenSo prostrate and fallen to lie,So far from the branch where it hung,As, in dust and in helplessness, I,From the hope to which passion had clung.Yet, benison bide! where thy choiceDeems its bliss and its treasure secure,May the months in thy blessings rejoice,While their rise and their wane shall endure!For me, a poor warrior, in bloodBy thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,The glow of ambition subdued,The weapons of rivalry gone.Yet, cruel to mock me, the baseWho scoff at the name of the bard,To scorn the degree of my race,Their toil and their travail, is hard.Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drewA furrow unstraight or unpaid;And the other, to righteousness true,Hung even the scales of his trade.And I—ah! they should not compelTo waken the theme of my praise;I can boast over hundreds, to tellOf a chief in the conflict of lays.And now it is over—the heartThat bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,In the song-fight shall never take part,And weakness gives warning to yield.As the discord that raves 'neath the cloudThat is raised by the dash of the sprayWhen waters are battling aloud,Bewilderment bears me away.And to measure the song in its charm,Or to handle the viol with skill,Or beauty with carols to warm,Gone for ever, the power and the will.No never, no never, ascendTo the mountain-pass glories, shall I,In the cheer of the chase to unbend;Enough, it is left but to die.And yet, shall I go to my rest,Where the dead of my brothers repair—To the hall of the bards, not unblest,That their worthies before me are there?
Reft the charm of the social shellBy the touch of the sorrowful mood;And already the worm, in her cell,Is preparing the birth of her brood.
She blanches the hue of my cheek,And exposes my desperate love;Nor needs it that death should bespeakThe hurt no remeid can remove.
The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,Even that has withdrawn from the scene;And, now, not a breeze can displaceA leaf from its summit of green
So prostrate and fallen to lie,So far from the branch where it hung,As, in dust and in helplessness, I,From the hope to which passion had clung.
Yet, benison bide! where thy choiceDeems its bliss and its treasure secure,May the months in thy blessings rejoice,While their rise and their wane shall endure!
For me, a poor warrior, in bloodBy thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,The glow of ambition subdued,The weapons of rivalry gone.
Yet, cruel to mock me, the baseWho scoff at the name of the bard,To scorn the degree of my race,Their toil and their travail, is hard.
Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drewA furrow unstraight or unpaid;And the other, to righteousness true,Hung even the scales of his trade.
And I—ah! they should not compelTo waken the theme of my praise;I can boast over hundreds, to tellOf a chief in the conflict of lays.
And now it is over—the heartThat bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,In the song-fight shall never take part,And weakness gives warning to yield.
As the discord that raves 'neath the cloudThat is raised by the dash of the sprayWhen waters are battling aloud,Bewilderment bears me away.
And to measure the song in its charm,Or to handle the viol with skill,Or beauty with carols to warm,Gone for ever, the power and the will.
No never, no never, ascendTo the mountain-pass glories, shall I,In the cheer of the chase to unbend;Enough, it is left but to die.
And yet, shall I go to my rest,Where the dead of my brothers repair—To the hall of the bards, not unblest,That their worthies before me are there?
This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman, James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor, and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved, "Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which, in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of Ossian.
The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the heights of Benalder, where he entertained his unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie" seems to have caught, in the following verses, some characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest courage in warfare.
The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the heights of Benalder, where he entertained his unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie" seems to have caught, in the following verses, some characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest courage in warfare.
Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trialWas hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:"Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;"Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its furyTo the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.Who could grapple with him in firmness of limbAnd sureness of sinew? and—for the stout blow—'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasingWith a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,Following on for the right in the havoc of life.To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeakHis word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.
Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.
He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trialWas hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:"Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;"Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."
What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its furyTo the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.
Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.Who could grapple with him in firmness of limbAnd sureness of sinew? and—for the stout blow—'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.
Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasingWith a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,Following on for the right in the havoc of life.To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeakHis word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.
James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.
Than Mr M'Laggan, few could have been better qualified for the duties of chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was intimately conversant with the language, character, and partialities of the Gael, and was possessed of much military ardour, as well as Christian devotedness. He accompanied the regiment to America, and was present in several skirmishes during the War of Independence. Anecdotes are still recounted of the humour and spirit with which he maintained an influence over the minds of his flock; and Stewart, in his "History of the Highlands," has described him as having essentially contributed to form the character of the Highland soldier, then in the novitiate of his loyalty and efficiency in the national service. In 1776, while stationed with his regiment in Glasgow, he had the freedom of the cityconferred on him by the corporation. After discharging the duties of military chaplain during a period of twenty-four years, he was in 1788 presented by the Duke of Atholl to the parish of Blair-Athole, Perthshire. He died in 1805, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.
A pious and exemplary clergyman, Mr M'Laggan is still kindly remembered in the scene of his parochial ministrations. An accomplished Gaelic scholar, and with a strong admiration of the poetry of the Gael, he recovered, from the recitation of many aged persons, large portions of the poetry of Ossian, prior to the publication of the collections of Macpherson.[51]He composed some spirited Gaelic lyrics during the period of his connexion with the army, but the greater portion of his poetry still remains in MS. A collection of Gaelic songs under his editorial superintendence was published anonymously.
Mr M'Laggan was of fair and ruddy complexion, and was under the middle stature. He was fond of humour, and his dispositions were singularly benevolent. In youth, he was remarkable for his skill in athletic exercises. He married a daughter of the Rev. James Stewart, minister of Killin, the originator of the translation of the Scriptures into the Gaelic language. Of a family of four sons and three daughters, one son and two daughters still survive; his eldest son, the Rev. James M'Laggan, D.D., was successively minister of the parishes of Auchtergaven and Kinfauns, in Perthshire, and ultimately Free Church Professor of Divinity in Aberdeen.
For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bearTo the warriors dear of the muir and the valley—The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,With the curtal coat, and the sweepingeil-e.In their belts array'd, where the dark blue bladeIs hung, with the dirk at the side;When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,The race of the wight of hand;Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,The daring in fight and the glorious,Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,And return to your mountains victorious.Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.Then forward—and see ye be huntsmen true,And, as erst the red deer felling,So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye allThe tribes in the backwoods dwelling.Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,And sails to the motion of helm be flying;Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,And beckoning the friends of their country on board.The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,And is warbling the Jorram to you.When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearlsShall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greetingSpeak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girlsFrom their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,"From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,—Our noble defenders are ever the brave!""If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"So cries each trembling beauty,"Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delightTo your friends and the fair, by your duty.""Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;"Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;"By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,We vow with the daring to die!"Faithful to trust is the lion-like hostWhom the dawn of their youth doth inureTo hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,And to ranging the wastes of the moor.Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;Aye ever they fight the best, for the rightTo the strike of the swords, when they hurry.
For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bearTo the warriors dear of the muir and the valley—The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,With the curtal coat, and the sweepingeil-e.In their belts array'd, where the dark blue bladeIs hung, with the dirk at the side;When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.
The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,The race of the wight of hand;Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,The daring in fight and the glorious,Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,And return to your mountains victorious.
Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.Then forward—and see ye be huntsmen true,And, as erst the red deer felling,So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye allThe tribes in the backwoods dwelling.
Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,And sails to the motion of helm be flying;Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,And beckoning the friends of their country on board.The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,And is warbling the Jorram to you.
When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearlsShall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greetingSpeak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girlsFrom their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,"From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,—Our noble defenders are ever the brave!"
"If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"So cries each trembling beauty,"Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delightTo your friends and the fair, by your duty.""Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;"Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;"By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,We vow with the daring to die!"
Faithful to trust is the lion-like hostWhom the dawn of their youth doth inureTo hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,And to ranging the wastes of the moor.Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;Aye ever they fight the best, for the rightTo the strike of the swords, when they hurry.
Ahin', behind.
Auld-farrant, sagacious, cunning.
Baudrons, a cat.
Beltane, the 1st of May.
Bield, shelter.
Bink, a bank of earth.
Birk, birch.
Blae, blue.
Blaud, a flat piece of anything, to slap.
Blinket, looked kindly.
Bonnie, beautiful.
Burnie, a small rivulet.
Byke, a bee-hive.
Cannily, gently, dexterously.
Cauldrife, coldish.
Chanter, the drone of a bagpipe.
Cleugh, a cliff.
Clutch, seize.
Coble, a fishing-boat.
Couthilie, kindly.
Crack, to converse.
Cuiff, a blockhead.
Daffin', diversion.
Dautit, fondled, caressed.
Dighted, wiped.
Doited, very stupid.
Donnart, stupified.
Dow, wither.
Dowie, sad, worn with grief.
Dree, suffer, endure.
Dreich, tedious.
Dunt, a knock.
Eerie, dreading things supernatural.
Fashious, troublesome.
Fause, false.
Ferlies, wonders.
Flate, scolded.
Flow, a small quantity.
Gar, compel.
Gauds, trinkets.
Gawkie, a thoughtless person.
Gif, if.
Gilphie, a half-grown person, a romping lad.
Glaiks, foolish talk.
Gowd, gold.
Gree, agree.
Greet, weep.
Haddin, a farmer's stock.
Haffit-links, a necklace.
Haflins, nearly half, partly.
Haps, outer garments.
Haud, hold.
Hinnied, honied.
Hodden, a coarse kind of cloth.
Hummel, humble.
Kame, comb.
Ken, know.
Kilt, to truss up the clothes.
Kye, cattle.
Laigh, low.
Leal, loyal, true.
Lear, learning.
Lick, wipe, beat.
Lift, the sky.
Litheless, listless.
Loonie, a little fellow.
Loupin', leaping.
Losh, an exclamation of surprise.
Lowne, warm.
Maen, moan, complain.
Mailin, a tax, a rent.
Maw, to mow, the stomach.
Meikle, much.
Mim, prim.
Mirk, dark.
Muter, multure, ground corn.
Neivefu', a handful.
Newfangled, newfashioned.
Nit, a nut.
Owre, over.
Pow, the head.
Pree, to taste, to kiss.
Puirtith, poverty.
Racket, stretched.
Scaur, to scare, a wound.
Scoured, burnished, ran.
Scunner'd, disgusted.
Shiel, a temporary cottage or hut.
Siccan, such.
Siching, sighing.
Skailt, emptied, scattered.
Souch, the sighing of the wind, the breathing of a tune.
Speer'd, inquired.
Steer, stir.
Syne, then, since.
Tauld, told.
Tentie, heedful, cautious.
Tentin', leading.
Tint, lost.
Trantlooms, odds and ends.
Wauken, awaken.
Waukrife, watchful, sleepless.
Waunert, wandered.
Wean, a child.
Wee, little.
Weel-faur'd, well-favoured.
Weir, war, to herd.
Whusslit, whistled.
Wooster-trystes, wool-markets.
Yird, earth, soil.
END OF VOL. III.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.