{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_10089/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_10089","id":"gutenberg_10089","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10089","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Fairy poetry","Ossian, active 3rd century","Scottish poetry"],"text":"Editorial note: Many paragraphs in the original text ended without\n                punctuation, and this state has been preserved in\n                this Project Gutenberg edition.\n\n\n\n\n\nELVES AND HEROES\n\nBY\n\nDONALD A. MACKENZIE.\n\n1909\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO\n\nMiss YULE, of TARRADALE.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nTHE ELVES.\n\nThe immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but\nthey still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the\nglamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting\nglimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men\nand women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our\nancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with\nthem in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears,\nwe breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs,\npeopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring.\n\nThe attitude of the Gael towards the supernatural, and his general\noutlook upon life in times gone by, was not associated with unbroken\ngloom; nor was he always an ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist.\nThese attributes belong chiefly to the Literary Celt of latter-day\nconception--the Celt of Arnold and Renan, and other writers following in\ntheir wake, who have woven misty impressions of a people whom they have\nmet as strangers, and never really understood. Celtic literature is not\na morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is more light than shadow,\nmuch symbolism, but no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute\ndetail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of keen artistry; and\nthe literary style is direct and clear and comprehensible. In Highland\nfolklore we find associated with the haunting \"fear of things\ninvisible,\" common to all peoples in early stages of development, a\nconfident feeling of security inspired by the minute observances of\nceremonial practices. We also note a distinct tendency to discriminate\nbetween spirits, some of which are invariably friendly, some merely\npicturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others constantly harbouring a\ndesire to work evil upon mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy\nof propitiatory offerings and \"ceremonies of riddance,\" is the ethical\nsuggestion that good wishes and good deeds influence spirits to perform\nacts of kindly intent.\n\nOf fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are still prone to do in these\ndistricts where belief in them is not yet extinct, with no small degree\nof regard and affection. It may be that \"the good folk\" and the\n\"peace-people\" (_sitchean_) were so called that good intention might be\ncompelled by the conjuring influence of a name, as well as to avoid\ngiving offence by uttering real names, as if it were desired to exercise\na magical influence by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from\nHighland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener the friends than the\nfoes of mankind. When men and women were lured to their dwellings they\nrarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies appeared to have taken\npleasure in their company. To such as they favoured they imparted the\nsecrets of their skill in the arts of piping, of sword-making, etc. At\nsowing time or harvest they were at the service of human friends. On the\nneedy they took pity. They never failed in a promise; they never forgot\nan act of kindness, which they invariably rewarded seven-fold. Against\nthose who wronged them they took speedy vengeance. It would appear that\non these humanised spirits of his conception the Highlander left, as one\nwould expect him to do, the impress of his own character--his shrewdness\nand high sense of honour, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth of\nheart and love of comrades, and his indelible hatred of tyranny and\nwrong.\n\nThe Highland \"wee folk\" are not so diminutive as the fairies of\nEngland--at least that type of fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers\nbee-like over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power they had to shrink\nin stature and to render themselves invisible, but they are invariably\n\"little people,\" from three to four feet high. It may be that the Gael's\nconception of humanised spirits may not have been uninfluenced by the\ntraditions of that earlier diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint\nwere so long regarded as \"elf-bolts.\" The fairies dwelt only in grassy\nknolls, on the summits of high hills, and inside cliffs. Although\ncapable of living for several centuries, they were not immortal. They\nrequired food, and borrowed meal and cooking utensils from human beings,\nand always returned what they received on loan. They could be heard\nwithin the knolls grinding corn and working at their anvils, and they\nwere adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. When they went on\nlong journeys they became invisible, and were carried through the air on\neddies of western wind.\n\nAt the seasonal changes of the year, \"the wee folk\" were for several\ndays on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity\nagainst mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and\ncharms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly,\nare unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief\nin the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil\nspirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in\nomens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic\nwarnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion\nof our remote ancestors.\n\n\nTHE HEROES.\n\nThe heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume,\nfigure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is\ncommon to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our\nScottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are\na band of militia--the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary\nconsiderably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction\nof agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are\nevidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse\nconflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits.\n\nThe cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and\nGrainn\u00e8, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and\nDiarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his\nheel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre\nmigrating \"waves\" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of\ntheir mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other \"waves,\" sweeping\nnorthward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic\nfolk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal\nheroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated.\n\nOn fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic\nepic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.\n\nThe \"Death of Cuchullin\" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose\ntranslation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the\nBronze Age period. Cuchullin, with \"the light of heroes\" on his\nforehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin\ntales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son,\nand bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum.\nMacpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and\nmingled it with the other, with which it has no connection.\n\nThe third great Celtic Cycle--the Arthurian--bears close resemblances,\nas Campbell, of \"The West Highland Tales,\" has shown, to the Fian Cycle,\nand had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary\ninspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin\ncycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for\nthe poets of the future.\n\nNotes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this\nvolume.\n\nSome of the short poems have appeared in the \"Glasgow Herald\" and\n\"Inverness Courier\"; the three tales appeared in the \"Celtic Review.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nPreface\n\nThe Wee Folk\n\nThe Remnant Bannock\n\nThe Banshee\n\nConn, Son of the Red\n\nThe Song of Goll\n\nThe Blue Men of the Minch\n\nThe Urisk\n\nThe Nimble Men\n\nMy Gunna\n\nThe Gruagach\n\nThe Little Old Man of the Barn\n\nYon Fairy Dog\n\nThe Water-Horse\n\nThe Changeling\n\nMy Fairy Lover\n\nThe Fians of Knockfarrel\n\nHer Evil Eye\n\nA Cursing\n\nLeobag's Warning\n\nTober Mhuire\n\nSleepy Song\n\nSong of the Sea\n\nThe Death of Cuchullin\n\nLost Songs\n\n\nOTHER POEMS.\n\nThe Dream\n\nFree Will\n\nStrife\n\nSonnet\n\n\"Out of the Mouths of Babes\"\n\nNotes\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WEE FOLK.\n\n\nIn the knoll that is the greenest,\n  And the grey cliff side,\nAnd on the lonely ben-top\n  The wee folk bide;\nThey'll flit among the heather,\n  And trip upon the brae--\nThe wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey.\n\nAs o'er the moor at midnight\n  The wee folk pass,\nThey whisper 'mong the rushes\n  And o'er the green grass;\nAll through the marshy places\n  They glint and pass away--\nThe light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay.\n\nO many a fairy milkmaid\n  With the one eye blind,\nIs 'mid the lonely mountains\n  By the red deer hind;\nNot one will wait to greet me,\n  For they have naught to say--\nThe hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.\n\nWhen the golden moon is glinting\n  In the deep, dim wood,\nThere's a fairy piper playing\n  To the elfin brood;\nThey dance and shout and turn about,\n  And laugh and swing and sway--\nThe droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.\n\nO we that bless the wee folk\n  Have naught to fear,\nAnd ne'er an elfin arrow\n  Will come us near;\nFor they'll give skill in music,\n  And every wish obey--\nThe wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.\n\nThey'll hasten here at harvest,\n  They will shear and bind;\nThey'll come with elfin music\n  On a western wind;\nAll night they'll sit among the sheaves,\n  Or herd the kine that stray--\nThe quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.\n\nBetimes they will be spinning\n  The while we sleep,\nThey'll clamber down the chimney,\n  Or through keyholes creep;\nAnd when they come to borrow meal\n  We'll ne'er them send away--\nThe good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.\n\nO never wrong the wee folk--\n  The red folk and green,\nNor name them on the Fridays,\n  Or at Hallowe'en;\nThe helpless and unwary then\n  And bairns they lure away--\nThe fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.\n\n\n\n\nBONNACH FALLAIDH.\n\n(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)\n\n\nO, the good-wife will be singing\n  When her meal is all but done--\nNow all my bannocks have I baked,\n  I've baked them all but one;\nAnd I'll dust the board to bake it,\n  I'll bake it with a spell--\nO, it's Finlay's little bannock\n  For going to the well.\n\nThe bannock on the brander\n  Smells sweet for your desire--\nO my crisp ones I will count not\n  On two sides of the fire;\nAnd not a farl has fallen\n  Some evil to foretell!--\nO it's Finlay's little bannock\n  For going to the well.\n\nThe bread would not be lasting,\n  'Twould crumble in your hand;\nWhen fairies would be coming here\n  To turn the meal to sand--\nBut what will keep them dancing\n  In their own green dell?\nO it's Finlay's little bannock\n  For going to the well.\n\nNow, not a fairy finger\n  Will do my baking harm--\nThe little bannock with the hole,\n  O it will be the charm.\nI knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms,\n  And all the bairns I tell--\nO it's Finlay's little bannock\n  For going to the well.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BANSHEE.\n\n\nKnee-deep she waded in the pool--\n  The Banshee robed in green--\nShe sang yon song the whole night long,\n  And washed the linen clean;\nThe linen that would wrap the dead\n  She beetled on a stone,\nShe stood with dripping hands, blood-red,\n  Low singing all alone--\n\n_His linen robes are pure and white,\nFor Fergus More must die to-night!_\n\n'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,\n  Come back from foreign wars,\nHis horse's feet were clattering sweet\n  Below the pitiless stars;\nAnd in his heart he would repeat--\n  \"O never again I'll roam;\nAll weary is the going forth,\n  But sweet the coming home!\"\n\n_His linen robes are pure and white,\nFor Fergus More must die to-night!_\n\nHe saw the blaze upon his hearth\n  Come gleaming down the glen;\nFor he was fain for home again,\n  And rode before his men--\n\"'Tis many a weary day,\" he'd sigh,\n  \"Since I would leave her side;\nI'll never more leave Scotland's shore\n  And yon, my dark-eyed bride.\"\n\n_His linen robes are pure and white,\nFor Fergus More must die to-night!_\n\nSo dreaming of her tender love,\n  Soft tears his eyes would blind--\nWhen up there crept and swiftly leapt\n  A man who stabbed behind--\n\"'Tis you,\" he cried, \"who stole my bride,\n  This night shall be your last!\" ...\nWhen Fergus fell, the warm, red tide\n  Of life came ebbing fast ...\n\n_His linen robes are pure and white,\nFor Fergus More must die to-night!_\n\n\n\n\nCONN, SON OF THE RED.\n\n\nThe Fians sojourned by the shore\nOf comely Cromarty, and o'er\nThe wooded hill pursued the chase\nWith ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space\nEre Beltane[1] rites would be begun\nWith homage to the rising sun--\nEre to the spirits of the dead\nWould sacrificial blood be shed\nIn yon green grove of Navity--[2]\nWhen Conn came over the Eastern Sea,\nHis heart aflame with vengeful ire,\nTo seek for Goll, who slew his sire\nWhen he was seven years old.\n\n                             Finn saw\nIn dreams, ere yet he came, with awe\nThe Red One's son, so fierce and bold,\nIn combat with his hero old--\nThe king-like Goll of valorous might--\nA stormy billow in the fight\nNo foe could ere withstand.\n\n                            He knew\nThe strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew\nClear on his horn the Warning Call;\nAnd round him thronged the Fians all\nWith wond'ring gaze.\n\n                     The sun drew nigh\nThe bale-fires of the western sky,\nAnd faggot clouds with blood-red glare,\nCaught flame, and in the radiant air\nLone Wyvis like a jewel shone--\nThe Fians, as they stared at Conn,\nWere stooping on the high Look-Out.\nThey watched the ship that tacked about,\nNow slant across the firth, and now\nLaid bare below the cliff's broad brow,\nAnd heaving on a billowy steep,\nLike to a monster of the deep\nThat wallowed, labouring in pain--\nAnd Conn stared back with cold disdain.\n\nPondering, he sat alone behind\nThe broad sail swallowing the wind,\nAs over the hollowing waves that leapt\nAnd snarled with foaming lips, and swept\nAround the bows in querulous fray,\nAnd tossed in curves of drenching spray,\nThe belching ship with ardour drove;\nThen like a lordly elk that strove\nAmid the hounds and, charging, rent\nThe pack asunder as it went,\nIt bore round and in beauty sprang--\nThe sea-wind through the cordage sang\nWith high and wintry merriment\nThat stirred the heart of Conn, intent\nOn vengeance, and for battle keen--\nSo hard, so steadfast, and serene.\n\nThen Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low,\nWith musing eyes upon the foe,\n\"Is Conn more noble than The Red,\nWhom Goll in battle vanquished?\"\n\"The Red was fiercer,\" Conan cried--\n\"Nay, Conn is nobler,\" Finn replied,\n\"More comely, stalwart, mightier far--\nWhat sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?\"\nThen Goll made answer on the steep,\nNor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep--\n\"His equal never came before\nAcross the seas to Alban shore,\nNor ever have I peered upon\nA nobler, mightier man than Conn\"\n\nThe ship flew seaward, tacking wide,\nContending with the wind and tide,\nAnd when upon the broad stream's track\nIt baffled hung, or drifted back,\nWith grunt and shriek, like battling boars,\nThe shock and swing of bladed oars\nCame sounding o'er the sea\n\n                           The dusk\nGrew round the twilight, like a husk\nThat holds a kernel choice, and keen,\nCold stars impaled the sky serene,\nWhen Conn's ship through the slackening tide\nDrew round the wistful bay and wide,\nBehind the headlands high that snout\nThe seas like giant whales, and spout\nThe salt foam high and loud\n\n                            Then sighed\nThe gasping men who all day plied\nTheir oars in plunging seas, with hands\nGrown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands\nDrawn numbly, as they rose outspent,\nAnd staggering from their benches went\nThe sail napped quarrelling, and drank\nThe wind in broken gasps, and sank\nWith sullen pride upon the boards,\nAnd smote the mast and shook the cords\n\nDarkly loomed that alien land,\nAnd darkly lowered the Fian band,\nFor hovering on the shoreland grey\nThe ship they followed round the bay\nNor sought the sheltering woods until\nThe shadows folded o'er the hill\nFull heavily, and night fell blind,\nAnd laid its spell upon the wind\n\nThe swelling waters sank with sip\nAnd hollow gurgle round the ship,\nThe long mast rocked against the dim,\nSoft heaven above the headland's rim\n\nBut while the seamen crouched to sleep,\nConn sat alone in reverie deep,\nAnd saw before him in a maze\nThe mute procession of his days,\nIn gloom and glamour wending fast--\nHis heart a-hungering for the past--\nAgain he leapt, a tender boy,\nTo greet his sire with eager joy,\nWhen he came over the wide North Sea,\nEnriched with spoils of victory--\nThen heavily loomed that fateful morn\nWhen tidings of his fall were borne\nFrom Alban shore ... Again he saw\nThe youth who went alone with awe\nTo swear the avenging oath before\nThe smoking altar red with gore.\n\nAh! strange to him it seemed to be\nThat hour was drawing nigh when he\nWould vengeance take ... And still more strange,\nO sorrow! it would bring no change\nThough blood for blood be spilled, and life\nFor life be taken in fierce strife;\n'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped,\nOr break the silence of the dead.\n\nBut when he heard his mother's wail,\nOnce more uplifted on the gale,\nMoaning The Red who ne'er returned--\nHis cheeks with sudden passion burned;\nAnd darkly frowned that valiant man,\nAs through his quivering body ran\nThe lightnings of impelling ire\nAnd impulses of fierce desire,\nThat surged, with a consuming hate\nAgainst a world made desolate,\nUnceasing and unreconciled,\nAnd ever clamouring ... like wild,\nDark-deeded waves that stun the shore,\nAnd through the anguished twilight roar\nThe hungry passions of the wide\nAnd gluttonous deep unsatisfied.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\nThe shredding dawn in beauty spread\nIts shafts of splendour, golden-red,\nHigh over the eastern heaven, and broke\nThrough flaking clouds in silvern smoke\nThat burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,\nLet loose their oozing floods of gold,\nSplashed over the foamless deep that lay\nTremulous and clear. In fiery play\nThe rippling beams that swept between\nThe sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,\nBroke quivering where the waters bore\nThe soft reflection of the shore.\n\nThe pipes of morn were sounding shrill\nThrough budding woods on plain and hill,\nAnd stirred the air with song to wake\nThe sweet-toned birds within the brake.\n\nThe Fians from their sheilings came,\nWith offerings to the god a-flame,\nAnd round them thrice they sun-wise went;\nThen naked-kneed in silence bent\nBeside the pillar stones ...\n\n                             But now\nBrave Conn upon the ship's high prow\nHath raised his burnished blade on high,\nAnd calls on Woden and on Tigh\nWith boldness, to avenge the death\nOf his great sire ... In one deep breath\nHe drains the hero's draught that burns\nWith valour of the gods; then turns\nHis long-sought foe to meet ... Great Conn\nSweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.\nShoreward, with rapid blades and bright,\nThat shower the foam-rain pearly white,\nAnd rip the waters, bending lithe,\nIn hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe\nLike adders, ere they dart away\nBright-spotted with the flakes of spray.\n\nWhen, furrowing the sand, he drew\nHis boat the shallowing water through,\nA giant he in stature rose\nStraight as a mast before his foes,\nWith head thrown high, and shoulders wide\nAnd level, and set back with pride;\nHis bared and supple arms were long\nAs shapely oars: firm as a thong\nHis right hand grasped his gleaming blade,\nGold-hilted, and of keen bronze made\nIn leafen shape.\n\n                      With stately stride\nHe crossed the level sands and wide,\nThen on his shield the challenge gave--\nHis broad sword thund'ring like a wave--\nFor single combat.\n\n                      Red as gold\nHis locks upon his shoulders rolled;\nA brazen helmet on his head\nFlashed fire; his cheeks were white and red;\nAnd all the Fians watched with awe\nThat hero young with knotted jaw,\nWhose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard,\nSurveyed their ranks with cold regard;\nWhile his broad forehead, seamed with care,\nDrooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair\nWere sloping sideways o'er his eyes\nWith pondering o'er the mysteries.\n\nThe eyes of all the Fians sought\nHeroic Groll, whose face was wrought\nWith lines of deep, perplexing thought--\nFor gazing on the valiant Conn,\nHe mourned that his own youth was gone,\nWhen, strong and fierce and bold, he shed\nThe life-blood of the boastful Red,\nWhom none save he would meet. He heard\nThe challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred,\nNor feared; but now grown old, when hate\nAnd lust of glory satiate--\nHis heart took pride in Conn, and shared\nThe kinship of the brave.\n\n                          Who dared\nTo meet the Viking bold, if he\nThe succour of the band, should be\nFound faltering or in despair?\nUntil that day the Fians ne'er\nOf one man had such fear.\n\n                          Old Goll\nSat musing on a grassy knoll,\nThey deemed he shared their dread ... Not so\nWise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow--\n\"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man,\nThe keen desire of every clan,\nFar-famed for many a valiant deed,\nStrong hero in the time of need.\nI vaunt not Conn ... nor deem that thou\nDost falter, save with meekness, now--\nBut why shouldst thou not take the head\nOf this bold youth, as of The Red,\nHis sire, in other days?\"\n\n                          Goll spake--\n\"O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake\nMine arms I'd seize with ready hand,\nAlthough to answer thy command\nMy blood to its last drop were spilled--\nBy Crom! were all the Fians killed,\nMy sword would never fail to be\nA strong defence to succour thee.\"\n\nUpon his hard right arm with haste\nHis crooked and pointed shield he braced,\nHe clutched his sword in his left hand--\nWhile round that hero of the band\nThe Fian warriors pressed, and praised\nHis valour ... Mute was Goll ... They raised,\nSmiting their hands, the battle-cry,\nTo urge him on to victory.\n\nThe one-eyed Goll went forth alone,\nHis face was like a mountain stone,--\nCold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath\nCame heavily, like a man nigh death--\nBut his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,\nDeep sunken in his wrinkled skin,\nWas cunningly crooked; his hair was white,\nOn his bald forehead gleamed a bright\nAnd livid scar that Conn's great sire\nHad cloven when their swords struck fire--\nBurly and dauntless, full of might,\nOld Goll went humbly forth to fight\nWith arrogant Conn ... It seemed The Red\nIn greater might was from the dead,\nRestored in his fierce son ...\n\n                                A deep\nSwift silence fell, like sudden sleep,\nOn all the Fians waiting there\nIn sharp suspense and half despair ...\nThe morn was still. A skylark hung\nIn mid-air flutt'ring, and sung\nA lullaby that grew more sweet\nAmid the stillness, in the heat\nAnd splendour of the sun: the lisp\nOf faint wind in the herbage crisp\nWent past them; and around the bare\nAnd foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair,\nThe faintly-panting waves were cast\nBy the wan deep fatigued and vast.\n\nO great was Conn in that dread hour,\nAnd all the Fians feared his power,\nAnd watched, as in a darksome dream,\nThe warriors meet ... They saw the gleam\nOf swift, up-lifted swords, and then\nA breathless moment came, as when\nThe lithe and living lightning's flash\nMakes pause, until the thunder's crash\nIs splintered through the air.\n\n                                Loud o'er\nThe blue sea and the shining shore\nBroke forth the crash of arms ... The roll\nOf Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll\nOn sword and shield resounding rang,\nWhile that old warrior stooped and sprang\nSideways, and swerved, or backward leapt,\nAs swiftly as the bronze blade swept\nAbove him and around ... He swayed,\nStumbling, but rose ... But, though his blade\nWas ever nimble to defend,\nThe Fians feared the fight would end\nIn victory for Conn.\n\n                     ... 'Twas like\nAs when an eagle swoops to strike,\nBut swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nigh\nIts head a javelin gleams ... A cry\nThat banished fear of Conn's great blows\nFrom out the Fian ranks arose,\nAs, like a plumed reed in a gust,\nGoll suddenly stooped--a deadly thrust\nThat drew the first blood in the fray\nHe darting gave ... With quick dismay\nThe valiant Conn drew back ...\n\n                               Again\nHe leapt at Goll, but sought in vain\nTo blind him with his blows that fell\nLike snowflakes on a sullen well--\nFor Goll was calm, while great Conn raged,\nAs hour by hour the conflict waged;\nHe was a blast-defying tree--\nA crag that spurned a furious sea,\nAnd all the Fians with one mind\nSet firm their faith in Goll\n\n                             The wind\nRose like a startled bird from out\nThe heather at the huntsman's shout\nIn swift and blust'ring flight At noon\nThe sun rolled in a cloudy swoon\nDimly, and over the rolling deep\nGust followed gust with shadowy sweep;\nAnd waves that streamed their snowy locks\nWere tossing high against the rocks\nSeaward, while round the sands ebbed wide\nScrambled the fierce devouring tide\n\nO, Conn was like a hound at morn,\nThat springs upon an elk forlorn\nAmong the hills. He was a proud\nCascade that leaps a cliff with loud\nUnspending fall So fierce, so fair\nWas arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there\nKeen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay--\nHe was as a boar in that fierce fray.\n\nThe waves were humbled on the shore,\nAnd silent fell, amid the roar\nAnd crash of battle Mute and still\nThe Fians watched; while on the hill\nThe little elves came out and gazed,\nTo be amused and were amazed ...\nThey saw upon the shrinking sands\nThe warriors with restless hands\nAnd busy blades, with shields that rose\nTo buffet the unceasing blows;\nThey saw before the rising flood\nThe flash of fire, the flash of blood;\nAnd watched the men with panting breath,\nStriving to be the slaves of death;\nNow darting wide, now swerving round,\nNow clashed together in a bound,\nWith splitting swords that smote so fast,\nAs hour by hour unheeded past.\n\nThe sands were torn and tossed like spray\nBefore the whirlwind of the fray,\nThat waged in fury till the sun\nSank, and the day's last loops were spun--\nThen terrible was Goll ... He rose\nA tempest of increasing blows,\nMore furious and fast, as dim,\nUncertain twilight fell ... More grim\nAnd great he grew as, looming large,\nHe fought, and pressing to the marge\nOf ocean, he o'erpowered and drave\nThe Viking hero back; till wave\nO'er ready wave that hurried fleet,\nSnuffled and snarled about their feet ...\n\nThen with a mighty shout that made\nThe rocks around him ring, his blade\nSwept like a flash of fire to smite\nThe last fell blow in that fierce fight--\nSo great Conn perished like The Red\nBy Goll's left hand ... his life-blood spread\nOver the quenching sands where rolled\nHis head entwined with locks of gold.\nThen passed like thunder o'er the sea\nThe Fian shout of victory.\nAnd, trembling on the tossing ships,\nThe Vikings heard, with voiceless lips\nAnd dim, despairing eyes ... Alone\nStood Goll, and like a silent stone\nBulking upon a ben-side bare,\nHe bent above the hero fair--\nRemembering the mighty Red,\nAnd wondering that Conn lay dead.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: May Day.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF GOLL.\n\nO Son of The Red,\nUndone and laid dead--\n  The blood of a hero\nMy cold blade hath shed.\n\nWho fought me to-day?\nWho sought me to slay?--\n  The son of yon High King\nI slew in the fray.\n\nO blade that yon brave\nLow laid in the grave,\n  Ye gladdened the Fians\nBut grief to Conn gave.\n\nStone-hearted and strong,\nLone-hearted with long,\n  Dark brooding, he sought to\nAvenge his deep wrong.\n\nFair Son of The Red,\nCare none thou art dead?--\n  Old Goll of Clan Morna\nWill mourn thou hast bled.\n\nO where shall be found\nTo share with thee round\n  The halls of Valhalla\nThy glory renowned?\n\nO true as the blade\nThat slew thee, and made\n  My fear and thine anger\nFor ever to fade--\n\nAh! when upon earth\nAgain will have birth\n  A son of such honour\nAnd bravery and worth?\n\nAbove thee in splendour\nA love that could render\n  Brave service, burned star-like\nAnd constant and tender.\n\nWith fearing my name,\nWith hearing my fame,\n  O none would dare combat\nWith Goll till Conn came? ...\n\nO great was thine ire--\nThe fate of thy sire,\n  Awaiting thy coming,\nConsumed thee like fire.\n\nO Son of The Red,\nUndone and laid dead--\n  The blood of a hero\nMy cold blade hath shed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH.\n\n\nWhen the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,\nAnd not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep,\nO the waters will be churning on the stream that never smiles,\nWhere the Blue Men are splashing round the charm\u00e8d isles.\n\nAs the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,\nAnd the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides;\nThey will skim along like salmon--you can see their shoulders gleam,\nAnd the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.\n\nBut when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,\nThe Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey faces;\nThey'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind,\nO, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.\n\nAnd if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,\nThey'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray--\nFor they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,\nOr crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.\n\nO weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!\nThe whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles;\nThey'll follow every fisher--ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream--\nWhen billows toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream?\n\n\n\n\nTHE URISK.\n\n\nO the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone moor!\nAh! would I be forgetting of The Thing that came with me?\nFor it was big and black as black, and it was dour as dour,\nIt shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I e'er did see.\n\nFor it came creeping like a cloud that's moving all alone,\nWithout the sound of footsteps ... and I heard its heavy sighs ...\nIts face was old and grey, and like a lichen-covered stone,\nAnd its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad and weary eyes.\n\nO it's never the word it had to say in anger or in woe--\nIt would not seek to harm me that had never done it wrong,\nAs fleet--O like the deer!--I went, or I went panting slow,\nThe waesome thing came with me on that lonely road and long.\n\nO eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the moor!\nWhen I was all so helpless and my heart was full of fear,\nNor when it was beside me or behind me was I sure--\nI knew it would be following--I knew it would be near!\n\n\n\n\nTHE NIMBLE MEN.\n\n(AURORA BOREALIS.)\n\n\n    When Angus Ore, the wizard,\n      His fearsome wand will raise,\n    The night is filled with splendour,\n      And the north is all ablaze;\n    From clouds of raven blackness,\n      Like flames that leap on high--\nAll merrily dance the Nimble Men across the Northern Sky.\n\n    Now come the Merry Maidens,\n      All gowned in white and green,\n    While the bold and ruddy fellows\n      Will be flitting in between--\n    O to hear the fairy piper\n      Who will keep them tripping by!--\nThe men and maids who merrily dance across the Northern Sky.\n\n    O the weird and waesome music,\n      And the never-faltering feet!\n    O their fast and strong embraces,\n      And their kisses hot and sweet!\n    There's a lost and languished lover\n      With a fierce and jealous eye,\nAs merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky.\n\nSo now the dance is over,\n      And the dancers sink to rest--\n    There's a maid that has two lovers,\n      And there's one she loves the best;\n    He will cast him down before her,\n      She will raise him with a sigh--\nHer love so bright who danced to-night across the Northern Sky.\n\n    Then up will leap the other,\n      And up will leap his clan--\n    O the lover and his company\n      Will fight them man to man--\n    All shrieking from the conflict\n      The merry maidens fly--\nThere's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky.\n\n    Through all the hours of darkness\n      The fearsome fight will last;\n    They are leaping white with anger,\n      And the blows are falling fast--\n    And where the slain have tumbled\n      A pool of blood will lie--\nO it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky.\n\n    When yon lady seeks her lover\n      In the cold and pearly morn,\n    She will find that he has fallen\n      By the hand that she would scorn,--\n    She will clasp her arms about him,\n      And in her anguish die!--\nO never again will trip the twain across the Northern Sky.\n\n\n\n\nMY GUNNA.\n\n\nWhen my kine are on the hill,\nWho will charm them from all ill?\nWhile I'll sleep at ease until\n  All the cocks are crowing clear.\nWho'll be herding them for me?\nIt's the elf I fain would see--\nFor they're safe as safe can be\n  When the Gunna will be near.\n\nHe will watch the long weird night,\nWhen the stars will shake with fright,\nOr the ghostly moon leaps bright\n  O'er the ben like Beltane fire.\nIf my kine would seek the corn,\nHe will turn them by the horn--\nAnd I'll find them all at morn\n  Lowing sweet beside the byre.\n\nCroumba's bard has second-sight,\nAnd he'll moan the Gunna's plight,\nWhen the frosts are flickering white,\n  And the kine are housed till day;\nFor he'll see him perched alone\nOn a chilly old grey stone,\nNibbling, nibbling at a bone\n  That we'll maybe throw away.\n\nHe's so hungry, he's so thin,\nIf he'd come we'd let him in,\nFor a rag of fox's skin\n  Is the only thing he'll wear.\nHe'll be chittering in the cold\nAs he hovers round the fold,\nWith his locks of glimmering gold\n  Twined about his shoulders bare.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GRUAGACH.\n\n(MILKMAID'S SONG.)\n\n\nThe lightsome lad wi' yellow hair,\nThe elfin lad that is so fair,\nHe comes in rich and braw attire--\nTo loose the kine within the byre--\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nHe's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand,\nA supple switch is in his hand;\nI've seen while I a-milking sat\nThe shadow of his beaver hat.\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nMy chuckling lad, so full o' fun,\nAround the corners he will run;\nBehind the door he'll sometimes jink,\nAnd blow to make my candle blink.\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nThe elfin lad that is so braw,\nHe'll sometimes hide among the straw;\nHe's sometimes leering from the loft--\nHe's tittering low and tripping soft.\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nAnd every time I'll milk the kine\nHe'll have his share--the luck be mine!\nI'll pour it in yon hollowed stone,\nHe'll sup it when he's all alone--\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nO me! if I'd his milk forget,\nNor cream, nor butter I would get;\nYe needna' tell--I ken full well--\nOn all my kine he'd cast his spell.\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\nOn nights when I would rest at ease,\nThe merry lad begins to tease;\nHe'll loose the kine to take me out,\nAnd titter while I move about.\n\n    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,\n      He's tittering here; he's tittering there--\n    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain\n      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN.\n\n\nWhen all the big lads will be hunting the deer,\nAnd no one for helping Old Callum comes near,\nO who will be busy at threshing his corn?\nWho will come in the night and be going at morn?\n\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn,\n    Yon Little Old Man--\n    A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn,\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn.\n\nWhen the peat will turn grey and the shadows fall deep,\nAnd weary Old Callum is snoring asleep;\nWhen yon plant by the door will keep fairies away,\nAnd the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering till day.\n\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn,\n    Yon Little Old Man--\n    Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the night,\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn.\n\nFor the bodach is strong though his hair is so grey,\nHe will never be weary when he goes away--\nThe bodach is wise--he's so wise, he's so dear--\nWhen the lads are all gone, he will ever be near.\n\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn,\n    Yon Little Old Man--\n    So tight and so braw he will bundle the straw--\n    The Little Old Man of the Barn.\n\n\n\n\nYON FAIRY DOG.\n\n\n'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals,\n  Whose heart would never fail,\nWould hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce\n  Come howling down the gale;\nThe patt'ring of the paws would sound\nLike horse's hoofs on frozen ground,\nWhile o'er its back and curling round\n  Uprose its fearsome tail.\n\n'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals--\n  Yon man that hath no fears--\nBeheld the dog with dark-green back\n  That bends not when it rears;\nIts sides were blacker than the night,\nBut underneath the hair was white;\nIts paws were yellow, its eyes were bright,\n  And blood-red were its ears.\n\n'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals--\n  The man who naught will dread--\nWould wait it, stooping with his spear,\n  As nigh to him it sped;\nThe big black head it turn'd and toss'd,\n\"I'll strike,\" cried he, \"ere I'll be lost,\"\nFor every living thing that cross'd\n  Its path would tumble dead.\n\n'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals--\n  The man who ne'er took fright--\nWould watch it bounding from the hills\n  And o'er the moors in flight.\nWhen it would leave the Uist shore,\nAcross the Minch he heard it roar--\nLike yon black cloud it bounded o'er\n  The Coolin Hills that night.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WATER-HORSE.\n\n\nO the Water-Horse will come over the heath,\n  With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes,\nHe's black above and he's white beneath--\n  The hills are hearing the awesome cries;\nThe sand lies thick in his dripping hair,\nAnd his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware.\n\nAlas! for the man who would clutch the mane--\n  There's no spell to help and no charm to save!\nWho rides him will never return again,\n  Were he as strong, O were he as brave\nAs Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell--\nHe thrashed the devil and made him yell.\n\nHe'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast,\n  So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound--\nLike the lightning flash he'll go prancing past,\n  Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound--\nAnd the man perchance who sees and hears,\nHe would blind his eyes, he would close his ears.\n\nThe horse will bellow, the horse will snort,\n  And the gasping rider will pant for breath--\nLet the way be long, or the way be short,\n  It will have one end, and the end is death;\nIn yon black loch, from off the shore,\nThe horse will splash, and be seen no more.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHANGELING.\n\n\nBy night they came and from my bed\n  They stole my babe, and left behind\nA thing I hate, a thing I dread--\n  A changeling who is old and blind;\nHe's moaning all the night and day\nFor those who took my babe away.\n\nMy little babe was sweet and fair,\n  He crooned to sleep upon my breast--\nBut O the burden I must bear!\n  This drinks all day and will not rest--\nMy little babe had hair so light--\nAnd his is growing dark as night.\n\nYon evil day when I would leave\n  My little babe the stook behind!--\nThe fairies coming home at eve\n  Upon an eddy of the wind,\nWould cast their eyes with envy deep\nUpon my heart's-love in his sleep.\n\nWhat holy woman will ye find\n  To weave a spell and work a charm?\nA holy woman, pure and kind,\n  Who'll keep my little babe from harm--\nWho'll make the evil changeling flee,\nAnd bring my sweet one back to me?\n\n\n\n\nMY FAIRY LOVER.\n\n\nMy fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n  My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\nAll night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,\n  I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\nThine eyes were glowing like blue-bells blowing,\n  With dew-drops twinkling their silvery fires;\nThine heart was panting with love enchanting,\n  For mine was granting its fond desires.\n\n    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n      My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\n    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,\n      I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\nThy brow had brightness and lily-whiteness,\n  Thy cheeks were clear as yon crimson sea;\nLike broom-buds gleaming, thy locks were streaming,\n  As I lay dreaming, my love, of thee.\n\n    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n      My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\n    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,\n      I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\nThy lips that often with love would soften,\n  They beamed like blooms for the honey-bee;\nThy voice came ringing like some bird singing\n  When thou wert bringing thy gifts to me.\n\n    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n      My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\n    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,\n      I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\nO thou'rt forgetting the hours we met in\n  The Vale of Tears at the even-tide,\nOr thou'd come near me to love and cheer me,\n  And whisper clearly, \"O be my bride!\"\n\n    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n      My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\n    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,\n      I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\nWhat spell can bind thee? I search to find thee\n  Around the knoll that thy home would be--\nWhere thou did'st hover, my fairy lover,\n  The clods will cover and comfort me.\n\n    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,\n      My fair, my rare one, come back to me--\n    All night I'm sighing, on thee I'm crying,\n      I would be dying, my love, for thee.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIANS OF KNOCKFARREL.\n\n(A Ross-shire Legend.)\n\n\nI.\n\nOn steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made,\nFor safe retreat, a high and strong stockade\nAround their dwellings. And when winter fell\nAnd o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell--\nWhen days were bleak with storm, and nights were drear\nAnd dark and lonesome, well they loved to hear\nThe songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime--\nTheir blind, grey bard, grown old before his time,\nLamenting for his son--the young, the brave\nOscar, who fell beside the western wave\nIn Gavra's bloody and unequal fight.\n\nRound Ossian would they gather in the night,\nBeseeching him for song ... And when he took\nHis clarsach, from the magic strings he shook\nA maze of trembling music, falling sweet\nAs mossy waters in the summer heat;\nAnd soft as fainting moor-winds when they leave\nThe fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve,\nBound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night hear\nLow elfin pipings in the woodlands near.\n\n'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dream\nThe fair maids sighed to hear. But when his theme\nWas the long chase that Finn and all his men\nFollowed with lightsome heart from glen to glen--\nHis song was free as morn, and clear and loud\nAs skylarks carolling below a cloud\nIn sweet June weather ... And they heard the fall\nOf mountain streams, the huntsman's windy call\nAcross the heaving hills, the baying hound\nAmong the rocks, while echoes answered round--\nThey heard, and shared the gladness of the chase.\n\nHe sang the glories of the Fian race,\nWhose fame is flashed through Alba far and wide--\nTheir valorous deeds he sang with joy and pride ...\nWhen their dark foemen from the west came o'er\nThe ragged hills, and when on Croumba's shore\nThe Viking hordes descending, fought and fled--\nAnd when brave Conn, who would avenge the Red,\nBy one-eyed Goll was slain. Of Finn he sang,\nAnd Dermaid, while the clash of conflict rang\nIn billowy music through the heroes' hall--\nAnd many a Fian gave the battle-call\nWhen Ossian sang.\n\n                  Haggard and old, with slow\nAnd falt'ring steps, went Winter through the snow,\nAs if its dreary round would ne'er be done--\nThe last long winter of their days--begun\nEre yet the latest flush of falling leaves\nHad faded in the breath of chilling eves;\nNor ended in the days of longer light,\nWhen dawn and eve encroached upon the night--\nA weary time it was! The long Strath lay\nSnow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to day\nThe tempests raved across the low'ring skies,\nAnd they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes,\nThe while their stores shrank low, waiting the dawn\nOf that sweet season when through woodlands wan\nFresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing--\nFor Winter on the forelock of the Spring\nIts icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pined\nIn their dim dwellings, wearily confined,\nWhile the loud, hungry tempest held its sway--\nThe red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by day,\nAnd birds fell frozen in the snow.\n\n                                   Then through\nThe trackless Strath a balmy south wind blew\nTo usher lusty Spring. Lo! in a night\nThe snows 'gan shrinking upon plain and height,\nAnd morning broke in brightness to the sound\nOf falling waters, while a peace profound\nPossessed the world around them, and the blue\nBared heaven above ... Then all the Fians knew\nThat Winter's spell was broken, and each one\nMade glad obeisance to the golden sun.\n\nThree days around Knockfarrel they pursued\nThe chase across the hills and through the wood,\nRound Ussie Loch and Dingwall's soundless shore;\nBut meagre were the burdens that they bore\nAt even to their dwellings. To the west\n\"But sorrow not,\" said Finn, when all dismay'd\nThey hastened on a drear and bootless quest--\nWith weary steps they turned to their stockade,\n\"To-morrow will we hunt towards the east\nTo high Dunskaith, and then make gladsome feast\nBy night when we return.\"\n\n                          Or ever morn\nHad broken, Finn arose, and on his horn\nBlew loud the huntsman's blast that round the ben\nWas echoed o'er and o'er ... Then all his men\nGathered about him in the dusk, nor knew\nWhat dim forebodings filled his heart and drew\nHis brows in furrowed care. His eyes a-gleam\nStill stared upon the horrors of a dream\nOf evil omen that in vain he sought\nTo solve ... His voice came faint from battling thought,\nAs he to Garry spake--\"Be thou the ward\nStrong son of Morna: who, like thee, can guard\nOur women from all peril!\" ... Garry turned\nFrom Finn in sullen silence, for he yearned\nTo join the chase once more. In stature he\nWas least of all the tribe, but none could be\nMore fierce in conflict, fighting in the van,\nThan that grim, wolfish, and misshapen man!\n\nThen Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave command\nTo hasten forth before the Fian band--\nThe King of Scouts was he! And like the deer\nHe sped to find if foemen had come near--\nFierce, swarthy hillmen, waiting at the fords\nFor combat eager, or red Viking hordes\nFrom out the Northern isles ... In Alba wide\nNo runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side,\nAnd ere the Fians, following in his path,\nHad wended from the deep and dusky strath,\nHe swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome owls\nThat hoot afar and near in woody Foulis,\nAnd he had reached the slopes of fair Rosskeen\nEre Finn by Fyrish came.\n\n                         The dawn broke green--\nFor the high huntsman of the morn had flung\nHis mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strung\nHis silver bow; then rising, bright and bold,\nHe shot a burning arrow of pure gold\nThat rent the heart of Night.\n\n                              As far behind\nThe Fians followed, Caoilte, like the wind,\nSped on--yon son of Ronan--o'er the wide\nAnd marshy moor, and 'thwart the mountain side,--\nBy Delny's shore far-ebbed, and wan, and brown,\nAnd through the woods of beautous Balnagown:\nThe roaring streams he vaulted on his spear,\nAnd foaming torrents leapt, as he drew near\nThe sandy slopes of Nigg. He climbed and ran\nTill high above Dunskaith he stood to scan\nThe outer ocean for the Viking ships,\nPeering below his hand, with panting lips\nA-gape, but wide and empty lay the sea\nBeyond the barrier crags of Cromarty,\nTo the far sky-line lying blue and bare--\nFor no red pirate sought as yet to dare\nThe gloomy hazards of the fitful seas,\nThe gusty terrors, and the treacheries\nOf fickle April and its changing skies--\nAnd while he scanned the waves with curious eyes,\nThe sea-wind in his nostrils, who had spent\nA long, bleak winter in Knockfarrel pent\nOver the snow-wreathed Strath and buried wood,\nA sense of freedom tingled in his blood--\nThe large life of the Ocean, heaving wide,\nHis heart possessed with gladness and with pride,\nAnd he rejoiced to be alive.... Once more\nHe heard the drenching waves on that rough shore\nRaking the shingles, and the sea-worn rocks\nSucking the brine through bared and lapping locks\nOf bright, brown tangle; while the shelving ledges\nPoured back the swirling waters o'er their edges;\nAnd billows breaking on a precipice\nIn spouts of spray, fell spreading like a fleece.\n\nSullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleek\nAnd foaming lips, before the flooded creek\nDeep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green expanse\nWind-wrinkled and translucent ... A bright trance\nOf sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wide\nBlue ocean swept with loops of silvern tide\nHeavily heaving in a long, slow swell.\n\nA lonely fisher in his coracle\nCame round a headland, lifted on a wave\nThat bore him through the shallows to his cave,\nNor other being he saw.\n\n                        The birds that flew\nClamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew\nTheir prey from bounteous waters, on him cast\nCold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past\nAnd sliding down the wind.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n                           The warm sun shone\nOn blind, grey Ossian musing all alone\nUpon a knoll before the high stockade,\nWhen Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laid\nOn the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayed\nOver the face and round the tender chin--\n\"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn,\"\nSaid Ossian, with a sigh. \"Nay, I would be\nA bard,\" the boy made answer, \"like to thee.\"\n\"Alas! my son,\" the gentle Ossian said,\n\"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!...\nO may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!--\nIf thou would'st sing, may thou below the pine\nMurmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be,\nNor hear but sorrow in the breaking sea\nAnd death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my song\nThat rose in sorrow must survive in wrong--\nMy life is spent and vain--a day of thine\nWere better than a long, dark year of mine....\nBut come, my son--so lead me by the hand--\nTo hear the sweetest harper in the land--\nThe wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hills\nAnd under, let us go, by tuneful rills\nWe'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened be\nWith echoes of the moorland melody--\nMy clarsach wilt thou bear.\" And so went they\nTogether from Knockfarrel. Long they lay\nWithin the woods of Brahan, and by the shore\nOf silvery Conon wended, crossing o'er\nThe ford at Achilty, where Ossian told\nThe tale of Finn, who there had slain the bold\nBlack Arky in his youth. And ere the tale\nWas ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.\nWhere dwelt a daughter of an ancient race\nDeep-learned in lore, and with the gift to trace\nThe thread of life in the dark web of fate.\nAnd she to Ossian cried, \"Thou comest late\nToo late, alas! this day of all dark days--\nKnockfarrel is before me all ablaze--\nA fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes--\nO beating heart that bleeds! I hear the cries\nOf those that perish in yon high stockade--\nO many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,\nSweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old--\nO Ossian could'st thou see--O child, behold\nYon ruddy, closing clouds ... so falls the fate\nOf all the tribe ... Alas! thou comest late.\" ...\n\n\n\n\nIII.\n\nWhen Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band\nOf merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,\nCame forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,\nTo share the freedom of the morning air;\nAdown the steep they went, and through the wood\nWhere Garry splintered logs in sullen mood--\nPining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought\nUpon the trees that morn, as if he fought\nAgainst a hundred foemen from the west,\nTill he grew weary, and was fain to rest.\n\nThe maids were wont to shower upon his head\nTheir merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;\nFor of their quips and jests he had more fear\nThan e'er he felt before a foeman's spear--\nAnd so he chose to be alone.\n\n                             The air\nWas heavily laden with the odour rare\nOf deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,\nAs through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,\nWent treading needled sward, in light and shade,\nNow bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,\nAnd ever bloom and ever pass away ...\n\nUpon a fairy hillock Garry lay\nIn sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,\nAnd the wind rippling through his golden hair\nLaid out the seven locks that were his pride,\nWhich one by one the maids securely tied\nTo tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,\nMoaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep\nThen to a thicket all the maidens crept,\nAnd raised the Call of Warning ... Garry leapt\nFrom dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear\nThat a fierce band of foemen had come near--\nThe seven fetters of his golden hair\nHe wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare\nA shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled\nWith bitter agony ... The maidens fled\nWith laughter through the wood, and climb'd the path\nOf steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath\nWhen he perceived who wronged him. With a shriek\nThat raised the eagles from the mountain peak,\nHe shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,\nAnd sought for vengeance, speedy and complete--\nThe lust of blood possessed him, and he swore\nTo slay them.... But they shut the oaken door\nEre he had reached that high and strong stockade--\nFrom whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid\nCame forth again.\n\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n                  Soft-couch'd upon a bank\nLay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank\nThe sweetness of the morning air, that brought\nA spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought,\nWith mem'ries from the deeps of other years\nWhen Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers,\nAnd Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth\nA-hunting o'er the hills around the firth\nOn such an April morn....\n\n                          He leapt to hear\nThe Fians shouting from a woodland near\nTheir hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace,\nWith bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase;\nStooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear,\nAs through the woods approached the nimble deer\nThat swerved, beholding him. With startled toss\nOf antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross\nThe open vale before him ... To the west\nThe Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed\nTo head it shoreward ... All the fierce hounds bayed\nWith hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed,\nWith foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee\nTowards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.\nBut Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet\nThan deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet,\nUntil upon a loose and sandy bank,\nPlunging his spear into the smoking flank,\nIts flight he stayed.... He stabbed it as it sank,\nThe life-blood spurting; and he saw it die\nOr ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.\n\nThen eager feast they made; and after long\nAnd frequent fast of winter, they grew strong\nAs they had been of old. And of their fare\nThe lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.\n\nNor over-fed they in their merry mood,\nBut set to hunt again, and through the wood\nScattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun\nHad climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one\nHad mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white\nOf those who waited their return by night,\nIn steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade--\nO' many a beauteous and bethroth\u00e8d maid,\nAnd mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying\nIn winter-fever's spell, the old men dying,\nAnd slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim,\nWith gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came\nWith burdens of the chase ... So they pursued\nThe hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood\nAnother deer they slew ...\n\n                           Caoilte, who stood\nOn a high ridge alone ... with eager eyes\nScanning the prospect wide ... in mute surprise\nSaw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud\nOf thick and writhing smoke ... Then fierce and loud\nUpon his horn he blew the warning blast--\nFrom out the woods the Fians hastened fast--\nLo! when they stared towards the western sky,\nThey saw their winter dwelling blazing high.\n\nThen fear possessed them for their own, and grief\nUnutterable. And thus spake their wise chief,\nTo whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought--\n\"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought\nBlack vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam\nOf fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream\nAre now accomplished--all we loved and cherished,\nAnd sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!\"\n\nWhite-lipped they heard.... Then, wailing loud, they ran,\nFollowing the nimble Caoilte, man by man,\nTowards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears\nO'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears,\nTumbled or leapt into a swollen flood\nThat swept him to the sea. But no man stood\nTo help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim--\nAnd some there were, indeed, who envied him.\n\n\n\n\nV.\n\nAs snarls the wolf at bay within the wood\nOn huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stood\nRaging before the women who had made\nSecure retreat within the high stockade;\nHe cursed them all, and their loud laughter rang\nMore bitter to his heart than e'en the pang\nOf his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming blood\nHalf-blinded him, he hastened to the wood,\nAnd a small tree upon his shoulders bore,\nAnd fixed it fast against the oaken door,\nThat none might issue forth.\n\n                             Then once again\nTowards the wood he turned, but all in vain\nThe women waited his return, till they\nGrey weary.. for in pain and wrath he lay\nIn a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame,\nAnd panting for revenge.\n\n                         Then Finn's wife came\nTo set the women to the wheel and loom,\nWith angry chiding; and a heavy gloom\nFell on them all. \"Who knoweth,\" thus she spake,\n\"What evil may the Fian men o'ertake\nThis day of evil omens. Yester-night\nI say the pale ghost of my sire with white\nAnd trembling lips ... At morn before my sight\nA raven darted from the wood, and slew\nA brooding dove ... What fear is mine!... for who\nWould us defend if our fierce foemen came--\nWhen Garry is against us ... Much I blame\nThy wanton deed.\" ... The women heard in shame,\nNor answer made.\n\n                 The sun, with fiery gleam,\nScattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream\nThe spirits of the dead are softly swept\nFrom severed visions sweet. A low wind crept\nAround with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed--\nThen fled to murmur from the mountain side\nAmid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow\nBen-Wyvis bared a crest of shining snow\nIn barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath;\nWhile some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath,\nSome feared the coming of the foe, and some\nHad vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb,\nAnd longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid\nTheir babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid\nSighed for her lover in that lone stockade;\nAnd one who sat apart, with pensive eye,\nThus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry--\n\n     _Peewee, peewee, crying sweet,\n        Crying early, crying late--\n      Will your voice be never weary\n        Crying for your mate?\n      Other hearts than thine are lonely,\n        Other hearts must wait.\n\n      Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying\n        O'er the hills and o'er the sea,\n      Till I found the love I long for\n        Whereso'er he'd be--\n      Peewee crying, I'd be flying,\n        Could I fly like thee!_\n\nWhen Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose,\nHe seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows\nTo fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath\nThe hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath\nHe made resolve to heap the splintered wood\nAgainst the door, and burn the hated brood\nOf his tormentors one and all. He hewed\nAn ample pyre, then piled it thick and high,\nWhile the sun, sloping to the western sky,\nProclaimed the closing of that fateful day.\nBut the doomed women little dreamed that they\nWould have such fearsome end ... As Garry lay\nRubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow,\nHe heard a Fian mother singing low--\n\n     _Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee--\n        Moolachie, O moolachie.\n      Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,\n        Moolachie, mine own.\n\n      Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye,\n        And the goblins will not get ye,\n      I will shield ye, I will pet ye--\n        Moolachie, mine own._\n\nThe mother sang, the gentle babe made moan--\nAnd Garry heard them with a heart of stone ...\nWith fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flames\nPossess the pyre; he heard the shrieking dames,\nAnd maids and children, wailing in the gloom\nOf smothering smoke, e'er they had met their doom.\nThen when the high stockade was blazing red,\nEre yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled,\nAnd westward o'er the shouldering hills he sped.\n\n\n\n\nVI.\n\nA broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold\nThe sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold,\nAnd the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade,\nTheir naked peaks and ebon crags displayed\nSharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale;\nAnd misty shadows gathered in the vale--\nWhen Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw\nAmid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe,\nThe ruins of their winter dwelling laid\nIn smouldering ashes; while the high stockade\nAround the rocky wall, like ragged teeth,\nWas crackling o'er the melting stones beneath,\nStill darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.\n\nHe sped towards the wood, and through the trees\nCalled loud for those who perished. On his fair\nAnd gentle spouse he called in his despair.\nHis sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was white\nAs Wyvis snow, he called for in the night.\nFull loud and long across the Strath he cried--\nThe echoes mocked him from the mountain side.\n\nAh! when his last hope faded like the wave\nOf twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gave\nHis heart to utter grief and deep despair;\nAnd the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless stare,\nWhile sank the wind in silence on its flight\nThrough the dark hollows of the spacious night;\nAnd distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismay\nHe heard a Fian calling far away.\nThe night-bird answered back with dismal cry,\nLike to a wounded man about to die--\nBut Caoilte's lips were silent ... Once again\nAnd nearer, came the voice that cried in vain.\nThen swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren steep,\nAnd Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep,\nTo Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head,\n\"Who liveth?\" ... \"I am here alone,\" he said ...\nThus Fian after Fian came to share\nTheir bitter grief, in silence and despair.\n\nAll night they kept lone watch, until the dawn\nWith stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn\nIts dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose\nFrom deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes,\nAnd spake unto the Fians, \"Who shall rest\nWhile flees our evil foeman farther west?\nArise!\" ... \"But who hath done this deed?\" they sighed;\nAnd Finn made answer, \"Garry.\" ... Then they cried\nFor vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt\nTo answer Finn's command.\n\n                          A cold wind swept\nFrom out the gates of morning, moaning loud,\nAs swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroud\nOf gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis cast\nA sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast,\nIt drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare,\nAnd snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning air--\nThen o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and bright,\nScatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay white,\nAs westward o'er the hills the Fians all\nIn quest of Garry sped.\n\n                        At even-fall\nThey found him ... On the bald and rocky side\nOf steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide\nWithin a cave, which, backward o'er the snow,\nHe entered, that his steps might seem to show\nHe had fled eastward by the path he came.\nAll day he sought to flee them in his shame,\nWatching from lofty crag or deep ravine,\nAnd crouching in the heath, with haggard mien--\nHe sought in vain to hide till darkness cast\nIts blinding cloak betwixt them.\n\n                                 When at last\nFinn cried, \"Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds,\nNor respite seek!\" ... His limbs like wind-swept reeds\nTrembled and bent beneath him; so he rose\nAnd came to meet his friends who were his foes--\nThen unto Finn he spake with accents meek,\n\"One last request I of the Fians seek,\nWhom I have loved in peace and served in strife\"--\n\"'Tis thine,\" said Finn, \"but ask not for thy life,\nFor thou art 'mong the Fians.\" ... \"I would die,\"\nSaid Garry, \"with my head laid on thy thigh;\nAnd let young Alvin take thy sword, that he\nMay give the death that will mine honour be.\"\n\n'Twas so he lay to die ... But as the blade\nSwept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed,\nAnd slipped upon the sward ... And his fierce blow\nThat Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low--\nA grievous wound was gaping on his thigh,\nAnd poured his life-blood forth ... A low, weird cry\nThe great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned--\nIn vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound--\nHis life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray\nIn gathering gloom ... And when in death he lay,\nThe glory of the Fians passed away.\n\n\n\n\nHER EVIL EYE.\n\n\nO Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,\n  Will have the evil eye;\nThe fear will come about my heart\n  When she'll be passing by;\nShe'll have the piercing look to wound\n  The very birds that fly.\n\nI would not have her evil wish,\n  I would not have her praise,\nFor like the shadow would her curse,\n  Me follow all my days--\nWhen she my churning will speak well,\n  No butter can I raise.\n\nO Mairi Dhu will have the eye\n  To wound the very deer--\nAh! would she scowl upon my bairns\n  When her they would come near?\nThey'll have the red cords round their necks,\n  So they'll have naught to fear.\n\nIt's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,\n  Against her would prevail;\nAnd first her eye was on his churn,\n  Then on the milking pail;\nWhen she would praise the brindled cow,\n  The cow began to ail.\n\nThe trout that gambol in the pool\n  She'll wound when she goes past;\nThen weariness will come upon\n  The fins that flicked so fast;\nAnd one by one the lifeless things\n  Will on the stones be cast.\n\nO Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain\n  To poor Dun Para's arm;\nIt is myself would have the work\n  Undoing of the harm--\nI'd twist around the three-ply cord\n  Well-knotted o'er the charm.\n\nYour eye you'd put on yon sweet babe\n  O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;\nHe'd fill the wooden ladle where\n  The dead and living pass--\nAnd with the water, silver-charmed,\n  He'd save his little lass.\n\nI'll lock my cheese within the chest,\n  My butter I will hide;\nI'll bar the byre at milking time,\n  Although you'll wait outside--\nYou'll maybe go another way--\n  Who'll care for you to bide?\n\n\n\n\nA CURSING\n\n\nSo you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,\n  When the men will be fighting afar--\nOh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold\n  When it's only with women they'll war\n\nWeasels that creep in the dark!\n  Foxes that prowl in the night!\nRats that are hated and vile!--\n  O hasten you out of my sight!\n\nOh! my cow you would take from my byre?--\n  This day will the beggars be brave!\nYou'd be lifting the thatch from the roof\n  If you hadna' a roof to your cave\n\nYour chief he's the lord o' the lies!\n  A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!\nYour clan is the pride o' the thieves--\n  Whose meal will you have in your bag?\n\nNow, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush--\n  Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man--\nHis fame for the thieving is gone\n To the reivers and rogues of your clan\n\nYou'll spare me \"so old and so frail,\n  Fitter to die than to live?\"\nBut maybe I'll slay with the tongue\n  And the heart that will never forgive\n\nThe curse of the frail will be strong,\n  The curse of the widow be sure;\nO the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,\n  Black, black is the curse of the poor!\n\nHa! laugh at your ease while you can--\n  Laugh! it's the devil's turn next--\nFor after I'm done with you all,\n  O who will be doleful and vext?\n\nBare-kneed on the ground will I go--\n  My hair on my shoulders let fall,\nNow hear me and never forget\n  My curses I'll cast on you all\n\n_Little increase to your clan!\n  The down-mouth to you and to yours!\nThe blight on your little black cave!\n  The luck o' a Friday on moors!\n\nFire upon land be your lot!\n  Drowning in storm on the deep!\nLeave not a son to succeed!\n  Leave not a daughter to weep!\n\nHere's the bad meeting to you!\n  Death without priest be your fate!\nGo to your grandfather's[3] house--\n  The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_\n\n[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]\n\n[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]\n\n[Footnote 3: \"Grandfather's house\"--The grave]\n\n[Footnote 4: \"Son of the Cursing\"--The devil]\n\n\n\n\nLEOBAG'S[1] WARNING.\n\n\nWould Murdo make the wry mouth?\n  Is Ailie cross-eyed?\nO mock no more the beggar man,\n  You'll scorn wi' pride!\nThe wind that will be blowing west,\n  Might turn and blow south--\nO, Ailie, it would fix your eyes\n  And Murdo's wry mouth.\n\nO mind ye o' the Leobag\n  And yon rock cod--\n\"Ho! there's the mouth,\" the 'cute one cried,\n  \"For the hook and rod!\"\nThe tide it would be turning while\n  The Leobag would mock--\nAnd that is why it's gaping as\n  It gaped below the rock.\n\n[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.]\n\n\n\n\nTOBER MHUIRE.\n\n(WELL OF ST MARY.)\n\n\n'Tis for thee I will be pining,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nThou art deep and sweet and shining,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nIn the dimness I'll be dying,\nAnd my soul for thee is sighing\nWith the blessings on thee lying--\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\n\nO thy cool, sweet waters dripping,\n  _Tober Mhuire_,\nNow my sere lips would be sipping,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nO my lips are sere and burning--\nFor thy waters I'll be yearning,\nAnd yon road of no returning,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\n\nO thy coolness and thy sweetness,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nO thy sureness and completeness,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nO this life I would be leaving,\nWith the greyness of its grieving,\nAnd the deeps of its deceiving,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\n\nI would sip thy waters holy,\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\nWhile the drops of life drip slowly,\n  _Tober Mhuire_--\nTill the wings of angel whiteness,\nWith their softness and their lightness,\nBlind me, fold me, in their brightness--\n  _Tober Mhuire_.\n\n\n\n\nSLEEPY SONG.\n\n(_Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians_.)\n\n\n  Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,\n    Sleep in the deep lone cave;\nSleep a little--a little little,\n    Love whom my love I gave--\n  Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,\n    Wearily falls the wave.\n\n  Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,\n  Sleep, and have never a fear;\nSleep a little--a little little,\n    Love whom I love so dear--\n  A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,\n    A weary wind I hear.\n\n  Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,\n  Sleep, while I watch till you wake;\n  Sleep a little--a little little,\n    Love whom I'll ne'er forsake--\nSleep a little, and blessings on you\n    My lamb, or my heart will break.\n\n\n\n\nSONG OF THE SEA.\n\n\nThe sea sings loud, the sea sings low,\nAnd sweet is the chime of its ebb and flow\n    Over the shingly strand;\nFor its strange, sweet song that woos my ear\nThe first man heard, as the last shall hear--\n    Seeking to understand ...\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN.\n\n\n  Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,\n  Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death;\n  And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry--\n  An evil omen the magician saith--\n  A low gust panted like a man's last breath,\n  As morning crept into the chamber black;\nThen all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack.\n\n  For the last time his evil foemen came;\n  The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led.\n  The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame;\n  The duns were fallen and the fords ran red;\n  And widows fled, lamenting for their dead,\n  To fair Emania on that fateful day,\nWhere all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay.\n\n  Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,\n  Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes,\n  The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare.\n  And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise;\n  Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise,\n  Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms,\nAnd, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms.\n\n  His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide\n  In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood\n  All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride--\n  His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hood\n  Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood\n  Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd\nLevarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept\n\n  Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,\n  And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice--\n  The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,\n  Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise,\n  But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,\n  Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,\nAnd wept big tears of blood before him on the ground\n\n  Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war\n  'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,\n  Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,\n  Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from us go?'\n  They smote their hands, and fast their tears did flow--\n  Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plain\nFull well he knew that he would ne'er return again\n\n  How vehement and how beautiful they swept--\n  The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold\n  And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,\n  Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd\n  The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold\n  Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres,\nSlender and tall and red--the King of Charioteers!\n\n  Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,\n  His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh\n  A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,\n  He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high,\n  As flames the sun upon the western sky,\n  His round shield from afar was flashing bright,\nFigured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white\n\n  Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back,\n  The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair,\n  Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black,\n  Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare,\n  Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rare\n  Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind\nHis shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind\n\n  Betimes three crones him meet upon the way,\n  Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair--\n  Workers of spells and witcheries are they--\n  The brood of Calatin--beware! beware!\n  They proffer of their fulsome food a share,\n  And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries\n'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'\n\n  He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,\n  The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake--\n  With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,\n  Of which he was forbidden to partake\n  But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,\n  And their foul food he in his left hand took--\nEftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook\n\n  For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,\n  When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,\n  Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,\n  Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!\n  A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,\n  And all the land did with thy fame resound,\nAs Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'\n\n  Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,\n  Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,\n  Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,\n  Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,\n  His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,\n  In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,\nAnd hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed\n\n  He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near\n  'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'\n  Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear--\n  'Now link thy shields and close together throng,\n  And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long\n  Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,\nSet heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart\n\n  As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar\n  Assault the giant trees and lay them low,\n  As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,\n  As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow--\n  Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,\n  Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,\nTo drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain\n\n  And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood\n  In feign\u00e8d strife upon a knoll of green,\n  Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood,\n  A satirist him besought to intervene,\n  Whereat he slew them as he drave between--\n  \"Thy spear to me,\" the satirist cried the while,\nThe hero answering, \"Nay,\" he cried, \"I'll thee revile.\"\n\n  'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,\"\n  Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,\n  And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and keen\n  And slew the satirist and nine beside,\n  Then his fresh onslaught made the host divide\n  And flee before him clamouring with fear,\nThe while the stealthy Lugaid seized Cuchullin's spear\n\n  \"O sons of Calatin,\" did Lugaid call,\n  \"What falleth by the weapon I hold here?\"\n  Together they acclaim'd, \"A King will fall,\n  For so foretold,\" they said, \"the aged seer.\"\n  Then at the chariot he flung the spear,\n  And Laegh was stricken unto death and fell\nCuchullin drew the spear and bade a last farewell\n\n  \"The victor I, and eke the charioteer!\"\n  He cried, and drave the war-steeds fierce and fast.\n  Another pair he slew, \"To me thy spear,\"\n  Again a satirist call'd. The spear was cast,\n  And through the satirist and nine men pass'd\n  But Lugaid grasps it, and again doth call,--\n\"What falleth by this spear?\" They shout, \"A King will fall\"\n\n  \"Then fall,\" cried Lugaid, as he flung the spear--\n  The Grey of Macha sank in death's fierce throes,\n  Snapping the yoke, the while the Black ran clear:\n  Cuchullin groan'd, and dash'd upon his foes;\n  Another pair he slew with rapid blows,\n  And eke the satirist and nine men near:\nThen once more Lugaid sprang to seize the charm\u00e8d spear.\n\n  \"What falleth by this weapon?\" he doth call\n  \"A King will fall,\" they answer him again ...\n  \"But twice before ye said, 'A King will fall'\" ...\n  They cried, \"The King of Steeds hath fled the plain,\n  And lo, the King of Charioteers is slain!\" ...\n  For the last time he drave the spear full well,\nAnd smote the great Cuchullin--and Cuchullin fell\n\n  The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left alone\n  The King of Heroes dying on the plain:\n  \"I fain would drink,\" they heard Cuchullin groan,\n  \"From out yon loch\" ... He thirsted in fierce pain.\n  \"We give thee leave, but thou must come again,\"\n  His foemen said; then low made answer he,\n\"If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me\"\n\n  His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie,\n  And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no moan.\n  Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die,\n  Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone ...\n  He wended to the standing pillar-stone,\n  Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear,\nAnd to his foemen called, \"Come ye, and meet me here.\"\n\n  A vision swept upon his fading brain--\n  A passing vision glorious and sweet,\n  That hour of youth return'd to him again\n  When he took arms with fearless heart a-beat,\n  As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat,\n  \"Who taketh arms upon this day of grief,\nHis name shall live forever and his life be brief\"\n\n  Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye,\n  His body to the pillar-stone he bound,\n  Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die ...\n  He would die standing ... so they gathered round\n  In silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground,\n  And watch'd the hero who with Death could strive;\nBut no man durst approach ... He seem'd to be alive ...\n\n\n\n\nLOST SONGS.\n\n\nHarp of my fathers--on the mouldering wall\n  Of days forgotten--like a far-off wind\nHushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall,\n  Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall\nThe wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned,\n  That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.\n\nThy fitful notes from the melodious trees,\n  I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme--\nThe inner music quivering on the breeze\n  I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas,\nOn ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time\n  That mingles with thy melodies sublime.\n\n\n\n\nOTHER POEMS.\n\nTHE DREAM.\n\n\n'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream,\nMeasured by moments, that to me did seem,\n  A life-long spell of joy and peace to be--\n\nWill that last dream that comes ere death descends,\nFrom which I shall not wake to know it ends,\n  Thus seem to live on through Eternity?\n\n\n\n\nFREE WILL.\n\n\nSay not the will of man is free\n  Within the limits of his soul--\nWho from his heritage can flee?\n  Who can his destiny control?\n\nIn vain we wage perpetual strife,\n  'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires--\nWho leads must serve.. The pulse of life\n  Throbs with the dictates of our sires.\n\nSince when the world began to be,\n  And life through hidden purpose came,\nFrom sire to son unceasingly\n  The task bequeathed hath been the same.\n\nWe strive, while fetters bind us fast,\n  We seek to do what needs must be--\nWe move through bondage with the past\n  In service to posterity.\n\n\n\n\nSTRIFE.\n\n\nWeary of strife--\nThe surge and clash of city life--\nI sought for peace in solitude,\nWithin the hushed and darkened wood\nAnd on the lonesome moor--\nBut found contending leaf and root\nEngaged in conflict fierce though mute,\nWhile what was frail was slain\nBy what was strong in dire dispute--\nI sought for peace in vain!\nThe world, sustained by strife, endures in pain.\n\n\"All things that are in conflict be,\"\nI murmured on the shelving strand,\nWhere struggling winds would fain be free--\nThe tides in conflict with the wind's command,\nTurned tossing, wearily--\nI heard the loud sea labouring to the land--\nI saw the dumb land striving with the sea.\n\n\n\n\nSONNET.\n\n(_Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's._)\n\n\nThe drowsing city sparkles in the heat,\nAnd murmur in mine ears unceasingly\nThe surging tides of that vast human sea--\nThe billows of life that break with muffled beat\nAnd vibrate through this high and lone retreat;\nWhile over all, serene, and fair, and free,\nThy dome is reared in naked majesty\nGrey, old St Paul's ... In thee the Ages meet,\nSlumbering amidst the trophies of their strife.\nAnd in their dreams thou hearest, while the cries\nOf triumph and despair ascend from Life,\nThe murmurings of immortality--\nThou Sentinel of Hope that doth despise\nWhat was and is not, waiting what shall be!\n\n\n\n\n\"OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES.\"\n\n\n\"Is baby dead?\" he whispered, with wide eyes\n  Tearless, but full of eloquent regret,\nHis childish face grown prematurely wise--\n  Pond'ring the problem death before him set.\n\n\"Baby is dead,\" I answered, as I laid\n  My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;\n\"Oh! daddy, why did God do this?\" he said,\n  And silently my heart made answer, \"Why?\"\n\nHe touched her white, worn face, and said, \"How cold\n  Is our wee baby now.\" ... His eyes were deep ...\nThen came his little brother, two years old,\n  He looked, and lisped, \"The baby is asleep.\"\n\n\n\n\nNOTES.\n\n\n_The Wee Folk_.--In Gaelic they are usually called \"The Peace People\"\n(sithchean). Other names are \"Wee Folk\" (daoine beaga); \"Light Folk\"\n(slaugh eutrom), etc. As in the Lowlands, they are also referred to as\n\"guid fowk\" and \"guid neighbours.\"\n\n_The Banshee_ (Beanshith).--Sometimes referred to as \"The Fairy Queen,\"\nsometimes as \"The Green Lady.\" She sings a song while she washes the\nclothes of one about to meet a swift and tragic fate. In the Fian poems\nshe converses with those who see her, and foretells the fate of warriors\ngoing to battle.\n\n_The Blue Men of the Minch_ (Na Fir Ghorm).--Between the Shant Isles\n(Charmed Isles) and Lewis is the \"Stream of the Blue Men.\" They are the\n\"sea-horses\" of the island Gaels. Their presence in the strait was\nbelieved to be the cause of its billowy restlessness and swift currents.\n\n_The Changeling_.--When the fairies robbed a mother of her babe, they\nleft behind a useless, old, and peevish fairy, who took the form of a\nchild. This belief may have originated in the assumption that when a\nbaby became ill and fretful, it was a changeling.\n\n_The Urisk_ is, if anything, a personification of fear. It is a silent,\ncloudy shape which haunts lonely moors, and follows travellers, but\nrarely does more than scare them.\n\n_My Fairy Lover_.--Fairies fell in love with human beings, and deserted\nthem when their love was returned. Women of unsound mind, given to\nwandering alone in solitary places, were believed to be the victims of\nfairy love.\n\n_Yon Fairy Dog_ (An Cu Sith) was heard howling on stormy nights. He was\n\"big as a stirk,\" one informant has declared The \"fearsome tail\" appears\nto have been not the least impressive thing about it. The MacCodrums\nwere brave and fearless, and were supposed to be descended from Seals,\nwhich were believed to be human beings under spells.\n\n_My Gunna_.--This kindly, but solitary, elf herded cattle by night, and\nprevented them from falling over the rocks. He was seen only by those\ngifted with the faculty of \"second sight.\" The Gunna resembles the\nLowland \"Brownie.\"\n\n_Her Evil Eye_.--Belief in the Evil Eye is still quite common, even\namong educated people, in the Highlands. Not a few children wear \"the\ncord,\" to which a silver coin is appended, as a charm against the\ninfluence of \"the eye.\"\n\n_The Little Old Man of the Barn_ (Bodachan Sabhaill).--Like the Gunna,\nhe is a variety the kindly Brownie, and assisted the needy.\n\n_Nimble Men_ (Na Fir Chlis) are \"The Merry Dancers,\" or Aurora Borealis.\nIt was believed that, when the streamers were coloured, the \"men and\nmaids\" were dancing, and that after the dance the lovers fought for the\nlove of the queen. When the streamers are particularly vivid, a pink\ncloud is seen below them, and this is called \"the pool of blood.\" It\ndrips upon blood-stones, the spots on which are referred to as fairy\nblood (fuil siochaire). A wizard could, by waving his wand, summon the\n\"Nimble Men\" to dance in the northern sky.\n\n_The Water Horse_ haunted lonely lochs, and lured human beings to a\nterrible death. When a hand was laid on its main, power to remove it was\nwithdrawn.\n\n_A Cursing_--The Gaelic curses are quaint in translation, but terrible\nin the original.\n\n_Bonnach Fallaidh_.--It was considered unlucky to throw away the\nremnants of a baking. So the good-wife made a little bannock, which was\npierced in the middle, as a charm against fairy influence. It was given\nto a child for performing an errand, but the charm would be broken if\nthe reason for gifting it were explained. That was the good-wife's\nsecret. It was also unlucky to count the bannocks, and when they fell,\n\"bad luck\" was foretold. Finlay's bannock was not kneaded on the board\nor placed on the brander, but, unlike the other bannocks, was toasted in\nfront of the fire.\n\n_The Gruagach_ was a gentlemanly Brownie, who haunted byres. It was\nnever seen, although its shadow occasionally danced on the wall as it\nflitted about. Often, when chased, it was heard tittering round corners.\nIn some barns, Clach-na-gruagach--\"the Gruagach's stone\"--is still\nseen. Milkers pour an offering of milk into the hollowed stone \"for\nluck.\" The cream might not rise and the churn yield no butter if this\nservice were neglected. A favourite trick of the Gruagach was to untie\nthe cattle in the byre, so as to bring out the milkmaid, especially if\nshe had forgotten to leave the offering of milk.\n\n_Tober Mhuire_ (St Mary's Well) is situated at Tarradale, Ross-shire.\nWhen a sick person asks for a drink of Tober Mhuire water, it is taken\nas a sign of approaching death. It is a curious thing that this\nreverence for holy water should be perpetuated among a Presbyterian\npeople. Wishing and curative wells are numerous in the North.\n\n_The Fians of Knockfarrel_.--This story belongs to the Ossianic or Fian\ncycle of Gaelic tales in prose and verse. Hugh Miller makes reference to\nit, but speaks of the Fians as giants. In Strathpeffer district the tale\nis well known, and it is referred to in \"Waifs and Strays of Celtic\nTradition.\" It is also localised in Skye. There are several Fian\nplace-names in the Highlands. The warriors are supposed to lie in a\ncharmed sleep in Craig-a-howe Cave, near Munlochy, Ross-shire. Caoilte,\nthe swift runner, was a famous Fian. Finn was chief, and Goll and Garry\nwere of Clan Morna, which united with the Fians. \"Moolachie\" is a little\nbabe, and \"clarsach,\" a harp.\n\n_Ledbag's Warning_.--Children who twist their mouths, or squint, are\nwarned that, if the wind changes, their contortions will remain. The\nfate of the flounder, which mocked the cod, is cited as a terrible\nexample.\n\n_Conn, Son of the Red_ is a Fian tale of which several old Gaelic\nversions have been collected. Goll, the \"first hero\" of the Fians, slew\nthe Red when Conn, his son, was seven years old. In the fullness of time\nthe young hero, whom his enemies admire as well as fear, crossed the sea\nto avenge his father's death, and engaged in a long and fierce duel with\nGoll.\n\n_Death of Cuchullin_ is from the Cuchullin Cycle of Bronze Age heroic\ntales. The enemy have invaded and laid waste the province of Ulster, and\nthe chief warriors of the Red Branch, except Cuchullin, who must needs\nfight alone, are laid under spells by the magicians of the invaders. The\npoem is suffused with evidences of magical beliefs and practices.\nCuchullin goes forth knowing that he will meet his doom. His name\nsignifies \"hound of Culann.\" In his youth he slew Culann's ferocious\nwatch-hound which attacked him, and took its place until another was\ntrained. It was \"geis\" (taboo) for him to partake of the flesh of a\nhound (his totem), or eat at a cooking hearth; but he must needs accept\nthe hospitality of the witches. The satirists are satirical bards who,\nit was believed, could not only lampoon a hero, but infuse their\ncompositions with magical powers like incantations. Cuchullin cannot be\nslain except by his own spear, which he must deliver up to a satirist\nwho demands it. Emania, the capital of Ulster, was the home of the Bed\nBranch warriors.\n\n_Sleepy Song_.--When Diarmid eloped with Grianne, as Paris did with\nHelen, the Fians followed them, so that Finn, their chief, might be\navenged. Diarmid, who is the unwilling victim of Grainne's spells,\ndreads to meet Finn, and is in constant fear of discovery.","title":"Elves and Heroes","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":15841}