Elves and Heroes

ELVES AND HEROES The Project Gutenberg eBook of Elves and Heroes This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : Elves and Heroes Author : Donald A. Mackenzie Release date : November 1, 2003 [eBook #10089] Most recently updated: October 28, 2024 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10089 Credits : E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Brett Koonce, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELVES AND HEROES *** Editorial note: Many paragraphs in the original text ended without punctuation, and this state has been preserved in this Project Gutenberg edition. ELVES AND HEROES BY DONALD A. MACKENZIE. 1909 TO Miss YULE, of TARRADALE. PREFACE. THE ELVES. The immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but they still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the glamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men and women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with them in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears, we breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring. The attitude of the Gael towards the supernatural, and his general outlook upon life in times gone by, was not associated with unbroken gloom; nor was he always an ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist. These attributes belong chiefly to the Literary Celt of latter-day conception—the Celt of Arnold and Renan, and other writers following in their wake, who have woven misty impressions of a people whom they have met as strangers, and never really understood. Celtic literature is not a morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is more light than shadow, much symbolism, but no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute detail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of keen artistry; and the literary style is direct and clear and comprehensible. In Highland folklore we find associated with the haunting "fear of things invisible," common to all peoples in early stages of development, a confident feeling of security inspired by the minute observances of ceremonial practices. We also note a distinct tendency to discriminate between spirits, some of which are invariably friendly, some merely picturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others constantly harbouring a desire to work evil upon mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy of propitiatory offerings and "ceremonies of riddance," is the ethical suggestion that good wishes and good deeds influence spirits to perform acts of kindly intent. Of fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are still prone to do in these districts where belief in them is not yet extinct, with no small degree of regard and affection. It may be that "the good folk" and the "peace-people" ( sitchean ) were so called that good intention might be compelled by the conjuring influence of a name, as well as to avoid giving offence by uttering real names, as if it were desired to exercise a magical influence by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from Highland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener the friends than the foes of mankind. When men and women were lured to their dwellings they rarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies appeared to have taken pleasure in their company. To such as they favoured they imparted the secrets of their skill in the arts of piping, of sword-making, etc. At sowing time or harvest they were at the service of human friends. On the needy they took pity. They never failed in a promise; they never forgot an act of kindness, which they invariably rewarded seven-fold. Against those who wronged them they took speedy vengeance. It would appear that on these humanised spirits of his conception the Highlander left, as one would expect him to do, the impress of his own character—his shrewdness and high sense of honour, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth of heart and love of comrades, and his indelible hatred of tyranny and wrong. The Highland "wee folk" are not so diminutive as the fairies of England—at least that type of fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers bee-like over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power they had to shrink in stature and to render themselves invisible, but they are invariably "little people," from three to four feet high. It may be that the Gael's conception of humanised spirits may not have been uninfluenced by the traditions of that earlier diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint were so long regarded as "elf-bolts." The fairies dwelt only in grassy knolls, on the summits of high hills, and inside cliffs. Although capable of living for several centuries, they were not immortal. They required food, and borrowed meal and cooking utensils from human beings, and always returned what they received on loan. They could be heard within the knolls grinding corn and working at their anvils, and they were adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. When they went on long journeys they became invisible, and were carried through the air on eddies of western wind. At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee folk" were for several days on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity against mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and charms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil spirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in omens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote ancestors. THE HEROES. The heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume, figure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our Scottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are a band of militia—the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits. The cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and Grainnè, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of their mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves," sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated. On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost. The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose translation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the Bronze Age period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on his forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son, and bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum. Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the other, with which it has no connection. The third great Celtic Cycle—the Arthurian—bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of "The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary inspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the future. Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume. Some of the short poems have appeared in the "Glasgow Herald" and "Inverness Courier"; the three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review." CONTENTS. Preface The Wee Folk The Remnant Bannock The Banshee Conn, Son of the Red The Song of Goll The Blue Men of the Minch The Urisk The Nimble Men My Gunna The Gruagach The Little Old Man of the Barn Yon Fairy Dog The Water-Horse The Changeling My Fairy Lover The Fians of Knockfarrel Her Evil Eye A Cursing Leobag's Warning Tober Mhuire Sleepy Song Song of the Sea The Death of Cuchullin Lost Songs OTHER POEMS. The Dream Free Will Strife Sonnet "Out of the Mouths of Babes" Notes THE WEE FOLK. In the knoll that is the greenest, And the grey cliff side, And on the lonely ben-top The wee folk bide; They'll flit among the heather, And trip upon the brae— The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey. As o'er the moor at midnight The wee folk pass, They whisper 'mong the rushes And o'er the green grass; All through the marshy places They glint and pass away— The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay. O many a fairy milkmaid With the one eye blind, Is 'mid the lonely mountains By the red deer hind; Not one will wait to greet me, For they have naught to say— The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away. When the golden moon is glinting In the deep, dim wood, There's a fairy piper playing To the elfin brood; They dance and shout and turn about, And laugh and swing and sway— The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway. O we that bless the wee folk Have naught to fear, And ne'er an elfin arrow Will come us near; For they'll give skill in music, And every wish obey— The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play. They'll hasten here at harvest, They will shear and bind; They'll come with elfin music On a western wind; All night they'll sit among the sheaves, Or herd the kine that stray— The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay. Betimes they will be spinning The while we sleep, They'll clamber down the chimney, Or through keyholes creep; And when they come to borrow meal We'll ne'er them send away— The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway. O never wrong the wee folk— The red folk and green, Nor name them on the Fridays, Or at Hallowe'en; The helpless and unwary then And bairns they lure away— The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay. BONNACH FALLAIDH. (THE REMNANT BANNOCK.) O, the good-wife will be singing When her meal is all but done— Now all my bannocks have I baked, I've baked them all but one; And I'll dust the board to bake it, I'll bake it with a spell— O, it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. The bannock on the brander Smells sweet for your desire— O my crisp ones I will count not On two sides of the fire; And not a farl has fallen Some evil to foretell!— O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. The bread would not be lasting, 'Twould crumble in your hand; When fairies would be coming here To turn the meal to sand— But what will keep them dancing In their own green dell? O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. Now, not a fairy finger Will do my baking harm— The little bannock with the hole, O it will be the charm. I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms, And all the bairns I tell— O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. THE BANSHEE. Knee-deep she waded in the pool— The Banshee robed in green— She sang yon song the whole night long, And washed the linen clean; The linen that would wrap the dead She beetled on a stone, She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, Low singing all alone— His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night! 'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill, Come back from foreign wars, His horse's feet were clattering sweet Below the pitiless stars; And in his heart he would repeat— "O never again I'll roam; All weary is the going forth, But sweet the coming home!" His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night! He saw the blaze upon his hearth Come gleaming down the glen; For he was fain for home again, And rode before his men— "'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh, "Since I would leave her side; I'll never more leave Scotland's shore And yon, my dark-eyed bride." His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night! So dreaming of her tender love, Soft tears his eyes would blind— When up there crept and swiftly leapt A man who stabbed behind— "'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride, This night shall be your last!" … When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide Of life came ebbing fast … His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night! CONN, SON OF THE RED. The Fians sojourned by the shore Of comely Cromarty, and o'er The wooded hill pursued the chase With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space Ere Beltane[1] rites would be begun With homage to the rising sun— Ere to the spirits of the dead Would sacrificial blood be shed In yon green grove of Navity—[2] When Conn came over the Eastern Sea, His heart aflame with vengeful ire, To seek for Goll, who slew his sire When he was seven years old. Finn saw In dreams, ere yet he came, with awe The Red One's son, so fierce and bold, In combat with his hero old— The king-like Goll of valorous might— A stormy billow in the fight No foe could ere withstand. He knew The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew Clear on his horn the Warning Call; And round him thronged the Fians all With wond'ring gaze. The sun drew nigh The bale-fires of the western sky, And faggot clouds with blood-red glare, Caught flame, and in the radiant air Lone Wyvis like a jewel shone— The Fians, as they stared at Conn, Were stooping on the high Look-Out. They watched the ship that tacked about, Now slant across the firth, and now Laid bare below the cliff's broad brow, And heaving on a billowy steep, Like to a monster of the deep That wallowed, labouring in pain— And Conn stared back with cold disdain. Pondering, he sat alone behind The broad sail swallowing the wind, As over the hollowing waves that leapt And snarled with foaming lips, and swept Around the bows in querulous fray, And tossed in curves of drenching spray, The belching ship with ardour drove; Then like a lordly elk that strove Amid the hounds and, charging, rent The pack asunder as it went, It bore round and in beauty sprang— The sea-wind through the cordage sang With high and wintry merriment That stirred the heart of Conn, intent On vengeance, and for battle keen— So hard, so steadfast, and serene. Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low, With musing eyes upon the foe, "Is Conn more noble than The Red, Whom Goll in battle vanquished?" "The Red was fiercer," Conan cried— "Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied, "More comely, stalwart, mightier far— What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?" Then Goll made answer on the steep, Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep— "His equal never came before Across the seas to Alban shore, Nor ever have I peered upon A nobler, mightier man than Conn" The ship flew seaward, tacking wide, Contending with the wind and tide, And when upon the broad stream's track It baffled hung, or drifted back, With grunt and shriek, like battling boars, The shock and swing of bladed oars Came sounding o'er the sea The dusk Grew round the twilight, like a husk That holds a kernel choice, and keen, Cold stars impaled the sky serene, When Conn's ship through the slackening tide Drew round the wistful bay and wide, Behind the headlands high that snout The seas like giant whales, and spout The salt foam high and loud Then sighed The gasping men who all day plied Their oars in plunging seas, with hands Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent, And staggering from their benches went The sail napped quarrelling, and drank The wind in broken gasps, and sank With sullen pride upon the boards, And smote the mast and shook the cords Darkly loomed that alien land, And darkly lowered the Fian band, For hovering on the shoreland grey The ship they followed round the bay Nor sought the sheltering woods until The shadows folded o'er the hill Full heavily, and night fell blind, And laid its spell upon the wind The swelling waters sank with sip And hollow gurgle round the ship, The long mast rocked against the dim, Soft heaven above the headland's rim But while the seamen crouched to sleep, Conn sat alone in reverie deep, And saw before him in a maze The mute procession of his days, In gloom and glamour wending fast— His heart a-hungering for the past— Again he leapt, a tender boy, To greet his sire with eager joy, When he came over the wide North Sea, Enriched with spoils of victory— Then heavily loomed that fateful morn When tidings of his fall were borne From Alban shore … Again he saw The youth who went alone with awe To swear the avenging oath before The smoking altar red with gore. Ah! strange to him it seemed to be That hour was drawing nigh when he Would vengeance take … And still more strange, O sorrow! it would bring no change Though blood for blood be spilled, and life For life be taken in fierce strife; 'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped, Or break the silence of the dead. But when he heard his mother's wail, Once more uplifted on the gale, Moaning The Red who ne'er returned— His cheeks with sudden passion burned; And darkly frowned that valiant man, As through his quivering body ran The lightnings of impelling ire And impulses of fierce desire, That surged, with a consuming hate Against a world made desolate, Unceasing and unreconciled, And ever clamouring … like wild, Dark-deeded waves that stun the shore, And through the anguished twilight roar The hungry passions of the wide And gluttonous deep unsatisfied. II. The shredding dawn in beauty spread Its shafts of splendour, golden-red, High over the eastern heaven, and broke Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold, Let loose their oozing floods of gold, Splashed over the foamless deep that lay Tremulous and clear. In fiery play The rippling beams that swept between The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene, Broke quivering where the waters bore The soft reflection of the shore. The pipes of morn were sounding shrill Through budding woods on plain and hill, And stirred the air with song to wake The sweet-toned birds within the brake. The Fians from their sheilings came, With offerings to the god a-flame, And round them thrice they sun-wise went; Then naked-kneed in silence bent Beside the pillar stones … But now Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow Hath raised his burnished blade on high, And calls on Woden and on Tigh With boldness, to avenge the death Of his great sire … In one deep breath He drains the hero's draught that burns With valour of the gods; then turns His long-sought foe to meet … Great Conn Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone. Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright, That shower the foam-rain pearly white, And rip the waters, bending lithe, In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe Like adders, ere they dart away Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray. When, furrowing the sand, he drew His boat the shallowing water through, A giant he in stature rose Straight as a mast before his foes, With head thrown high, and shoulders wide And level, and set back with pride; His bared and supple arms were long As shapely oars: firm as a thong His right hand grasped his gleaming blade, Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made In leafen shape. With stately stride He crossed the level sands and wide, Then on his shield the challenge gave— His broad sword thund'ring like a wave— For single combat. Red as gold His locks upon his shoulders rolled; A brazen helmet on his head Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red; And all the Fians watched with awe That hero young with knotted jaw, Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard, Surveyed their ranks with cold regard; While his broad forehead, seamed with care, Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes With pondering o'er the mysteries. The eyes of all the Fians sought Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought With lines of deep, perplexing thought— For gazing on the valiant Conn, He mourned that his own youth was gone, When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed The life-blood of the boastful Red, Whom none save he would meet. He heard The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred, Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate And lust of glory satiate— His heart took pride in Conn, and shared The kinship of the brave. Who dared To meet the Viking bold, if he The succour of the band, should be Found faltering or in despair? Until that day the Fians ne'er Of one man had such fear. Old Goll Sat musing on a grassy knoll, They deemed he shared their dread … Not so Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow— "Goll, son of Morna, peerless man, The keen desire of every clan, Far-famed for many a valiant deed, Strong hero in the time of need. I vaunt not Conn … nor deem that thou Dost falter, save with meekness, now— But why shouldst thou not take the head Of this bold youth, as of The Red, His sire, in other days?" Goll spake— "O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand, Although to answer thy command My blood to its last drop were spilled— By Crom! were all the Fians killed, My sword would never fail to be A strong defence to succour thee." Upon his hard right arm with haste His crooked and pointed shield he braced, He clutched his sword in his left hand— While round that hero of the band The Fian warriors pressed, and praised His valour … Mute was Goll … They raised, Smiting their hands, the battle-cry, To urge him on to victory. The one-eyed Goll went forth alone, His face was like a mountain stone,— Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breath Came heavily, like a man nigh death— But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin, Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin, Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white, On his bald forehead gleamed a bright And livid scar that Conn's great sire Had cloven when their swords struck fire— Burly and dauntless, full of might, Old Goll went humbly forth to fight With arrogant Conn … It seemed The Red In greater might was from the dead, Restored in his fierce son … A deep Swift silence fell, like sudden sleep, On all the Fians waiting there In sharp suspense and half despair … The morn was still. A skylark hung In mid-air flutt'ring, and sung A lullaby that grew more sweet Amid the stillness, in the heat And splendour of the sun: the lisp Of faint wind in the herbage crisp Went past them; and around the bare And foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair, The faintly-panting waves were cast By the wan deep fatigued and vast. O great was Conn in that dread hour, And all the Fians feared his power, And watched, as in a darksome dream, The warriors meet … They saw the gleam Of swift, up-lifted swords, and then A breathless moment came, as when The lithe and living lightning's flash Makes pause, until the thunder's crash Is splintered through the air. Loud o'er The blue sea and the shining shore Broke forth the crash of arms … The roll Of Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll On sword and shield resounding rang, While that old warrior stooped and sprang Sideways, and swerved, or backward leapt, As swiftly as the bronze blade swept Above him and around … He swayed, Stumbling, but rose … But, though his blade Was ever nimble to defend, The Fians feared the fight would end In victory for Conn. … 'Twas like As when an eagle swoops to strike, But swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nigh Its head a javelin gleams … A cry That banished fear of Conn's great blows From out the Fian ranks arose, As, like a plumed reed in a gust, Goll suddenly stooped—a deadly thrust That drew the first blood in the fray He darting gave … With quick dismay The valiant Conn drew back … Again He leapt at Goll, but sought in vain To blind him with his blows that fell Like snowflakes on a sullen well— For Goll was calm, while great Conn raged, As hour by hour the conflict waged; He was a blast-defying tree— A crag that spurned a furious sea, And all the Fians with one mind Set firm their faith in Goll The wind Rose like a startled bird from out The heather at the huntsman's shout In swift and blust'ring flight At noon The sun rolled in a cloudy swoon Dimly, and over the rolling deep Gust followed gust with shadowy sweep; And waves that streamed their snowy locks Were tossing high against the rocks Seaward, while round the sands ebbed wide Scrambled the fierce devouring tide O, Conn was like a hound at morn, That springs upon an elk forlorn Among the hills. He was a proud Cascade that leaps a cliff with loud Unspending fall So fierce, so fair Was arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there Keen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay— He was as a boar in that fierce fray. The waves were humbled on the shore, And silent fell, amid the roar And crash of battle Mute and still The Fians watched; while on the hill The little elves came out and gazed, To be amused and were amazed … They saw upon the shrinking sands The warriors with restless hands And busy blades, with shields that rose To buffet the unceasing blows; They saw before the rising flood The flash of fire, the flash of blood; And watched the men with panting breath, Striving to be the slaves of death; Now darting wide, now swerving round, Now clashed together in a bound, With splitting swords that smote so fast, As hour by hour unheeded past. The sands were torn and tossed like spray Before the whirlwind of the fray, That waged in fury till the sun Sank, and the day's last loops were spun— Then terrible was Goll … He rose A tempest of increasing blows, More furious and fast, as dim, Uncertain twilight fell … More grim And great he grew as, looming large, He fought, and pressing to the marge Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave The Viking hero back; till wave O'er ready wave that hurried fleet, Snuffled and snarled about their feet … Then with a mighty shout that made The rocks around him ring, his blade Swept like a flash of fire to smite The last fell blow in that fierce fight— So great Conn perished like The Red By Goll's left hand … his life-blood spread Over the quenching sands where rolled His head entwined with locks of gold. Then passed like thunder o'er the sea The Fian shout of victory. And, trembling on the tossing ships, The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips And dim, despairing eyes … Alone Stood Goll, and like a silent stone Bulking upon a ben-side bare, He bent above the hero fair— Remembering the mighty Red, And wondering that Conn lay dead. [Footnote 1: May Day.] [Footnote 2: Traditional Holy Hill] THE SONG OF GOLL. O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead— The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed. Who fought me to-day? Who sought me to slay?— The son of yon High King I slew in the fray. O blade that yon brave Low laid in the grave, Ye gladdened the Fians But grief to Conn gave. Stone-hearted and strong, Lone-hearted with long, Dark brooding, he sought to Avenge his deep wrong. Fair Son of The Red, Care none thou art dead?— Old Goll of Clan Morna Will mourn thou hast bled. O where shall be found To share with thee round The halls of Valhalla Thy glory renowned? O true as the blade That slew thee, and made My fear and thine anger For ever to fade— Ah! when upon earth Again will have birth A son of such honour And bravery and worth? Above thee in splendour A love that could render Brave service, burned star-like And constant and tender. With fearing my name, With hearing my fame, O none would dare combat With Goll till Conn came? … O great was thine ire— The fate of thy sire, Awaiting thy coming, Consumed thee like fire. O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead— The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed. THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH. When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep, And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep, O the waters will be churning on the stream that never smiles, Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmèd isles. As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas, And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides; They will skim along like salmon—you can see their shoulders gleam, And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream. But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races, The Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey faces; They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind, O, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind. And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay, They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray— For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists, Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists. O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles! The whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles; They'll follow every fisher—ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream— When billows toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream? THE URISK. O the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone moor! Ah! would I be forgetting of The Thing that came with me? For it was big and black as black, and it was dour as dour, It shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I e'er did see. For it came creeping like a cloud that's moving all alone, Without the sound of footsteps … and I heard its heavy sighs … Its face was old and grey, and like a lichen-covered stone, And its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad and weary eyes. O it's never the word it had to say in anger or in woe— It would not seek to harm me that had never done it wrong, As fleet—O like the deer!—I went, or I went panting slow, The waesome thing came with me on that lonely road and long. O eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the moor! When I was all so helpless and my heart was full of fear, Nor when it was beside me or behind me was I sure— I knew it would be following—I knew it would be near! THE NIMBLE MEN. (AURORA BOREALIS.) When Angus Ore, the wizard, His fearsome wand will raise, The night is filled with splendour, And the north is all ablaze; From clouds of raven blackness, Like flames that leap on high— All merrily dance the Nimble Men across the Northern Sky. Now come the Merry Maidens, All gowned in white and green, While the bold and ruddy fellows Will be flitting in between— O to hear the fairy piper Who will keep them tripping by!— The men and maids who merrily dance across the Northern Sky. O the weird and waesome music, And the never-faltering feet! O their fast and strong embraces, And their kisses hot and sweet! There's a lost and languished lover With a fierce and jealous eye, As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky. So now the dance is over, And the dancers sink to rest— There's a maid that has two lovers, And there's one she loves the best; He will cast him down before her, She will raise him with a sigh— Her love so bright who danced to-night across the Northern Sky. Then up will leap the other, And up will leap his clan— O the lover and his company Will fight them man to man— All shrieking from the conflict The merry maidens fly— There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky. Through all the hours of darkness The fearsome fight will last; They are leaping white with anger, And the blows are falling fast— And where the slain have tumbled A pool of blood will lie— O it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky. When yon lady seeks her lover In the cold and pearly morn, She will find that he has fallen By the hand that she would scorn,— She will clasp her arms about him, And in her anguish die!— O never again will trip the twain across the Northern Sky. MY GUNNA. When my kine are on the hill, Who will charm them from all ill? While I'll sleep at ease until All the cocks are crowing clear. Who'll be herding them for me? It's the elf I fain would see— For they're safe as safe can be When the Gunna will be near. He will watch the long weird night, When the stars will shake with fright, Or the ghostly moon leaps bright O'er the ben like Beltane fire. If my kine would seek the corn, He will turn them by the horn— And I'll find them all at morn Lowing sweet beside the byre. Croumba's bard has second-sight, And he'll moan the Gunna's plight, When the frosts are flickering white, And the kine are housed till day; For he'll see him perched alone On a chilly old grey stone, Nibbling, nibbling at a bone That we'll maybe throw away. He's so hungry, he's so thin, If he'd come we'd let him in, For a rag of fox's skin Is the only thing he'll wear. He'll be chittering in the cold As he hovers round the fold, With his locks of glimmering gold Twined about his shoulders bare. THE GRUAGACH. (MILKMAID'S SONG.) The lightsome lad wi' yellow hair, The elfin lad that is so fair, He comes in rich and braw attire— To loose the kine within the byre— My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. He's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand, A supple switch is in his hand; I've seen while I a-milking sat The shadow of his beaver hat. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. My chuckling lad, so full o' fun, Around the corners he will run; Behind the door he'll sometimes jink, And blow to make my candle blink. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. The elfin lad that is so braw, He'll sometimes hide among the straw; He's sometimes leering from the loft— He's tittering low and tripping soft. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. And every time I'll milk the kine He'll have his share—the luck be mine! I'll pour it in yon hollowed stone, He'll sup it when he's all alone— My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. O me! if I'd his milk forget, Nor cream, nor butter I would get; Ye needna' tell—I ken full well— On all my kine he'd cast his spell. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. On nights when I would rest at ease, The merry lad begins to tease; He'll loose the kine to take me out, And titter while I move about. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there— I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN. When all the big lads will be hunting the deer, And no one for helping Old Callum comes near, O who will be busy at threshing his corn? Who will come in the night and be going at morn? The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man— A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn, The Little Old Man of the Barn. When the peat will turn grey and the shadows fall deep, And weary Old Callum is snoring asleep; When yon plant by the door will keep fairies away, And the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering till day. The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man— Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the night, The Little Old Man of the Barn. For the bodach is strong though his hair is so grey, He will never be weary when he goes away— The bodach is wise—he's so wise, he's so dear— When the lads are all gone, he will ever be near. The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man— So tight and so braw he will bundle the straw— The Little Old Man of the Barn. YON FAIRY DOG. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals, Whose heart would never fail, Would hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce Come howling down the gale; The patt'ring of the paws would sound Like horse's hoofs on frozen ground, While o'er its back and curling round Uprose its fearsome tail. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals— Yon man that hath no fears— Beheld the dog with dark-green back That bends not when it rears; Its sides were blacker than the night, But underneath the hair was white; Its paws were yellow, its eyes were bright, And blood-red were its ears. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals— The man who naught will dread— Would wait it, stooping with his spear, As nigh to him it sped; The big black head it turn'd and toss'd, "I'll strike," cried he, "ere I'll be lost," For every living thing that cross'd Its path would tumble dead. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals— The man who ne'er took fright— Would watch it bounding from the hills And o'er the moors in flight. When it would leave the Uist shore, Across the Minch he heard it roar— Like yon black cloud it bounded o'er The Coolin Hills that night. THE WATER-HORSE. O the Water-Horse will come over the heath, With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes, He's black above and he's white beneath— The hills are hearing the awesome cries; The sand lies thick in his dripping hair, And his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware. Alas! for the man who would clutch the mane— There's no spell to help and no charm to save! Who rides him will never return again, Were he as strong, O were he as brave As Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell— He thrashed the devil and made him yell. He'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast, So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound— Like the lightning flash he'll go prancing past, Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound— And the man perchance who sees and hears, He would blind his eyes, he would close his ears. The horse will bellow, the horse will snort, And the gasping rider will pant for breath— Let the way be long, or the way be short, It will have one end, and the end is death; In yon black loch, from off the shore, The horse will splash, and be seen no more. THE CHANGELING. By night they came and from my bed They stole my babe, and left behind A thing I hate, a thing I dread— A changeling who is old and blind; He's moaning all the night and day For those who took my babe away. My little babe was sweet and fair, He crooned to sleep upon my breast— But O the burden I must bear! This drinks all day and will not rest— My little babe had hair so light— And his is growing dark as night. Yon evil day when I would leave My little babe the stook behind!— The fairies coming home at eve Upon an eddy of the wind, Would cast their eyes with envy deep Upon my heart's-love in his sleep. What holy woman will ye find To weave a spell and work a charm? A holy woman, pure and kind, Who'll keep my little babe from harm— Who'll make the evil changeling flee, And bring my sweet one back to me? MY FAIRY LOVER. My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. Thine eyes were glowing like blue-bells blowing, With dew-drops twinkling their silvery fires; Thine heart was panting with love enchanting, For mine was granting its fond desires. My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. Thy brow had brightness and lily-whiteness, Thy cheeks were clear as yon crimson sea; Like broom-buds gleaming, thy locks were streaming, As I lay dreaming, my love, of thee. My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. Thy lips that often with love would soften, They beamed like blooms for the honey-bee; Thy voice came ringing like some bird singing When thou wert bringing thy gifts to me. My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. O thou'rt forgetting the hours we met in The Vale of Tears at the even-tide, Or thou'd come near me to love and cheer me, And whisper clearly, "O be my bride!" My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. What spell can bind thee? I search to find thee Around the knoll that thy home would be— Where thou did'st hover, my fairy lover, The clods will cover and comfort me. My fairy lover, my fairy lover, My fair, my rare one, come back to me— All night I'm sighing, on thee I'm crying, I would be dying, my love, for thee. THE FIANS OF KNOCKFARREL. (A Ross-shire Legend.) I. On steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made, For safe retreat, a high and strong stockade Around their dwellings. And when winter fell And o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell— When days were bleak with storm, and nights were drear And dark and lonesome, well they loved to hear The songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime— Their blind, grey bard, grown old before his time, Lamenting for his son—the young, the brave Oscar, who fell beside the western wave In Gavra's bloody and unequal fight. Round Ossian would they gather in the night, Beseeching him for song … And when he took His clarsach, from the magic strings he shook A maze of trembling music, falling sweet As mossy waters in the summer heat; And soft as fainting moor-winds when they leave The fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve, Bound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night hear Low elfin pipings in the woodlands near. 'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dream The fair maids sighed to hear. But when his theme Was the long chase that Finn and all his men Followed with lightsome heart from glen to glen— His song was free as morn, and clear and loud As skylarks carolling below a cloud In sweet June weather … And they heard the fall Of mountain streams, the huntsman's windy call Across the heaving hills, the baying hound Among the rocks, while echoes answered round— They heard, and shared the gladness of the chase. He sang the glories of the Fian race, Whose fame is flashed through Alba far and wide— Their valorous deeds he sang with joy and pride … When their dark foemen from the west came o'er The ragged hills, and when on Croumba's shore The Viking hordes descending, fought and fled— And when brave Conn, who would avenge the Red, By one-eyed Goll was slain. Of Finn he sang, And Dermaid, while the clash of conflict rang In billowy music through the heroes' hall— And many a Fian gave the battle-call When Ossian sang. Haggard and old, with slow And falt'ring steps, went Winter through the snow, As if its dreary round would ne'er be done— The last long winter of their days—begun Ere yet the latest flush of falling leaves Had faded in the breath of chilling eves; Nor ended in the days of longer light, When dawn and eve encroached upon the night— A weary time it was! The long Strath lay Snow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to day The tempests raved across the low'ring skies, And they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes, The while their stores shrank low, waiting the dawn Of that sweet season when through woodlands wan Fresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing— For Winter on the forelock of the Spring Its icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pined In their dim dwellings, wearily confined, While the loud, hungry tempest held its sway— The red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by day, And birds fell frozen in the snow. Then through The trackless Strath a balmy south wind blew To usher lusty Spring. Lo! in a night The snows 'gan shrinking upon plain and height, And morning broke in brightness to the sound Of falling waters, while a peace profound Possessed the world around them, and the blue Bared heaven above … Then all the Fians knew That Winter's spell was broken, and each one Made glad obeisance to the golden sun. Three days around Knockfarrel they pursued The chase across the hills and through the wood, Round Ussie Loch and Dingwall's soundless shore; But meagre were the burdens that they bore At even to their dwellings. To the west "But sorrow not," said Finn, when all dismay'd They hastened on a drear and bootless quest— With weary steps they turned to their stockade, "To-morrow will we hunt towards the east To high Dunskaith, and then make gladsome feast By night when we return." Or ever morn Had broken, Finn arose, and on his horn Blew loud the huntsman's blast that round the ben Was echoed o'er and o'er … Then all his men Gathered about him in the dusk, nor knew What dim forebodings filled his heart and drew His brows in furrowed care. His eyes a-gleam Still stared upon the horrors of a dream Of evil omen that in vain he sought To solve … His voice came faint from battling thought, As he to Garry spake—"Be thou the ward Strong son of Morna: who, like thee, can guard Our women from all peril!" … Garry turned From Finn in sullen silence, for he yearned To join the chase once more. In stature he Was least of all the tribe, but none could be More fierce in conflict, fighting in the van, Than that grim, wolfish, and misshapen man! Then Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave command To hasten forth before the Fian band— The King of Scouts was he! And like the deer He sped to find if foemen had come near— Fierce, swarthy hillmen, waiting at the fords For combat eager, or red Viking hordes From out the Northern isles … In Alba wide No runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side, And ere the Fians, following in his path, Had wended from the deep and dusky strath, He swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome owls That hoot afar and near in woody Foulis, And he had reached the slopes of fair Rosskeen Ere Finn by Fyrish came. The dawn broke green— For the high huntsman of the morn had flung His mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strung His silver bow; then rising, bright and bold, He shot a burning arrow of pure gold That rent the heart of Night. As far behind The Fians followed, Caoilte, like the wind, Sped on—yon son of Ronan—o'er the wide And marshy moor, and 'thwart the mountain side,— By Delny's shore far-ebbed, and wan, and brown, And through the woods of beautous Balnagown: The roaring streams he vaulted on his spear, And foaming torrents leapt, as he drew near The sandy slopes of Nigg. He climbed and ran Till high above Dunskaith he stood to scan The outer ocean for the Viking ships, Peering below his hand, with panting lips A-gape, but wide and empty lay the sea Beyond the barrier crags of Cromarty, To the far sky-line lying blue and bare— For no red pirate sought as yet to dare The gloomy hazards of the fitful seas, The gusty terrors, and the treacheries Of fickle April and its changing skies— And while he scanned the waves with curious eyes, The sea-wind in his nostrils, who had spent A long, bleak winter in Knockfarrel pent Over the snow-wreathed Strath and buried wood, A sense of freedom tingled in his blood— The large life of the Ocean, heaving wide, His heart possessed with gladness and with pride, And he rejoiced to be alive…. Once more He heard the drenching waves on that rough shore Raking the shingles, and the sea-worn rocks Sucking the brine through bared and lapping locks Of bright, brown tangle; while the shelving ledges Poured back the swirling waters o'er their edges; And billows breaking on a precipice In spouts of spray, fell spreading like a fleece. Sullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleek And foaming lips, before the flooded creek Deep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green expanse Wind-wrinkled and translucent … A bright trance Of sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wide Blue ocean swept with loops of silvern tide Heavily heaving in a long, slow swell. A lonely fisher in his coracle Came round a headland, lifted on a wave That bore him through the shallows to his cave, Nor other being he saw. The birds that flew Clamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew Their prey from bounteous waters, on him cast Cold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past And sliding down the wind.

Related documents

• Philosophical incantations (Itihāsa and Epode).The power of narrative reason in the Mahābhārata#74090
• The Rock of the Lion#53276
• Heroes of To-Day#53358
• The Heroes of Aristophanes#721028
• Captains of souls#65111