Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition.

Series initiated and directed by

LORD ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL.

Demy 8vo, cloth.

ARGYLLSHIRE SERIES.

VOLUME I.

CRAIGNISH TALES.

Collected by the Rev. J. MacDougall; and Notes on the War Dress of the Celts by Lord Archibald Campbell, xvi, 98 pages. 20 plates. 1889. 5s.

VOLUME II.

FOLK AND HERO TALES.

Collected, edited (in Gaelic), and translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes; with a Study on the Development of the Ossianic Saga and copious Notes by Alfred Nutt. xxiv, 497 pages. Portrait of Campbell of Islay, and two illustrations by E. Griset. 1890. 15s.

“The most important work on Highland Folk-lore and Tales since Campbell’s world-renowned Popular Tales.”—Highland Monthly.

“Never before has the development of the Ossianic Saga been so scientifically dealt with.”—Hector Maclean.

“Mr. Alfred Nutt’s excurses and notes are lucid and scholarly. They add immensely to the value of the book, and afford abundant evidence of their author’s extensive reading and sound erudition.”—Scots Observer.

“The Gaelic text is colloquial and eminently idiomatic.... Mr. Nutt deserves special mention and much credit for the painstaking and careful research evidenced by his notes to the tales.”—Oban Telegraph.

VOLUME III.

FOLK AND HERO TALES.

Collected, edited, translated, and annotated by the Rev. J. MacDougall; with an Introduction by Alfred Nutt, and Three Illustrations by E. Griset.

1891. 10s. 6d.

VOLUME IV.

THE FIANS;

OR,

STORIES, POEMS, AND TRADITIONS

OF

FIONN AND HIS WARRIOR BAND.

Collected entirely from Oral Sources by John Gregorson Campbell (Minister of Tiree); with Introduction and Bibliographical Notes by Alfred Nutt. Portrait of Ian Campbell of Islay, and Illustrations by E. Griset.

THE LATE REV. J. G. CAMPBELL

WAIFS AND STRAYS OF CELTIC TRADITION.

ARGYLLSHIRE SERIES.—No. V.

CLAN TRADITIONS
AND POPULAR TALES
OF THE
WESTERN HIGHLANDS AND ISLANDS,

Collected from Oral Sources

BY THE LATE
Rev. JOHN GREGORSON CAMPBELL.
MINISTER OF TIREE.

SELECTED FROM THE AUTHOR’S MS. REMAINS,

AND EDITED BY

JESSIE WALLACE AND DUNCAN MAC ISAAC,

WITH INTRODUCTION BY
ALFRED NUTT.

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

LONDON:
DAVID NUTT, 270–271 STRAND.

1895.

CONTENTS.

Memoir of the late Rev. John Gregorson Campbell. His work as a folk-lorist. The present work.

Clan Traditions.

Legendary History.

Stories about the Fairies.

Folk Tales.

Beast Fables.

Boy’s Games.

Appendix.

PREFACE.

It has been thought well and due, by those who knew the late J. G. Campbell of Tiree, to give to the public more tales collected by him, and his sister has made over the following collection, selected by herself from among the tales gathered in the course of many years. We send them forth as a fitting memorial to his memory, and as another stone added to the cairn lovingly erected by old friends. At the end will be found a few letters which passed between the late minister and the late Iain Campbell of Islay, showing the methods of collecting followed by these two lovers of the folk-lore of their native land, and which in consequence cannot but prove of interest and value to those who have followed the steps of the gleaning of folk-tales throughout the British Isles—we may add throughout the world. These patient labourers in such fields were the true pioneers of the movement in Scotland.

Notes, where not otherwise stated, are the author’s or editors’; those signed A.N. are due to Mr. Alfred Nutt; those signed A.C. to the undersigned.

Archibald Campbell.

Feb. 11, 1895.

INTRODUCTION.

Memoir of the late John Gregorson Campbell,
Minister of Tiree.

[The following Memoir is chiefly from information given by Mr. Campbell’s sister, Mrs. Wallace of Hynish, thanks to whose unwearied and sympathetic assistance it was that the previous volume in the series, ‘The Fians,’ was made ready for and passed through the press, and that the present volume has been selected and put together from the mass of the material left by the author].

John Gregorson Campbell was born at Kingairloch, in Argyllshire, in the year 1836, the second son and fourth child of Captain Campbell of the Cygnet and of Helen MacGregor, his wife. The fondness for study, the devotion to his native literature and lore, which were such marked features of his life, and which earned for him an abiding reputation as a Gaelic student, would seem to have been his by birthright. His maternal grandfather was an ardent Gael, as may be judged by the letters that passed between him and Dr. Mackintosh. On his mother’s side he was descended from Duncan MacGregor, 13th in direct descent from the first MacGregor who settled at Roro, in Glenlyon, Perthshire, whilst through a paternal ancestor he traced back to a race that had had dealings with the ‘good people,’ and on whom a bean shith had laid the spell ‘they shall grow like the rush and wither like the fern’ (fàsaidh iad mar an luachair ’s crìonaidh iad mar an raineach).

The house of his birth on the shores of Loch Linnhe was small and lonely, and when he was three years of age his parents removed to Appin. His childhood was that of many young Highlanders. From earliest boyhood he attended the parish school in the Strath of Appin, walking daily with his older sisters the long stretch that separated it from his father’s home. He loved to recall his early schooldays, and their memory was ever dear to him. He had learnt more, he was wont to say in after years, at that school than at all his other schools put together. And on the hillside and along the valley, traversed twice daily, he drank in a love for and knowledge of nature in all her manifestations that remained to him as a priceless possession throughout life. At ten he was sent to Glasgow for further schooling, passed first through the Andersonian University, and went thence to the High School, preparatory to entering College. We have interesting glimpses of him at this period. He seems to have been a dreamy, quick-witted but somewhat indolent lad of whom his masters said, ‘if Campbell likes to work no one can beat him’; hot-tempered too, as Highlanders, rightly or wrongly, are credited with being. The only Highlander in the school, he had doubtless much to put up with. His Glasgow schoolfellows had probably as little liking for Highlanders as Baillie Nicol Jarvie himself, and many were the petty persecutions he had to endure. He has himself related how he suffered several hours imprisonment for fighting another boy ‘on account of my country.’ Like all who are steadily bilingual from early youth he recognised how powerful an intellectual instrument is the instinctive knowledge of two languages, and was wont to insist upon the aid he had derived from Gaelic in the study of Hebrew and Latin. To one familiar with the complex and archaic organisation of Gaelic speech the acquisition of these languages must indeed be far easier than to one whose first knowledge of speech is based upon the analytic simplicity of English.

From the High School he gladly passed to College, where a happier life and more congenial friendships awaited him. He had many Highland fellow-students, and at this early date his love for the rich stores of oral tradition preserved by his countrymen manifested itself. He sought the acquaintance of good story-tellers, and began to store up in his keenly retentive memory the treasure he has been so largely instrumental in preserving and recording.

After leaving college he read law for awhile with Mr. Foulds. In his lonely island parish he later found his legal training of the utmost assistance. Many were the disputes he was called upon to settle, and, as he has recorded, few there were of his parishioners who needed to take the dangerous voyage to the Sheriff’s court on a neighbouring island. At once judge and jury his decisions commanded respect and acquiescence. At this period, and for some time previously, his interest in and mastery of Gaelic legendary lore are shown by the fact that he acted as Secretary to the Glasgow University Ossianic Society, founded in 1831 by Caraid nan Gàidheal, and still flourishing.

His thoughts and aspirations had early turned towards the church, and in 1858 he was licensed by the Presbytery of Glasgow. But suffering as he then was from the effects of inflammation of the lungs, the result of a chill caught in his student days, and the effects of which were perceptible throughout life, he was forbidden to preach for six months. The interval, spent in recruiting his shattered health, was profitable to his growing zeal for folk-lore studies. In Ayrshire or at Blair Athole he showed himself a keen and sympathetic collector of floating oral tradition.

In 1860 he accepted the appointment to the united parishes of Tiree and Coll from the Duke of Argyll, and took up the work which was to occupy the remaining thirty years of his life. It is to be wished that a sphere of activity more commensurate with his abilities had been accepted by him, as when he was offered the assistantship of St. Columba, Glasgow, and he seems at times to have felt as much. But such thoughts were certainly no hindrance to the performance of his duty, interpreted in the largest and most liberal sense. He was the guide and counsellor of his flock, who turned to him with unfailing confidence for advice, exhortation, or reproof. An amusing instance of his parishioners’ belief in his capacity may be cited; a sailor lad from Tiree got, as sailor lads will, into some row in Spain and was marched off to jail. He took the matter philosophically, remarking, ‘so long as the minister is alive I know they can’t hurt me’ (bha fhios agam co fad’s a bha ’m ministear beò nach robh cunnart domh). The esteem and affection in which he was held by his parishioners were cordially reciprocated by him. He is reported as saying that nowhere could be found a more intelligent community than the Duke’s tenantry in Tiree, and in the preface to Volume IV. of the present series he bears witness to the knowledge, intelligence, and character of his informants.

We do not go far wrong in conjecturing that the minister’s zealous interest for the preservation and elucidation of the native traditions was not the least potent of his claims upon the respect and love of his flock. How keenly the Highlander still treasures these faint echoes of the past glories and sorrows of his race is known to all who have won his confidence. Unhappily it has not always been the case that this sentiment has been fostered and turned to good account by the natural leaders of the people as it was by John Gregorson Campbell.

In the guidance of his people, in congenial study, in correspondence with Campbell of Islay and other fellow-workers, specimens of which will be found in the appendix (infra 138), time passed. His mother died in 1890 at the manse, and his health, for long past indifferent, broke down. The last years of his life were solaced and filled by the work he prepared for the present series. At last, Nov. 22nd, 1891 he passed from his labours and sufferings into rest, the rest of one who had well earned it by devotion to duty and to the higher interests of his race.

In person Campbell was tall and fair, with deep blue eyes full of life and vivacity. He was noted at once for the kindliness of his manner, and for the shrewd causticity of his wit. The portrait which serves as frontispiece is taken from the only available photograph, and represents him in middle life.

His Work as a Folk-Lorist.

The Gaels of Scotland cannot be accused of indifference to the rich stores of legend current among the people. From the days of the Dean of Lismore, in the late 15th century, onwards, there have not been wanting lovers and recorders of the old songs and stories. Unfortunately, in the 18th century, a new direction was given to the national interest in the race traditions by the Macpherson controversy. I say unfortunately, because attention was thereby concentrated upon one section of tradition to the neglect of others equally interesting and beautiful, and false standards were introduced into the appreciation and criticism of popular oral literature. Valuable as are the materials accumulated in the Report of the Highland Society, and generally in the voluminous literature which grew up round Macpherson’s pretentions, they are far less valuable than they might be to the folk-lorist and student of the past, owing to the misapprehension of the real points both of interest and at issue. Two generations had to pass away before Scotch Gaelic folk-lore was to be studied and appreciated for itself.

To Campbell of Islay and the faithful fellow-workers whom he knew how to inspire and organise, falls the chief share in this work, belongs the chief honour of its successful achievement. The publication of the Popular Tales of the West Highlands was epoch-making, not only in the general study of folk-lore, but specially for the appreciation and intelligence of Gaelic myth and romance. No higher praise can be given to John Gregorson Campbell than that his folk-lore work is full of the same uncompromising fidelity to popular utterance, the same quick intuition into, and sympathetic grasp of popular imagination as Islay’s. His published work has indeed a somewhat wider range than that of Leabhar na Feinne and the Popular Tales of the West Highlands, as it deals also with those semi-historic traditions, the nearest equivalent the literature of these islands can show to the Icelandic family sagas, which Islay excluded from the two collections he issued. The following is a complete list, so far as can be ascertained, of the published writings of John Gregorson Campbell, in so far as they relate to the legendary romance, history and folk-lore of Gaelic Scotland.

In the “Celtic Review,” (1881–85).

No. I. p. 61, West Highland Tale: How Tuairisgeal Mòr was put to death.

” II. p. 115, The Muileartach: a West Highland Tale.[1]

” III. p. 184, West Highland Tale: How Fionn went to the Kingdom of Big Men.[2]

” IV. p. 262, West Highland Tale: MacPhie’s Black Dog.

In the Transactions of the Inverness Gaelic Society.

Vol. XIII. (1888) p. 69, Tale of Sir Hallabh O’Corn.

” XIV. (1889) p. 78, Healing of Keyn’s Foot.

” XV. (1890) p. 46, Fionn’s Ransom.

” XVI. (1891) p. 111, The Pigmies or Dwarfs (Na h-Amhuisgean).

” XVII. (1892) p. 58, The Fuller’s Son or School of Birds.

In the Celtic Magazine, Vol. XIII, (1887–88.)

No. 148, p. 167, Battle of Gavra or Oscar’s Hymn.

” 149, p. 202, do. do. do. (Continued).[3]

Highland Monthly.

Vol. I. No. 10. p. 622, Introduction, &c.

Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition.

Argyllshire Series, No. I.: The Good Housewife (p. 54–69).

Argyllshire Series, No. IV.: The Fians: or Stories, Poems, and Traditions of Fionn and his Warrior Band. Collected entirely from oral sources. 1891.

In presenting his material to the English reader Campbell may profitably be compared with Islay. In few ways was the work of the latter more fruitful than in his mode of rendering Gaelic into English. It is impossible, for instance, to look at the work done of late by the distinguished Irish folk-lorists who are adding a new chapter to Gaelic romance, at the work of Douglas Hyde and W. Larminie and Jeremiah Curtin, and not recognise how much in point of colour and tone and smack of the soil their translations excel those of the pre-Campbell generation. Islay may, at times, have pushed his theory of idiomatic fidelity too far, occasionally where he aims at a rendering he achieves a distortion, but as a whole the effect of strange, wild, archaic atmosphere and medium is given with unerring—one would call it skill, did one not feel that it is the outcome of a nature steeped in the Gaelic modes of conception and expression, and bold enough to invent the English requisite to give an adumbration of them. For indeed the speech of the Popular Tales is a distinctive variety of English, deserving study both from the philologist and the artist in words. Islay himself never handled this speech to better effect than did John Gregorson Campbell in the fine tale, for instance, of Sir Olave O’Corn (Gaelic Soc. of Inverness, Vol. XIII.), or in the Muileartach (Waifs and Strays, Vol. IV.), though as a rule he keeps closer than Islay to the ordinary standard of English expression. Readers of this volume cannot fail to note the exceeding skill with which the pithy, imaginative turns of thought, so plentiful in the original, are rendered into English. The reader is at once taken out of nineteenth century civilisation, and, which is surely the first thing required from the translator, by the mere sound and look of the words carried back into an older, wilder, simpler and yet, in some ways, more artificially complex life. The difficulty of rendering Gaelic into English does not lie in the fact of its possessing a rude simplicity which the more sophisticated language is incapable of reproducing, but rather in that, whilst the emotions and conceptions are close to the primitive passions of nature in a degree that our civilisation has long forsworn, the mode of expression has the richness of colour and elaborate artificiality of a pattern in the Book of Kells. To neglect the latter characteristic is to miss not only a salient feature of the original but to obscure the significance of a dominant factor in the evolution of Gaelic artistry.

That Campbell, like Islay, felt the paramount necessity of endeavouring to reproduce the formal characteristics of his Gaelic text is certain; like Islay, he too, had the true scholar’s regard for his matter. To put down what he heard, to comment upon what he found, was his practice. It seems obvious, but many collectors neglect it all the same. Nor in his essays at interpretation is he other than in full sympathy with his subject. He not only understands but himself possesses the mythopoeic faculty, and if this is endowed with a wider knowledge, a more refined culture than belonged to the Gaelic bards who first gave these songs and stories their present shape, or to the peasants and fishermen who lovingly repeat them, it differs in degree only, not in kind. It may be doubted that the framers of the Muileartach consciously embodied the conceptions which Campbell has read into the old poem (Waifs and Strays, IV. pp. 131–135), but I think it certain that he does but give shape with the precision of a a higher culture to ideas which, with them, never emerged from the stage of mythic realisation.

The Present Work.

Most of the matter contained in the present volume had been partially, if not definitely, prepared for press by the author. The choice and arrangement are largely due to his sister, Mrs. Wallace, his devoted fellow-worker. Still it must not be forgotten that we have here a collection of posthumous remains which have not enjoyed the benefit of the author’s final shaping and revision. But it has been judged best by the editors of the series to preserve these remains substantially as they were left, with a minimum of indispensable revision. The volume may lose in other respects, but it is, at all events, the work of the author and not of his editor friends. The latter have felt that regard for the genuineness of Mr. Campbell’s text was the first of their duties towards his memory.

This volume thus represents the contents of Campbell’s note-books rather than provides such an ordered collection of material, bearing upon a particular section of Gaelic folk-lore, as he has furnished in the preceding volume of this series. But for this very reason it yields better evidence to the wealth and variety of Gaelic popular tradition. A large portion of the book is local legendary matter, and is closely analogous to what the Icelandic Sagas must have been in one stage of their development, a stage overlaid by the artistry of a greater school of prose story tellers than ever took the sagas of Gaelic Scotland in hand. Professor York Powell has well analysed the phase through which such stories as those of Burnt Njal or Egil Skallagrimm’s son must have passed before they reached the form familiar to us.[4] He describes the popular narrator working up a mass of local, fairly authentic detail about his hero, running it into a conventional mould, and then fitting the result into a scheme of wider historic scope. The Gaelic matter preserved alike by Mr. Campbell in this volume and by Mr. MacDougall in the first volume of the series has not got beyond the local anecdote stage, though, as in the variant forms of the tale of the Grizzled Lad and MacNeill (p. 5, et seq.), we can see the conventionalizing process at work, accentuating certain details, discarding others, with the view of transmuting the blurred photographic variety of life into the clear-cut unity of art. But the process is rudimentary. It is strange that this should be so considering the wealth of conventional situations that lay ready to the hand of the Gaelic story teller in the highly elaborated sagas of Cuchulainn and of Finn, for the purpose of moulding the achievements of historical Campbells, MacLeans and MacNeills, into a satisfactory artistic form. Such convention as is apparent in these scraps of sagas is related to that of the folk-tale rather than to that of the great heroic legends. An interesting example is afforded by the story of Mac an Uidhir. This may well have a basis of fact, indeed Campbell cites an actual analogue, but it has been run into the shape of an ordinary separation and timely-recognition folk-tale. Other instances will present themselves to the reader and afford instructive study of the action and reaction upon each other of folk-life and oral narrative legend.

Any fresh addition of moment to the considerable recorded mass of Scottish local historic tradition increases the wonder that material of such vigour and interest, full of the clash of fierce primitive passion, rich in character, should have had so little literary outcome. The stuff is not inferior to that of the Icelandic tales, but instead of a first-rate contribution to the world’s literature we have only a chaos of unworked up details. Yet during the time that these implanted themselves and took shape in the popular memory, Gaelic story-tellers, elaborating and perpetually readapting the old mythic and heroic traditions of the race, were producing narratives of rare and exquisite charm. Perplexity is intensified if, as Professor Zimmer maintains, the Norsemen learnt the art of prose narrative from the Irish and developed the great school of Icelandic story telling on lines picked up in Gaeldom. Certain it is that the Irish annals, relating the events of the 3rd to 9th centuries, which assumed their present shape sometime in the 10th to the 12th centuries, contain a large amount of historic narrative that is closely allied in form and spirit to the contemporary Scotch Gaelic sagas. There is the same directness of narrative, the frequent picturesqueness of incident, the pithy characterisation; there is also the same failure to throw the material into a rounded artistic form, and, most curious of all resemblances, the conventions at work distorting historic fact are those of the folk-tale rather than of the national heroic epos. I would cite in this connection certain episodes of the Boroma[5] (in itself an admirable example of the failure of Gaelic story tellers to work up into satisfying form very promising historical material) such as that of Cumascach’s visit to Brandubh, or again many passages in the stories about Raghallach and Guaire. The whole subject is, as nearly everything else in the record of Gaelic letters, fraught with fascinating perplexities. The present writer can but here, as he has so often done before, make a big note of interrogation and trust that Gaelic scholars on both sides the water will consider the problem worth study, and succeed in solving it.

I note those points which interest me as a student of tradition in general, and of Celtic tradition in particular. For most readers these scraps of local history derive their chief value from the vivid light they flash back upon the past, from the evidence they yield of the wild, fierce—I had almost written savage—life from which we are separated by so few generations. Some there may be to mourn for the past. Not a few Highland landlords will possibly regret the good old days when the MacLean planted his gallows in the midst of the island of Tiree, and the last comer with his rent knew what awaited him (p. 13). Truly a more effectual means of getting in the money than by writ which the sheriff cannot execute.

The remainder of the volume comprises matter more upon the usual folk-lore lines; much, familiar already but valuable in the good variant form here recorded, much again novel, like the curious tale of the Princess Thyra and her lovers. Taken in conjunction with the author’s previous volume in this series on the Finn tradition as still living in the Western Highlands, the whole offers a faithful picture of the imagination, memory, and humour of the Gaelic peasant playing round the old-time beliefs, stories and customs handed down to him from his forefathers.

Alfred Nutt.

I append a list of the chief informants from whom Mr. Campbell derived the material contained in Vol. IV. and V. of the Argyllshire series of Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition.

• Malcolm MacDonald, Scarnish, Tiree.
• Malcolm MacLean, Kilmoluaig, Tiree.
• Hugh MacDonald, do. do.
• John MacLean, (bard), Balemartin, Tiree.
• Hugh Macmillan, (tailor), Tobermory.
• Angus MacVurrich, Portree, Skye.
• Duncan Cameron, (constable), Tiree.
• Allan MacDonald, Mannal, Tiree.
• Donald Mackinnon, Balevoulin, Tiree.
• John Cameron, (Iain MacFhearchar), Balevoulin, Tiree.
• Archibald Mackinnon, (Gilleasbuig ruadh nan sgeirean dubha), Tiree.
• Donald Cameron, Ruaig, Tiree.
• Donald MacDonald, Mannal, Tiree.
• Malcolm Sinclair, Balephuil, Tiree.
• John MacArthur, (tailor), Moss, Tiree.
• Duncan MacDonald, Caolis, Tiree.
• Neil MacLean, (the elder), Cornaig, Tiree.

NOTES:

[1] Reprinted The Fians. p. 131–158.

[2] Reprinted The Fians. p. 175–191.

[3] Reprinted The Fians, p. 28–48.

[4] Folk-Lore, June, 1894.

[5] The Boroma, the story of the tribute imposed upon Leinster by Tuathal Techtmar in the second century and remitted in the sixth century, has been edited and translated by Mr. Whitley Stokes, (Rev. Celt.) and by Mr. Standish Hayes O’Grady in Silva Gadelica.

CLAN TRADITIONS.

MACLEANS OF DOWART.

The first MacLeans, Wily Lachlan (Lachunn Lùbanach), and Punctilious Hector (Eachann Reanganach), came to Dunolly to MacDougall. He sent them provisions and made his men watch to see if they were gentlemen. It was inferred they were, from their paring cheese, or, throwing the remains of their food to the dogs. On leaving Dunolly they came to Aros in Mull. This word Aros is the one regularly used to denote a royal residence or palace, and the Lords of the Isles claiming an independent sovereignty, their residence in Mull came to be called Aros, a name which it still retains. Their residence in the north was Duntulm, and in the Sound of Mull, Aros and Ardtornish. The view from the old castle of Aros up and down the Sound is very commanding, and that from Ardtornish is equally so. The MacLeans on coming to Aros found Peddle Mòr (a south country ploughman to MacCónnuill of the Isles) who sent them food, but gave no knife and fork, telling them to put hen’s bills on (guib-chearc) to take it. On coming to him they found him bending to repair a failing in the plank board (fàillinn na fliuch-bhùird), or keel board, of a galley (birlinn) with which he was to go to meet his master.

The Lords of the Isles to make their estate appear greater employed, from the name, evidently a south countryman at agricultural work, hence the name Peddle which is not of Highland origin. They struck off his head and went themselves to meet MacCónnuill whom they took prisoner, and brought to MacDougall. He however would take nothing to do with the captive. At the advice of an old man they then returned with their prisoner to Aros, and got him pledged to give his daughter to one of them. Lachlan married the daughter and got Dowart.

It is said by some that Hector was the oldest of the two brothers, and that when MacCónnuill the Lord of the Isles was out pleasure-sailing with his daughter, the brothers overtook his galley and seizing him said “The omen of your capture has overtaken you” (“Tha manadh do ghlacaidh ort”). He had no ransom to offer but his daughter and lands. Lachlan took the daughter, and with her he got the lands of Dowart. The other got the lands of Lochbuy. MacCónnuill gave for food to the child born of the Dowart marriage Little Hernisker with its twenty-four islands (Earnasgeir bheag le ’cuid eileanan). Afterwards, at Ardtornish, the fourth or fifth descendant of Dowart asked the then Lord of the Isles for a livelihood (màthair bheathachaidh). He got the reply, “Jump the wall where it is lowest” (“Leum an gàradh far an ìsle e”) which led to Ardgour being taken from MacMaster, who was known at the time to be no favourite with the Lord of the Isles, and the attack made upon his land was readily commuted into a chartered possession. The tradition is as follows:

The Lord of the Isles was lying sick at Ardtornish. The MacCónnuill, now commonly called MacDonald, claimed a jurisdiction independent of the Scottish Crown till about 1493 A.D. or thereabouts, and many if not all the chiefs of the Western Highlands and Islands paid him court. Among others MacMaster, chief, or proprietor, of Ardgour, came to pay his respects at that time. Ventilation was not then so much regarded in the case of the sick as it is now, and MacMaster, being offended at some breath from the sick chamber, said Fùich, fùich, an expression of disgust and offence. Unfortunately for himself the inadvertent expression was made a handle of, and was never forgiven to MacMaster by the Lord of the Isles. In consequence, when the Laird of Dowart, who was married to a near relative of his, came to ask for a means of livelihood (màthair bheathachaidh) to the child born of his marriage with the kinswoman of the Lord of the Isles, the potentate said to him, “Jump the wall where it is lowest” (Leum an gàradh far an ìsle e). The youth or young man being now of age to shift for himself, a company of men and a boat was given him by his father, and he made for Ardgour. A battle was then fought and MacMaster was defeated. One of MacMaster’s sons, who was surnamed the Fox (An sionnach), possibly because weakness often seeks to protect itself by wiliness and deceit or any other artifice that will give protection. In these stormy days any such means were more excusable. The Fox made his way to go across at Corran to the mainland after the battle. His father’s fisherman was then fishing in the neighbourhood of the ferry at Red Bay (Port Dearg), and the Fox called to him to throw him across to the other side. The fisherman who rejoiced in the cacophonous name of Carrascally (Mac-a-Charrusglaich), was deaf to his cry, and he only said that the cuddie fish was taking well (“Gu ’n robh gabhail mhaith air na cudainnean”) or that he lost his oars, and the young MacMaster had to hide himself in the adjoining wood. When the MacLeans came to the place, Carrascally said that there was a fox of the MacMasters still hiding in the wood, and the MacLeans pursued him. The cairn, or heap of stones, is still shown where the Fox was overtaken and slain.

Some say it was MacMaster himself, and not his son, who was flying after the defeat by the MacLeans, and was refused to be ferried by the fisherman, and that his son who was called the Fox, and had committed some fraud when abroad, was caught in Inverscaddel wood and was stabbed by MacLean.

The fisherman, who was rascally in more than name, came to MacLean and made claim to having done good service in having refused to help the fugitive; and in having pointed out that he was still in the wood. MacLean upon this put up three oars and made a gallows with them, on which he hanged the fisherman, or Carrascally, at the hangman’s cove (Port-a-chrochaire), saying if he had treated his master as he said he had done, it might be his turn another day, and the fisherman’s cunning recoiling upon himself has passed into a proverb “The officiousness, or discretionary power of MacCarrascally chasing MacMaster’s Fox,” (“Meachanus Mhic a’ Charrasglaich ruith Sionnach Mhic a’ Mhaighstir”). The MacLeans have ever since retained Ardgour, and have been esteemed for their position as Highland proprietors. Their title in Gaelic is Mac-’Ic-Eoghain (the son of the son of Hugh). The son of the son of, or grandson, (Mac-’Ic-) being the word used in the Highlands of Scotland as the patronymic of Chiefs, instead of the O, or Grandson, used in Ireland, as O’ Donnell, O’ Brian, O’ Meagher, &c. Thus, the son of the son of Patrick (Mac-’Ic-Phàdruig) denotes Grant of Glenmoriston; the son of the son of Alexander (Mac-’Ic-Alasdair), the Chief of Glengarry; son of the son of Hector (Mac-’Ic-Eachuinn), MacLean who had once Kingairloch. The title of some Chiefs is only son of (Mac); as, Lochiel is known as the son of Dark Donald (Mac Dho’uil Duibh). The leading Highland Chief is known as Mac Cailein (the son of Colin). The House of Argyll derives its Gaelic title from Colin, who was slain in a clan feud at the battle on the mountain known as the String of Lorn (An t-Sreang Lathurnach) when the ford, known as the Red Ford (Ath Dearg), ran red with blood.

DEATH OF BIG LACHLAN MACLEAN,
CHIEF OF DUART,—
(Lachunn Mòr Dhuart).

The Chiefs of Duart were among the most powerful and influential chiefs in the Highlands. Their power was absolute, bearing the control of neither King nor Parliament, and there are many stories shewing that they were very unsparing in visiting with their vengeance, and even taking the lives of those who offended them.

A very notorious sea-robber and land plunderer of whom there are many tales in the Isle of Skye raised a creach, or cattle-spoil, from MacDonald Lord of the Isles, who then occupied a fort on the site of the present manse of Kilchoman in Islay. He managed also to circulate a report that it was the MacLeans from Mull who were the depredators. At that time MacLean, Duart, was ambitious to be overlord of a great part of Islay, and Lachunn Mòr came with a band of followers to Gruinard beach in the neighbourhood of the fort.

It is said that before leaving Mull, he was standing on the roof of Aros Castle which overlooks the Sound of Mull and on its being pointed out that an expedition to Islay would be very dangerous to his men, he said, that he did not care though there should not be a MacLean in Mull except those descended from himself. Neither he himself nor his men came back from the ill-fated expedition. After landing at Gruinard beach (Tràigh Ghrunnard) he was met by the MacDonalds. A little man, known in tradition as the Black Elf (Dubh Sith) and (Ochd-rann bodaich), or eighth part of a man—[In Scotch the eighth part would be the lippie used for measuring grain and meal. According to the table to be found in old Reckoning Books a boll consists of two pecks and each peck of four lippies. This makes each lippie equal to an eighth part of a boll],—offered his services for the battle to MacLean, but the haughty Chief rejected the offer with disdain. The Black Elf then went to MacDonald, who accepted his offer; and during all the current of the heady fight the dwarf was observed to follow MacLean for an opportunity to kill him with an arrow. An opportunity having at last occurred by MacLean lifting his arm, an arrow was launched and MacLean was pierced on the side, and fell with a deadly wound. Having lost their Chief the MacLeans were routed with loss, and those who escaped from the battle, having taken refuge in a neighbouring church, were destroyed by the MacDonalds, who set the church on fire. The body of Lachunn Mòr was taken on a sledge, there being no wheeled vehicles in those days, to Kilchoman burying-ground. Some say that the person who took him was his wife, and others say it was his foster-mother. His head from the motion of the sledge nodded in a manner that made the boy who accompanied her laugh. She was so much offended at his ill-timed merriment that she took a sword and killed him on the spot. The site of this tragedy in Benviger is still pointed out and the place where Lachunn Mòr himself was buried is known to the people of the place although no headstone marks it.

MACLEANS OF COLL.

The Laird of Dowart was on his way to gather rent in Tiree, and sent ashore to Kelis (Caolas), Coll, for meat (biadhtachd). The woman of the house told MacLean was not worth sending meat to, and Dowart kindly came ashore to see why she said so. She said it because he was not taking Coll for himself. Three brothers from Lochlin had Coll at the time, Big Annla (Annla Mòr) in Loch Annla, another in Dun bithig in Totronald, and the third in Grisipol hill. She had thirty men herself fit to bear arms. Dowart went to Loch Annla fort late in the evening alone, and was hospitably received. Annla’s arrows were near the fire, and Dowart gradually edged near them till he managed to make off with them. This led to a fight at Grimsari and is perhaps the reason why Dowart encouraged Iain Garbh to make himself master of Coll.

Stout John (Iain Garbh) was the fourth MacLean,—others say the first of Coll. When nine or twelve months old, his mother, having become a widow, had married MacNeill of Barra, Iain Garbh was sent by his step-father to Barra, in charge of a nurse (ban-altruim). This woman was courted by a Barra-man, whom, as her charge was a pretty boy, she at first refused. Her lover, however, got word that Iain Garbh was to be killed at MacNeill’s instigation, and told her. The three fled, in a boat with two oars, from Barra during night. An eight-oared galley (ochd ràmhach), with a steersman set off in chase. At Sorisdale in Coll, beyond Eilereig, in the borderline (crìch) between Sorisdale and Boust, there is a narrow sound, for which both boats were making, and the little one was almost overtaken. It was overtake and not overtake (beir‘s cha bheir). The little boat went through the sound (caolas) safely, but the oars of the large boat were broken. Hence, ’The Sound of Breaking Oars’ (Caolas ’Bhriste-Ràmh) is the name of the Sound to this day. The little boat put to sea again, and was lost to sight. The Barra men went to every harbour near, “The Wooded Bay” (Bàgh na Coille) &c., where they thought it might come, but they never saw it again. It is supposed it went to Mull. There is no further mention of the Barra man or the nurse. Stout John (Iain Garbh) went to Ireland, and when well grown told the woman with whom he stayed that he had a dream of a pile of oaten cakes (tòrr de bhonnaich choirce) and a drip from the roof (boinne snithe), had fallen and gone right through them. The woman said the dream meant he was a laird of land (ceannard fearainn) and would get back his own. On this he came to Mull, and having got men, of whom seven were from Dervaig, the baldheaded black fellow, (gille maol dubh) afterwards known as Grizzled Lad (Gille Riabhach) being one of them with him, went to Coll. His companions vowed to kill whatever living (beò) they fell in with first, after landing in Coll. Stout John (Iain Garbh) had a mark on the forehead by his having fallen on the edge of an iron pot. His foster-mother (muime) was gathering shellfish (buain maoraich). He went to speak to her, when he came behind her as she stumbled, and she exclaimed, “God be with MacLean” (“Dia le Mac-’illeathain”), “My loss that MacLean is not alive” (“Mo sgaradh nach bu mhairionn do Mhac-’illeathain”). When pressed to explain herself she said, “Conceal what I said: many an unfortunate word women say” (“Dean rùn maith orm: is ioma facal tubaisdeach their na mnathan”), and at last he told her his story. It had been long foretold that he would return. The Mull men came up, and the Grizzled Lad (Gille Riabhach) was going to kill the woman, according to the vow. Stout John (Iain Garbh) told who she was, and her life was spared. She informed them that MacNeill sent a servant every day from Grisipol House, where his headquarters were, to Breacacha for news. If all was well, the messenger was to return riding slowly with his face to the horse’s tail; if any one returned with him, a friend was to walk on the right of the horse, a stranger (fògarach) on the left; and she said that he had just left on his way home. Stout John (Iain Garbh) and his companions left the Hidden Anchorage (Acarsaid Fhalaich) and went to the top of the place called Desert (Fàsach). They there saw the rider of the white horse at Arileòid. Stout John (Iain Garbh) promised reward to any one who would intercept him, before he reached Grisipol. The Grizzled Lad (Gille Riabhach) said he would do so, if he got Dervaig, his native place, rent free. MacLean promised this, but the lad said, “Words may be great till it comes to solemn oaths” (Is mór briathran gun lughadh), made him swear to the deed. The Grizzled Lad (Gille Riabhach) set off, and above the Broad Knoll (Cnoc Leathan) saw the horseman at the township of Hough. When at the Stone of Moaning (Clach Ochanaich), on the top of Ben Hough, he saw him past Clabbach. He made for the road, near the present Free Church Manse, and lay down, and pretending to be a beggar began to hunt through his clothes. Where the Little Cairn of the King’s Son (Carnan mhic an Righ) stands, the horseman came up, was pulled off his horse and killed. The lad then waited till his companions came up, and proceeded to Grisipol with two on each side. It was dinner time, and his servant the Black Lad (Gille Dubh) brought word to MacNeill of the party coming. His wife, looking out of an opening, said one of the party coming looked like her son. MacNeill exclaimed, “War time is not a time for sleep” (“Cha-n àm cadal an cogadh”), and went out to give battle. In the fight the Grizzled Lad (Gille Riabhach) was hard pressed by the Black Lad, (Gille Dubh), and sideways jumped the stream that runs past Grisipol House at the place still known as the Grizzly Lad’s leap (Leum a’ Ghille Riabhaich) to avoid the blow of the battle-axe. The axe stuck in the ground, and before it was recovered, the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach), jumping back, threw off the Black Lad’s (Gille Dubh) head. Stout John (Iain Garbh) was hard pressed by MacNeill himself, and both were out in the sea at the foot of the stream.

“Disgrace on you MacLean, though it is enough that you are being driven by the son of the skate-eating carl” (“Miapadh ort, a Mhic ’illeathainn, ’s leoir tha thu gabhail iomain roimh Mhac bodach nan sgat”), said the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) coming up to them, and then calling to MacNeill, “I am not in a mood to deceive you, there they are behind you” (“Cha bhi mi ’m brath foille dhuit, sin iad agad air do chùlthaobh”), and when MacNeill turned round the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) threw off his head with the axe. The MacNeills fled and were beset and killed in the Hollow of bones (Slochd-nan-cnàmh) in the lower part of Grisipol Hill (Iochdar Beinn Ghrisipol). They then returned to Grisipol, and MacNeill’s widow, Stout John’s (Iain Garbh’s) mother, held up her child a suckling (ciocharan), that Stout John (Iain Garbh) might spare him and acknowledge his own half-brother. He was for sparing it, but the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) told him to put the needle on the ploughshare (cuir an t-snathad air a’ choltar). The child was killed.

An additional if not a different account is:

Stout John (Iain Garbh) first of Coll, when a boy, was obliged to fly from Coll to Dowart, and his mother married MacNeill of Barra. When he came of age, and was for making good his claim to his native island, in raising the clan he came to a widow’s house in Dervaig. She said her other sons were away, or they would be at his service, and she had only a big stripling of a grizzly looking lad (Stiall mòr de ghille riabhach) if he choose to take him. He took him, and it was well for him he did. It is said that this family of whom the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) was one, and whose services were at MacLean’s command, were Campbells. MacNeill kept a man with a white horse at Arinagour, and if the MacLeans were heard to land in the island, he was to ride off at full speed to Breacacha. If anything was wrong the messenger was to turn his head to the horse’s tail when he came in sight of Breacacha. The Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) took across the hill, where there is now a straight road, and intercepted this rider. On hearing from him that MacNeill was at Grisipol, he suddenly leapt behind him on the horse, and killed him with his dirk. He rode back to his own party, and then slowly to Grisipol where the MacNeills were at dinner.

MacLean and his men were faint and weary for want of food. They had not tasted anything since they left Mull. They entered a tenant’s house and asked food. The man had nothing for them, once he had enough, but since the MacLeans had left the island, he had come to grief and poverty. He said to Stout John (Iain Garbh) his heart warmed to him, he was so like his ancient masters. On learning who they were he gave all the milk he had to them.

At the fight at Grisipol, the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) was hard pressed by MacNeill’s body servant, who was armed with a battle-axe. On the margin of the stream, as the axe was raised to strike down, he leaped backwards, and upwards, across the stream, and the place of the leap is still known as the ‘Grizzly Lad’s leap’ (Leum a’ Ghille Riabhaich). The axe went into the ground, and before MacNeill’s man could defend himself the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) jumped back and threw off his head.

Stout John (Iain Garbh) himself was hard pressed by MacNeill, and driven to the beach. The Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) came to his rescue. MacNeill’s wife cried out to Stout John (Iain Garbh) her son by her first marriage, that his enemies were coming behind him. The Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) called out to him to watch his enemies in front, and he would watch those behind.

MacNeill and his men were killed. The Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) said he would take to flight and pretend to be one of the MacNeills, of whom another party was coming to the rescue from Breacacha. He fled and made signals to the MacNeills to fly. They fled to a cave near the Hidden Anchorage (Acarsaid fhalaich) where their bones are still to be seen.

When Stout John (Iain Garbh) entered Grisipol house, his mother stood before him with a child, his half brother, on her shoulder. She told him to look at his young brother smiling at him. Stout John (Iain Garbh) was for sparing the infant but the Grizzly Lad (Gille Riabhach) warned him, the child if spared to come of age would avenge his father’s death, and he himself stabbed the infant with his dirk on his mother’s shoulder.

BROWNS OF TIREE.
(Clann-a-Bhruthain).

The Browns of Tiree at the present day are called Brunaich, sing. Brunach, evidently a word not of native origin, and likely an adaptation of the English Brown. Brown as the name of a colour is an English word but not Gaelic, the Gaelic for it being donn, hence as a clan name many affirm that the Brown of the present day is a corruption or modification of Bruthainn certainly the older name, and till very recently, the name given to a sept or portion of the Browns. There are also many who maintain that the oldest form of all is Mac-’ill-duinn. Other explanations are also put forward in behalf of the origin of the name, but none of them are satisfactorily conclusive. The following story of how the Browns came first to Tiree is a tradition as like to be true as any other. It was heard from a native of the island, well acquainted with the traditions of his countrymen.

The wife of MacLean of Dowart was a daughter of the Lord of the Isles. Her father on visiting her at Aros had found her destitute of table-linen, and on her being spoken to on the subject, she said that there was no place on the estate where lint could be grown. Her father then gave her the island of Tiree as a good flax-growing country, that she might not be open to that reproach any longer. In this way the island of Tiree remained in the possession of the Dowart family till the forfeiture of the clan towards the end of the seventeenth century. The MacLeans seem to have ruled the island with a rod of iron. There is still shewn the hillock called the Bank of the Gallows (Bac na Croiche), where the man who came in last with his rent at collection time was hanged. A party of strong men called ‘MacLean’s attributes’ (buaidheanan Mhic-’illeathain) but more correctly oppressors and bullies, were kept in the island to overawe the people.

This wife of Dowart, with her galley and men, was at Croig in Mull, awaiting for a passage across to Tiree. When the men were getting the galley in order, a big strong man was observed making his way to the boat. His appearance was that of a beggar, with tattered and patched garments (lùirichean). He quietly asked to be allowed a passage with them. The master of the boat gruffly refused, saying, that they would not allow one like him to be in the same boat with their mistress, but the beggar said that his being there would make no difference, and asked the favour of getting a passage from her. She gave him permission and he seated himself at the end of the boat furthest from her to avoid giving trouble to her. The day was becoming boisterous; it was not long till the master said that the wind was becoming too high, and the day unlikely. A heavy sea was shipped wetting the Lady of Dowart, and the beggar said to the master, “Can you not steer better than that?” The master said “Could you do better?” The beggar replied “It would not be difficult for me to do better than that at any rate. Show me the direction where you wish to go,” and on it being shewn to him he added “I think you may go on that you will make land.”

“What do you know?” the other said, “it is none of your business to speak here.”

The Lady then spoke, and said to the beggar, “Will you take the boat there if you get the command of it?” He said he would, and she gave orders to let him have the command. He sat at the helm and told them to shorten sail, and make everything taut, and now, the boat did not take in a thimbleful of water. They made for Tiree, and the place come to was the lower part of Hynish, at the furthest extremity of the island. The first place of shelter which the beggar saw, he let the boat in there. The little cove is still known as the Port of the Galley (Port-na-Birlinn) on the south side of Barradhu where the present dwellings belonging to the Skerryvore Lighthouse are. The company landed safely, and on parting the Lady of Dowart told the beggar man to come to see her at Island House, where the residence of the Dowart family was at that time, and which is still the proprietory residence of the island. The name Island House is derived from its present site having been formerly surrounded by the water of the fresh-water lake near it. It communicated with the rest of the island by means of a draw-bridge, but there being now no necessity for this safeguard the space between the house and the shore has been filled up, and the moated grange has become like ordinary dwelling houses. The stranger wandered about for some time, and then went to the Island House and was kindly received. After a day or two, he thought it would be better to get a house for himself, and the Lady of Dowart said that she would give him any place that he himself would fix upon. Apparently the island was not much tenanted then, and according to the custom of the time, he got a horse with a pack-saddle on, and on the ridge of the saddle (cairb na srathrach), he put the upper and lower stones of a quern (bràthuinn), one on each side of the horse, secured by a straw, or sea-bent rope, and wherever the rope broke it was lucky to build the house there. The beggar-man’s quern fell at Sunny Spot (Grianal), now better known as Greenhill. He built a bothy there, and a woman came to keep house for him. By her he had a son, whom he would not acknowledge. When the child was able to take care of itself she went again to him with it that she might be free. He still refused to receive the child and told her to avoid him. She then thought as she had heard from him before where he came from, that she would go with her son to his relatives in Ireland. When she arrived there the child’s grandfather received her very kindly. She stayed with him till her son had grown to manhood (gus an robh e ’na làn duine). As she was about to return the grandfather said to his grandson, “Which do you now prefer, to follow your mother, or stay with me?” The lad said he would rather follow his mother, and risk his fortune along with her. They came back to Tiree again, and the son would give no rest till they went to see his father. When they reached the bothy the mother said “you will surely receive your son to-day though you would not acknowledge him before.” But he would not any more than at first. His son then took hold of him, and putting his knee on his breast, said, “before you rise from there you will own me as your lawful son, and my mother as your married wife.” He did this and was set free. They then lived together and built a house, and houses, and increased in stock of cattle. One wild evening in spring, when they were folding the cattle, they observed a stout looking man of mean appearance coming from Kilkenneth, still a township in that part of the island, and making straight for the house.

“I never saw a bigger man than that beggar,” said the son.

“He is big,” the father said, “I well know what man it is; he is coming after me, and I will lose my life this night, I killed his brother, but it was not my fault, for if I had not killed him, he would have killed me.”

“Perhaps you will not lose your life to-night yet,” said the son, “be kind to him, and when he has warmed himself, ask him to go out with us to kill a cow, for the night is cold.”

The stranger came in and was made welcome. The old man then said since there was a stranger, and the night chilly, they better take a cow and kill it. They went out and brought in the cow. The young man said to the stranger, “Which would you rather, take the axe, or hold the cow’s horn?” (Co dhiu b’ fhearr leis an tuath na ’n adharc). The stranger chose to hold the horn, and the blow by which the beast was felled was so sudden and unexpected that the stranger fell with it. The youth immediately fell upon him and kept him down, saying, “You will only have what you can do for yourself, till you tell why you came here to-night (Cha bhi agad ach na bheir thu g’ a chionn gus an aidich thu ’de thug so an nochd thu). He told word for word how he came to avenge his brother’s death. (Dh’ innis e facal air an fhacal mar thainig e thoirt mach éirig a bhràthair).

“You will not leave this alive” said the young man, “until you promise not to molest my father while you remain in the country.” The stranger vowed, if released he would not offend anyone. He was allowed to remain and they passed the night cheerfully and peacefully (gu sona sàmhach). The stranger returned the way he came. The father and son then settled together, and are said according to tradition, to have been the first Browns in Tiree.

Another version of the story is, that the first settler in Greenhill was a Campbell, and that he was the maker of those underground dwellings (tighean falaich) which still exist on that farm; curious habitations, which are unlike any building now in use, and worthy of closer examination by antiquarians. It is said that there are buildings with similar entrances exposed by sand blowing and covered with a great depth of earth in Tra-vi at the distance of two miles or more further south.

There is a precipice on the west side of Kenavara hill called Mac-a-Bhriuthainn’s leap (Leum Mhic-a-bhriuthainn) which one of this sept of Browns is said to have jumped across backwards, and which no one has since jumped either backwards or forwards. The one who took the jump is said to have been chased by a wild ox, which pushed him over the hill, and if he had not been a man of steady eye and limb, the fall would have ended in sure destruction. The place where he leapt was a ledge in the face of a precipice where the slightest overbalance or weakness, would have precipitated him several hundred feet into a dangerous and deep sea. No trained tightrope dancer ever required more sureness of eye and limb than must have been brought into action in this leap.

In the top of the same hill (Kenavara) there is a well, Briuthainn’s Well (Tobar Mhic-a-Bhriuthainn), which is said to have its name from the first who came to the island having, in his wanderings, subsisted on its water and wild water-cress.

THE STORY OF MAC-AN-UIDHIR.

The name Mac-an-Uidhir is not borne by any person now living, so far as the writer is aware. Like many other names it may have been changed into MacDonald, or some other clan-name. When a person changed his name to that of some other clan, or powerful chief, he was said to accept the name and clanship (Ainm ’sa chinneadhdas). This name must, at one time, however, have been common. The ford between Benbecula and South Uist is called “The ford of the daughter of Euar” (Faoghail Nic an Uidhir), and Nic-an-Uidhir is also named by the Lochnell bard as a sister of Headless Stocking (Cas-a’-Mhogain), a well-known witch, who lived so long ago as when Ossian the poet was a boy (giullan).

“Did ever you hear mention

Of Rough Foot-gear daughter of Euar?

She was young in Glenforsa,

When Ossian was a young boy;

She was going about as a slip of a girl

With Headless Stocking her sister.

I am a wretched creature after them

Not knowing what became of them.”

(“An cuala sibhse riamh iomradh

Mu Chaiseart Gharbh, Nic an Uidhir?

Bha i òg an Gleann Forsa

Nar bha Oisean ’na ghiullan;

Bha i falbh ’s i ’na proitseach

Le Cas-a’-Mhogain a piuthar.

’S mise an truaghan ’nan déigh

’S gun fhios gu de thainig riu.”)

The person of whom the following story is told, lived at Hynish in the island of Tiree, and had become engaged to a young woman in the neighbourhood. Between the espousal and marriage, the engaged couple went with a party of friends for a sail to Heisker, near Canna. The men of the party went ashore seal-hunting and one of the young woman’s disappointed suitors took advantage of the opportunity to get Mac-an-Uidhir left behind, and coming back to the boat told that the intending bridegroom had been drowned. By this lie he hoped to make the bride despair of seeing her intended any more, and by renewing his own attentions, to get her to consent to accept himself. She, however, not believing that he was dead, said that she would marry no one for a year and a day from the date of his alleged drowning. [Heisker means high rock,[6] and this one, near the island of Canna, is called the High Rock of Windlestraws (Heisgeir nan Cuiseag). It has no one living on it. At the present day a few young cattle are grazed upon it, and a boat comes for them in spring from Canna, which lies to the N.E. It is not otherwise visited except once or twice a year by seal-hunters.]

At first, Mac-an-Uidhir subsisted on birds and fish eaten raw; after his powder and shot were expended, he had to keep himself alive upon whelks, or whatever he could get along the shore, principally whelks. This sort of shellfish is said to keep a person alive though he should have no other means of subsistence, till he becomes as black as the shield or wing of the whelk (co dubh ri sgiath faochaig). The abandoned and castaway youth lived in this way for three quarters of a year; but at last he got away from the islet, and for the last three months of the year was making his way home. He arrived on the night on which the marriage of his intended to his unscrupulous rival was to take place. He went to the house of his foster-mother, who did not know him, his appearance through his privations having becoming so much changed, and, he having asked to be allowed to remain for the night, she said she was alone, and could not let a stranger like him stay. She also told of the festivities in the neighbourhood, and said that he had better pass the night there. He asked the occasion of the festivities: she told him how her foster-son had been drowned, and supplanted, and that this was the night of his rival’s marriage, saying, “If they are happy I am sad, another one being in the place of my foster-son” (Ma tha iadsan subhach tha mise dubhach dheth, fear eile bhi dol an àite mo dhalta). She then added, “this time last year, he perished when he went with a party to hunt seals in Heisker; his intended vowed that she would not marry for a year, in the hope of his returning, as she had not been quite satisfied that he had been drowned, and to-night the time is expired.” “Let us go” he said, “to see them.”

“You may go,” she replied, “but they are near enough to me as it is.” He then asked her if she did not recognise him, and told who he was, but she refused to believe him, saying her dear child (mo ghràdh) could not be so much altered in the time. He put the matter out of question by asking if she would know her own handiwork, and shewing what was left of the hose (osain) she had given him, to convince her. When she saw the labour of her own hands (saothair a làmh fhéin), she joyfully welcomed him, and went with him where the marriage party were. Those who were there were surprised to see her arrival, knowing the sad state in which she was at this time of year, through the loss of her foster-child. They, however, received the stranger as well as herself with the utmost kindness. The bride made the remark, when the stranger turned his back, that he was like Mac an Uidhir but when his face was towards her he appeared like a stranger whom she had never seen before; but that her heart warmed towards him. The custom was then gone through of the stranger drinking out of the bride’s glass, and Mac-an-Uidhir when doing this, slipped a ring into the glass, which, she immediately recognised as that of her first lover. The whole matter was then upset, and the party for whom the preparations were made were dispersed, and the bride followed the fortunes of her first lover.

Of a song made by the foster-mother to Mac-an-Uidhir, when he was reported to have been drowned, and was looked upon as dead, the following verses have been preserved. In the translation the literal words are given, but no attempt is made at reducing them to the rhyme which is essential in English poetry.

“Thou good son of Euar

Of generous and noble heart

At one time little I thought

It would ever happen

That you would be drowned

And your boat return empty

While its irons would last

And repair was not needed

While its stern-post stood,

Its sides and prow,

While yards would hold out,

Or a fragment of its oak.

Your well ordered new plaid

Is on the surface of the grey waves

Your head is the sport of the little gull

And your side of the big gull;

Your sister is without brother

And your mother without son

Your bride without husband

And poor me without god-son.”

Ach a dheagh Mhic an Uidhir

’G an robh an cridhe fial farsuinn

Bha mi uair ’s beag shaoil mi

Gu ’m faodadh sid tachairt

Gu ’m biodh tus’ air do bhàthadh

’S do bhàta tighinn dachaidh

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn

’S nach iarradh i calcadh

Thùg horoinn O.

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn

’S nach iarradh i calcadh

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-earluinn

Agus tàthadh ’s a saidhean

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan

Agus bloidhean d’a darach

Thùg horoinn O.

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan

’S bloidhean d’a darach:

Tha do bhreacan ùr uallach

Air uachdar nan glas thonn

’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn

’S fuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig

Thùg horoinn O.

’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn

’S fhuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig:

Tha do phiuthar gun bhràthair

’S do mhàthair gun mhac dheth

Do bhean òg ’s i gun chéile

’S truagh mi fhéin dheth gun dalta.

Thùg horoinn O.

There is quite a modern instance, perhaps about the beginning of this century, of a native of the islet of Ulva, near Mull, having been driven during a snowstorm to Heisgeir-nan-Cuiseag (High Rock of Windlestraws) and passing the winter there alone till he was taken off early in the following summer. He, too, must have subsisted on whelks and what he could get along the shore. He was going home from Tiree.

Anxious to be at home at the New-year O.S., he, with a companion, left Tiree, and before going far a snowstorm came on, and the wind increased in violence till they were driven they did not know where. The companion got benumbed and died in the boat. It could only be said by the survivor that they passed very high rocks on some island.

The boat was cast ashore on Heisker, and the poor man left in it had to pass the winter as best he could, without food or shelter.

The islet is too distant from Canna for him to have been observed by any signal he could make.

NOTES:

[6] The islet near North Uist, on which the Mona Light house is built, is called the High Rock of the Monks, Heisgeir nam Manach.

STEEPING THE WITHIES.

There is an expression in Gaelic “It is time to steep the withies” (“Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad”), meaning, it is time for one to leave or make his escape from the company he is in. This expression is said to have arisen in this way. A little undersized man and good archer was sitting on a stool by his own fireside, when enemies intent on securing his person came in to the house. He sat quietly, but his wife going backwards and forwards through the house, and being ready-witted, when she understood the character of the intruders, gave a slap on the ear to her husband saying, as if he were merely the herd boy, “It is time to steep the withies” (“Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad”). He immediately left the house, and she managed to put his bow and arrows out at the window. He having stationed himself in a favourable locality did not allow a single one of his enemies to leave the house without killing them with his arrows, one by one as they came out at the door. Regarding the truth of this story it is noticeable, that uniformly throughout the Highlands the expression, “It is time to steep the withies” (“Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad”), means, not that it is time to prepare for action, but that it is time for one to make himself scarce. A story of the same kind is told of King Alfred the Great, that he escaped from his enemies in somewhat the same way. In olden times the harnessing of animals for carrying burdens, ploughing, etc., was done by means of withies made of willow, sea-bent,[7] or other accessible material, iron being scarce and difficult to procure, and these withies had to be steeped before work with them was commenced. It required a good deal of acquaintance with the work before the horse was fully equipped with pack-saddle, creels, and other equipments for which withies were necessary, and the only means available. The names of some of these withies still survive e. g. the Gad-tarraich is the Gaelic name still in use, although the material is leather, and not withies, to denote a belly-band.

NOTES:

[7] Tough Grass growing by the shore.

LITTLE JOHN OF THE WHITE BAG.
(Iain Beag a’ Bhuilg Bhain).

This doughty little archer was attached to the family of the MacLachlans of Coruanain, or little Lamb-dell, near Fort-William, on the borders of Inverness-shire and Argyleshire. He derived his name from his carrying a white bag of arrows, which he was very skilful in the use of. In far off and unsettled times, when a foray or creach was being taken from Coruanain, one of the raiders, having met little John, said, “Little John of the White Bag, I will mount the hill side quicker than you” (Iain bhig a’ Bhuilg Bhàin, bheir mise am fireach dhiot). In a struggle it is always an advantage, even when other things are even, to have the higher position on a hill side. Little John replied, “The hand of your father and grandfather be over you, White Stirk, I will put the Brankes (or Iron Gag) on you (”Làmh d’ athair ’s do sheanair ort, a Ghamhain Bhàin cuiridh mise biorach ort“). The biorach, branker, was a spiked iron gag, or instrument set with pointed iron pins, fixed round the head of calves to keep them from sucking. The expression “The hand, &c., be over you” was a common expression, meaning much the same as the English “Look out,” or “Take care of yourself.” Saying this, Little John let fly an arrow which struck the other in the forehead, toppled him over, and put an end to the discussion.

THE KILLING OF BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.
(Aonghas Mor Mac’Ill’-Eoin), Big Angus, Son of John, At Cor-Ospuinn in Morven.

In Ardnamurchan, where the district of Kintra commences, there is a streamlet that falls into Loch-Moidart, which lies along the north of Ardnamurchan, called Faoghail Dhòmhnuill Chonalaich. This streamlet derives its name from Donald MacDonald, or MacConnell, having been slain there under the following circumstances. Tradition is uniform as to the incident which gave its name to the place, and as to the circumstances under which the murder was committed. Donald was the heir to the chieftainship of Ardnamurchan, but his uncle, Big Angus, wishing to secure the estate for himself, waylaid his nephew at the ford mentioned, which is very difficult to jump across when the tide is in, as he was on his way to be married to a daughter of the then Chief of Lochiel. While Donald was jumping across the ford, one of Big Angus’s men shot an arrow in his face, so that when he touched the ground on the other side, he staggered and reeled. Before he fell prostrate Big Angus said that he would wonder if his nephew would dance as merrily at his marriage with the daughter of the One-eyed Chief of meat-broth (saoil an dannsadh tu co cridheil sin air banais nighean Cham-na-eanraich). The meaning of this nick-name given to the Chief of Lochiel is a covert allusion to the cattle-lifting of Lochiel. Before the introduction of tea, extract of meat was largely made use of, and even meal was mixed with it for those in strong health, but weak, and even chicken broth, was given to those who were in delicate health. Some say that the Chief referred to was Ailein nan Creach (Allan the Cattle-lifter), who derived his name from the number of cattle-spoils that he lifted. Lochaber being a wild and remote district was not unnaturally a place to which cattle forays were taken when people sought “the beeves that made the broth” in other localities.

In Gregory’s History of the Western Islands Dòmhnull Conalach is called John, probably from the Chiefs of Ardnamurchan being known as Mac-’ic-Iain, the son of the son of John, and mention is made of his murder. Several families who have in recent times come to Coll from Ardnamurchan call themselves Johnstones.

Big Angus himself had a house near Strontian strongly fortified according to the ideas of those days. It was surrounded by a deep ditch (Tigh daingean dige) and what is now called a moated Grange. On hearing that Lochiel with a strong band of followers was on his way to avenge the death of the young Chief of Ardnamurchan, Big Angus fled, but he was closely pursued by the avengers. Having come to Cor-ospuinn in Morven he looked behind him, when the sun was rising, to see if his pursuers were coming. Lifting his helmet and shading his eyes with his hand when looking intently sunwards, one of the pursuers, a little man, remarked, “Would not this be a good opportunity for killing him?” Another answered, “It is not your trifling hand that would slay the powerful man.” (Cha ’n i do làmh leibideach a leagadh an duine foghainteach). The little man replied, “Would not an arrow do it” (Nach deanadh saighead e), saying this, he launched an arrow which struck Big Angus in the forehead and killed him.

NOTES:
BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.
(Aonghas mór Mac ’ic Eoin)

The incidents of this story occurred about 1596. The house of the redoubtable Angus was at Ath na h-éilde (Ford of the Hind (deer)), opposite Druim-nan-torran (The Ridge of Knolls), near Sròn an t-sìthean, Strontian, the Promontory of the Fairy Dwelling. He had a bad wife, who was continually urging him to make himself Chief of the clan, and it was at her instigation that he waylaid his nephew at Kintra. On hearing that the Chief was to be married to the daughter of Lochiel, his wife warned big Angus that he would yet be reduced to draw the peat creels (tarruing nan cliabh mòine) for his nephew. Angus was the first to be at Kintra, at the river, and the first to cross. The guests were assembled at Lochiel for the marriage of Donald MacDonald, when word was brought of his having been slain. Immediately the assembled guests with their followers set off to take vengeance, and, finding Big Angus’s house deserted, they tied tinder (spong[8]) to an arrow and set the moated house on fire. The place where Angus was slain in Morven is still called Leac na Saighead (The Ledge of the Arrow), and the archer was Iain Dubh Beag Innse-ruith (Little Black John of Inch-rui). Big Dugald MacDonald (Dughal mòr MacRaonuil), of Morar had his hand similarly fastened by an arrow to his forehead.

[8] Amadon—made from a fungus. A.C.

THE LAST CATTLE RAID IN TIREE.

It seems to have been a kind of raid or robbery to which the island of Tiree was particularly liable. Plunderers and pirates, having chosen a suitable day when the seas about the island were at rest, and the cattle could be easily got on board the galley, or birlinn, carried on depredations far and wide on the island. Once the cattle were got by them on board the galley, they looked upon themselves as safe from pursuit.

There are two traditions in existence of the island having been so visited, and their fate will illustrate the manner in which, in unsettled times, such expeditions were conducted. The last foray of the kind was not successful, but the cattle and sheep were collected for taking away. The people got warning in time, and the cattle-lifters had to make their escape, leaving their booty behind them.

The last successful foray was in the days of the Tanister of Torloisk, and seems to have been only sometime previous to or about the ’45. The account which tradition gives of it is that the Tanister, or second heir (proximus haeres), of Torloisk in Mull was called Malise MacLean. His first name is somewhat peculiar, and not common among the MacLeans or any other West Highland clan, and was given to him in this manner. The heir of Torloisk was a promising healthy boy, but the succeeding children of the then chief were dying young. The Chief was then advised by the sages of his race to give to his child the name of the first person whom he met on the way to have the child baptized. The first person encountered was a poor beggar man who had the name of Malise. A name given in this way was known as ainm rathaid, or road name, and was deemed as proof against evil. The father gave this name to the child who survived and became Tanister. Being without the prospect of an estate the Tanister thought he would come to Tiree, and piece by piece get an estate for himself. He came to have the half, third, or other share of the town-ship of Baile-meadhonach, now called Middleton, in Tiree, and married, and his descendants are still known.

One day, a galley, with sixteen men on board (Bìrlinn ’s sea fir dheug), came to Soraba beach. The men landed and collected every live animal that was about the place. At the time, the Tanister happened to be fishing at the rocks in Kenavara Hill, and on coming home soon after and hearing what had been done, he called to his neighbours asking them what they meant to do, were they going with him to turn the raid (creach). They all refused for fear of being killed, as the freebooters were a strong party. He said, “I will not do that; I prefer to fall in the attempt (tuiteam ’s an oidhirp), rather than let my cattle be taken.” He took with him his sword and followed the spoilers. When he came to the end of the pathway and within sight of the galley, he stood before the creach. The freebooters told him to leave the road or he would feel the consequences (Gu ’m biodh a’ bhuil dha). He answered, “I will not leave, and the consequences will be to you, until I get my own.” He got this as he seemed determined, and when he had got it, he asked also the cow of a poor woman from the same township as himself, and having got this also, he said they might do with the rest what they liked. The plan of the robbers was to drive the cattle to the beach, where the galley was, and throwing them down and tying their forelegs together (ceangal nan ceithir chaoil), place them on bearers, or planks, and put them in the boat. When they had done so, they made off, and no one knew whence they had come or whither they went. This was the last successful raid of the kind raised in Tiree.

Subsequent to this creach, and in the time of Mr. Charles Campbell being Minister of Tiree, several galleys, or bìrlinnean, each with its complement of men, and in addition each with a pretending minister and his man, made their appearance on the coast of Tiree. In those days every minister took his man along with him, and in this case each minister but one took his man from the boat. Wandering open-air preachers were in those times called hillock ministers (ministearan nan cnoc), and the one to whom the story refers was to officiate at Ceathramh Mhurdat, or Fourth Part, called Murdat, now embraced in the farm of Hough,[9] and which was then thickly populated. Having sent due intimation round of his service, most of the people were drawn to hear him. His man was left behind to give him warning of any disturbance of the expedition which might occur. After he had been speaking for some time his man came in. The islanders had become aware of the nature of the invasion. The sheep and the horses were gathered at the back of the hill of Hough, and a band of the cattle-lifters had surrounded them for to drive them to the shore. A number who had not got to the preaching had observed this, and following them, took the sheep and horses from them. Immediately, the minister’s man ran with all possible speed to warn the preacher at Murdat. When he came to where the sermon was, the preacher concluded, and handing the book to his man, venturing to think that the people would not understand him, said, as if reading a line, “MacLellan, beloved friend, where did you leave the Shockum sho?”—i.e., the booty. (Mhac-’ill-fhaolain, a dhuine ghaolaich, c’ àite an d’ fhàg thu an ’seogam seoth’?). The incomer taking the book, and as if intoning the psalm, said, “Matters are worse than we thought; they have taken from us the plaintive bleaters” (’s miosa tha na mar a shaoil: thug iad uainn an ’cirri-mèh’): cirri-mèh is but an imitation of the bleating of sheep, and is found used in different localities as a pet or ludicrous name for sheep.

The people sang along with the precentor. They did not know but that the words may have been part of the psalm, when one who was smarter and more ready-witted than the rest got up and said, “We have been long enough here, these men are robbers, and not ministers.” The service was concluded, the people going to look after their cattle, and the minister and his man making their way with all speed to where the galleys lay. Before the people could overtake them, they got on board and made off, leaving their booty behind, and glad to escape with their lives.

NOTES:

[9] Pronounced Hoch.

LOCHBUIE’S TWO HERDSMEN.

This tale was written down as it was told by Donald Cameron, Rùdhaig, Tiree, more than twenty-five years ago, and to whose happy and retentive gift of memory it is a pleasure to recur. He had a most extensive stock of old lore, and along with it much readiness and willingness to communicate what he knew. In this the ludicrous element is natural, and the events seem to follow each other as a matter of course, so that the tale, so far as probability is concerned, may be true enough. It is one of the few tales to which a date is attached, and so far as history can be consulted the state of the country at that time makes it probable enough. Loch Buie is a district lying to the South of the Island of Mull, pleasantly situated. The tale runs as follows:—

In 1602 Lochbuie had two herdsmen, and the wife of one herdsman went to the house of the other herdsman. The housewife was in before her, and had a pot on the fire. “What have you in the pot?” said the one who came in. “Well there it is,” she said, “a drop of brochan which the goodman will have with his dinner.”

“What kind of brochan is it?” said the one who came in.

“It is dubh-bhrochan,”[10] said the one who was in.

“Isn’t he,” said she, “a poor man! Are you not giving him anything but that? I have been for so long a time under the Laird of Loch Buie, and I have not drank brochan without a grain of beef or something in it. Don’t you think it is but a small thing for the Laird of Loch Buie though we should get an ox every year. Little he would miss it. I will send over my husband to-night, and you will bring home one of the oxen.”

When night came she sent him over. The wife then sent the other away. The one said, “you will steal the ox from the fold, and you will bring it to me, and we will be free; I will swear that I did not take it from the fold, and you will swear that you did not take it home.”

The two herdsmen went away. In those days they hanged a man, when he did harm, without waiting for law or sentence, and at this time Lochbuie had hanged a man in the wood. The herdsmen went and kindled a fire near a tree in the wood as a signal to the one who went to steal. One sat at the fire, and the other went to steal the ox.

The same night a number of gentlemen were in the mansion[11] at Loch Buie. They began laying wagers with Lochbuie that there was not one in the house who would take the shoe off the man who had been hanged that day. Lochbuie laid a wager that there was. He called up his big lad MacFadyen,[12] and said to him was he going to let the wager go against him. The big lad asked what the wager was about. He said to him that they were maintaining that there was no one in his court who could take the shoe off the one who had been hanged that day. MacFadyen said he would take off him the shoe and bring it to them where they were.

MacFadyen went on his way. When he reached, he looked and saw the man who had been hanged warming himself at a fire. He did not go farther on, but returned in haste. When he came they asked him if he had the shoe. He told them he had not, for that yon one was with a withy basket of peats before him, warming himself. “We knew ourselves,” said the gentlemen, “that you had only cowards.”

The lameter, who was over, said, “It is a wrong thing you are doing in allowing him to lose the wager. If I had the use of my feet, I would go and take his leg off as well as his shoe before I would let Lochbuie lose the wager.”

“Come you here,” said the big lad, “and I will put a pair of feet that you never had the like of under you.” He put the lameter round his neck (lit. the bone of his neck), and off he went. When they came in sight of the man who was warming himself the lameter sought to return. MacFadyen said they would not return. They went nearer to the man who was warming himself. The one that was at the fire lifted his head and observed them coming. He thought it was his own companion, the one who had gone to steal the ox, who was come. He spoke and said, “Have you come?” “I have,” said MacFadyen. “And have you got it?” “Yes,” said MacFadyen. “And is it fat?”

“Whether he is fat or lean, there he is to you,” and he threw the lameter on to the fire.

MacFadyen took to his heels (lit. put on soles) and fled as fast as ever he did. Off went the lameter after him. He put the four oars on for making his escape. The one at the fire rose, thinking there were some who had come to pry upon himself, and that he was now caught. He went after the lameter to make his excuses to the Laird of Loch Buie. The lameter was observing him coming after him, feeling quite sure that it was the one who had been hanged.

MacFadyen reached, and they asked him if he had taken the shoe off the man. He said they did not; that he asked him if the lameter was fat, and that he was sure he had him eaten up before now. The lameter came, and that cry in his head for to let him in, for that yon one was coming. He was let in. The moment this was done, the one who had been on the gallows knocked at the door, to let him in. Lochbuie said he would not.

Editor’s Note:

The translation of lines 6 and 7 renders the Gaelic idiom exactly. Translated more freely into English it would run, “and the lameter came, and with yon terrified cry demanded admittance, saying that the hanged man was coming after him.”

“I am your own herdsman.” They now let him in. He then began to tell how he and the other herdsman went to steal the ox, and that he thought it was the other herdsman who had returned, and it was that made him ask if he was fat. Lochbuie and his guests had much sport and merriment over this all night. They kept the herdsman till it was late on in the night telling them how it happened to him.

The one who went to steal the ox now came back and reached the tree where he left the other herdsman, but found no one. He began to search up and down, and became aware of the one dangling from the tree.

“Oh,” said he, “you have been hanged since I went away, and I will be to-morrow in the same plight that you are in. It has been an ill-guided object, and the tempting of women that sent us on the journey.”

He then went over and took the man off the tree to take him home. He went away with him and never got the like, going through hill, and through mud and dirt, till he came to the house of the other woman. He knocked at the door. The wife rose and let him in.

“How have things happened with you?” “Never you mind, whatever; but, alas! he has been hanged since we went away.”

The wife took to roaring and crying.

“Do not say a word,” he said, “or else you and I will be hanged to-morrow. We will bury him in the garden, and no one will ever know about it. And now,” he said, “I will be returning to my own house.”

The one that was in Loch Buie thought it was time for him now to go home. He knocked at his own door. His wife did not say a word. He then called out to be let in.

“I will not,” said the wife, “for you have been hanged, and you will never get in here.”

“I have not yet been hanged,” he said.

“Be that as it may to you,” she said, “you will never come here.”

The advice he gave himself was to go to the house of the other herdsman. He called out at that one’s door to let him in.

“You will not come in here. I got enough carrying you home on my back, and you after being hanged.”

There was a large window at the end of the house. He went in at the window. “Get up,” he said, “and get a light, and you will see that I have not been hanged any more than yourself.” When he saw who he had, he kept him till morning, till day came. They then talked together, telling each other what had happened to them on both sides, and thought they would go to Lochbuie, and tell him all that occurred to them. When Lochbuie heard their story, there was not a year after that but he gave each of them an ox and a boll of meal.

LOCHABUIDHE ’S A DHA BHUACHAILLE.

Ann an 1602 bha dà bhuachaille aig Lochabuidhe, ’s thàinig bean an darna buachaille gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile; agus bean-an-tighe stigh roimpe ’s poit aice air teine; “Dé th’ agaibh anns a’ phòit?” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh. “Ma ta,” ars’ ise, “deur de bhrochan a bhios aig an duine le ’dhìnneir,” “’Dé,” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh, “an seòrsa brochain a th’ ann?” “Tha,” ars’ an té a bha stigh, “dubh-bhrochan.”[10] “Nach esan,” ars’ ise, “an duine truagh? Nach ’eil thu ’toirt da dad ach sin? Tha mise an uiread so de ùine fuidh thighearna Lochabuidhe, ’s cha d’ òl mi brochan gun fhionnan-feòla no rud-eiginn ann. Saoil nach beag do thighearna Lochabuidhe, ged a gheibheamaide damh ’s a’ bhliadhna; nach beag a dh’ ionndrainneadh e e? Cuiridh mise an duine agam fhéin a nall an nochd ’s bheir sibh dhachaigh fear de na daimh.”

’N uair thàinig an oidhche chuir i nall e. Chuir a’ bhean an so air falbh an duin’ eile. Thuirt an darna fear, “Goididh tusa an damh thar na buaile, ’s bheir thu thugamsa e, agus bithidh sinn saor; mionnaichidh mise nach d’ thug mi thar na buaile e, ’s mionnaichidh tusa nach d’ thug thu dhachaigh e.”

Dh’ fhalbh an dà bhuachaille. ’S an àm sin chrochadh iad duine tra ’dheanadh e cron, gun fheitheamh ri lagh no binn; ach anns na lathan bha tighearna Lochabuidhe an déigh duine ’chrochadh stigh ’s a’ choille. Dh’ fhalbh iadsan ’s dh’ fhadaidh iad teine aig craoibh ’s a’ choille, mar chomharradh do ’n fhear a chaidh a ghoid. Shuidh fear aig an teine ’s chaidh am fear eile a ghoid an daimh. Air an oidhche fhéin bha mòran de dhaoin’-uaisle ’s a’ Mheigh[11] aig tighearna Lochabuidhe. Bhuail iad air cur gheall ri tighearna Lochabuidhe nach robh duine ’s an tigh aige a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Chuir tighearna Lochabuidhe geall riù-san gu ’n robh. Ghlaodh e nuas air a ghille mhòr Mac Phaidean.[12] Thuirt e ris an robh e brath an geall a leigeadh air. Dh’ fharraid an gille mòr c’ ar son a bha ’n geall. Thuirt e ris, gu ’n robh iad ag ràdh nach robh duine ’n a chùirt a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean gu ’n tugadh esan dheth a’ bhròg ’s gu ’n tugadh e thuga ann an sud i.

Dh’ fhalbh Mac Phaidean air a thurus. ’Nuair a ràinig e sheall e ’s chunnaic e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh ’deanamh a gharaidh. Cha deach e na b’ fhaid’ air aghaidh, ’s thill e le cabhaig. ’Nuair a ràinig e thuirt iad ris, an robh a’ bhròg aige. Thuirt e riu nach robh, gur h-ann a bha ’m fear ud ’s làn cléibh de mhòine air a bhialthaobh ’s e ’deanamh a gharaidh. “Dh’ aithnich sinn-fhéin,” ars’ na daoin’-uaisle, “nach robh agad ach an gealtair.” Thuirt an clàraineach[13] a bha thall, “Is ceàrr an rud a tha thu ’deanamh, an geall a leigeadh air; na ’m biodh comas nan cas agam-fhéin dh’ fhalbhainn ’s bheirinn a’ chas dheth co math ris a’ bhròig mu ’n leiginn an geall air tighearna Lochabuidhe!”

“Thig thusa so,” ars’ an gille mòr, “’s cuiridh mise dà chois nach deachaidh riamh ’n leithid ortsa fothad.” Chuir e ’n clàraineach mu chnàimh ’amhaich, ’s dh’ fhalbh e leis. ’Nuair thainig iad ’an sealladh an duine a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh, dh’ iarr an clàraineach tilleadh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean nach tilleadh. Dhlùthaich iad ris an fhear a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh. Thog am fear a bha aig an teine a cheann, ’s mhothaich e dhoibh-san a’ tighinn. Shaoil leis gur h-e a chompanach fhéin, am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh, a bha air tighinn. Labhair e ’s thuirt e, “An d’ thàinig tu?” “Thàinig,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e agad?” “Tha,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e reamhar?” “Biodh e reamhar no caol agad, sin agad e!” ’s e a’ tilgeadh a’ chlàraineich mu ’n teine.

Chuir Mac Phaidean na buinn air, ’s theich e co làidir ’s a rinn e riamh. Leum an clàraineach air falbh as a dhéighinn, chuir e na ceithir raimh[14] orra gu teicheadh. Dh’ éirich am fear a bh’ aig an teine, agus dùil aige gur h-e feadhainn a thainig a dh’ fharcluais air fhéin a bh’ ann, ’s gu ’n robh e nis a sàs. Dh’ fhalbh e as déighinn a’ chlàraineach, dhol a ghabhail a leithsgeul do thighearna Lochabuidhe. Bha an clàraineach ’g a fhaicinn a’ tighinn as a dhéighinn, ’s e làn-chinnteach gur h-e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh a bh’ ann.

Ràinig Mac Phaidean. Dh’ fharraid iad dheth an d’ thug iad bròg bharr an duine. Thuirt e nach d’ thug, gu ’n dubhairt e ris-san an robh an clàraineach reamhar, ’s gu ’n robh e cinnteach gu ’n robh e air ’itheadh aca roimhe so.

Ràinig an clàraineach ’s an glaodh ud ’n a cheann, esan a leigeadh a stigh, gu ’n robh am fear ud a’ tighinn. Leigeadh a stigh e. Am buileach a bha e stigh, bhuail am fear a bh’ air a’ chroich ’s an dorus, esan a leigeadh a stigh. Thuirt fear Lochabuidhe nach leigeadh. “Is ann a th’ annam,” ars’ esan, “am buachaille agaibh fhéin.” Leig iad ’an so a stigh e. Bhuail e so air innseadh dhoibh mar chaidh e-fhéin ’s am buachaille eile a ghoid an daimh; gu ’n do shaoil esan gur h-e ’m buachaille eile a bha air tilleadh leis an damh, gur h-e ’thug air a dh’ fheòraich an robh e reamhar. Bha spòrs is fearas-chuideachd anabarrach aig tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s aig ’uaislean air a so fad na h-oidhche. Chum iad aca am buachaille gus an robh e ro-fhada dh’ oidhche ’g innseadh naigheachd mar a dh’ éirich dha.