Read Ebook: The Celtic Magazine Vol. I No. VI April 1876 A Monthly Periodical Devoted to the Literature History Antiquities Folk Lore Traditions and the Social and Material Interests of the Celt at Home and Abroad by Various Macbain Alexander Editor Macgregor Alexander Editor Mackenzie Alexander Editor

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THE SONGS AND MELODIES OF THE GAEL.

THE Gael, their language, their songs, and their melodies, will live or die together. If the one sinks they shall all sink. If the one rises they shall all rise. If the one dies they shall die together, and shall all be buried in the same grave. Is it possible that a people, with such a language, such songs, and such delicious melodies, shall vanish and disappear from the earth, and their place become occupied by others? It cannot happen, and I candidly assert for myself that, were the whole of the Breadalbane Estate mine, I would willingly part with it for the sake of being able to master the songs and the melodies of my Highland countrymen. I have reason to be thankful for the circumstances in which I was placed in the days of my youth. I had eight brothers and a sister. My father had a fine ear for music, and an excellent voice, and frequently gratified our young ears, during the long winter evenings, by playing on the Jew's harp and singing the words connected with the different Highland airs. There was also a man in our immediate neighbourhood who was frequently in the house, who played on the violin, and who was one of the best players of our native airs I ever listened to. The consequence was that as I grew up I was very fond of singing, and to this moment of my life I do not think that it had any bad effect upon me; and certainly my fondness for Gaelic songs was the first thing that led me to read the Gaelic language. From fifteen to the age of twenty I herded my father's sheep among the Grampians. The following is a true description of my state then:--

'Nuair bha e 'na bhalach A laddie so merry Gu sunndach, 's lan aighear, 'Mong green grass and heather, 'S mac-talla 'ga aithris The voice of the echo A cantuinn nan oran, Rehearsing his story: Toirt air na cruaidh chreagan, The mountains so rocky Le 'n teangannan sgeigeil, To mimic and mock him, Gu fileant 'ga fhreagradh, Becoming all vocal Gu ceileireach ceolmhor. Like songsters so joyful.

So far as I know, singing Gaelic songs has had no evil effect upon our countrymen. Indeed, singing is one of the prettiest, and one of the most harmless things connected with human nature, even in its degenerate state. A man who can sing a Gaelic song well is properly considered a favourite. It is felt that he spreads kindness, and infuses joy and happiness in the social circle--the language and the sweet melody of the piece will banish all melancholy and bitter feelings from the mind. A man influenced by a wicked malicious disposition is certainly not disposed to sing. The practice they have of fulling or shrinking cloth in the West Highlands has had a great tendency to keep up the native melodies. Five, six, or seven females are seated in a circle facing one another. The cloth having been steeped, is folded in a circle. Each holds it in both hands, while they raise it as high as the breast, and then bring it down with a thump on the board. In this way it goes gradually round from the one to the other. A person standing outside would only hear one thump. The chosen leader commences the song, all unite, and by raising and lowering their hands they beat time to the tune. This generally attracts a crowd of listeners. I have seldom listened to finer singing.

Those tunes that are used in public worship have no melody to my soul like our native airs, and it is utterly impossible for me to feel otherwise. This assertion will find a testimony in the bosoms of men, although their prejudices may be opposed to it. Where is the man that would compose a song in praise of his fellow-creature, that would attempt to sing it to a psalm tune? Should he do so, all men would look upon him as a blockhead. And what is the great difference between praising a fellow-creature and praising the Redeemer? I can conceive none, except that the latter deserves a sweeter, and, if possible, a more delicious melody. I think it was Rowland Hill who wisely said that "he could not see why the devil should have all the finest tunes," and I quite agree with him.

A Mhalaidh bhoidheach, A Mhalaidh ghaolach, A Mhalaidh bhoidheach, Gur mor mo ghaol duit, A Mhalaidh bhoidheach, 'S tu leon 's a chlaoidh mi, 'S a dh'fhag mi bronach Gun doigh air d'fhaotainn.

Perhaps one-fourth of our songs are Elegies to the departed; and the melodies to which these are sung are as plaintive and melting as can be listened to. I place at the head of this class the "Massacre of Glencoe," and Maclachlan's Elegy, to the same air, in memory of Professor Beattie of Aberdeen. I said in my "Address to Highlanders" that the Fort-William people might, on the top of Ben Nevis, defy the English and broad Scotch to produce its equal:--

Ghaoil, a ghaoil, de na fearaibh, 'S fuar an nochd air an darach do chr?, 'S fuar an nochd air a bhord thu, Fhiuran uasail bu stold ann a'd bheus, 'N cridhe firinneach soilleir, D'am bu spideal duais foille na sannt, Nochd gun phlosg air an deile Sin mo dhosguinn nach breugach mo rann.

It is utterly impossible to give a proper expression of that piece in any other language.

Lachlan M'Lean, already referred to, composed an elegy, to a daughter of the Laird of Coll, who died in London and was buried there, to the same air:--

Och! nach deach do thoirt dachaidh O mhearg nigheana Shassuinn 's an uair, Is do charadh le m?rachd. Ann an cois na Traigh mhor mar bu dual; Fo dhidean bhallachan arda Far am bheil do chaomh mhathair 'na suain, 'S far am feudadh do chairdean, Dol gach feasgair chuir failte air t'uaigh.

Dr M'Donald composed an elegy, to the Rev. Mr Robertson, with a very plaintive air--the air of a song occasioned by the great loss at Caig--

Ochan nan och, is och mo leon, Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid, Tha fear mo ruin an diugh fo'n fhoid, 'S cha teid air ceol no aighear leam.

Many of the songs of the Gael might be called patriotic songs, and they make us feel proud that we are Gaels. Their daring feats in the field of strife against the enemies of our country, as at Bannockburn, Waterloo, Alma, &c., are celebrated in song. Their quarrels, amongst themselves, is the only thing that makes us feel ashamed of them. Several of their songs raise us in our own estimation, with good cause, above our neighbours the Lowlanders, the English, and the French. The songs of the Gael embrace every variety--their language, mountains, corries, straths, glens, rivers, streams, horses, dogs, cows, deer, sheep, goats, guns, field labour, herding, boats, sailing, fishing, hunting, weddings--some of them as funny as they can be, and some the most sarcastic that was ever written. There is always something sweet and pretty about them. The artless simplicity of the language, with its extraordinary power of expression, gives them an agreeable access to the mind, which no other language can ever give.

Bha crodh aig Mac Chailean, Bheireadh bainne dhomh fhein, Eadar Bealtuinn is Samhainn, Gun ghamhuinn, gun laogh, Crodh ciar, crodh ballach, Crodh Alastair Mhaoil, Crodh lionadh nan gogan, 'S crodh thogail nan laogh.

Shaw composed several hymns to this air.

Gheibh thu bean air da pheghinn, Rogh is tagh air bonn-a-se, Rug an luchag uan boirionn, 'S thug i dhachaidh cual chonnaidh.

When one begins to tell what is not true, it is better to tell falsehoods which no one can believe. Now I am certain that children at the age of four would not believe "Gille Callum's" lies, and would understand at once that they were all for fun, and still it would have the effect of setting them a-thinking, perhaps more than had it been sober truth.

The following I have frequently heard:--

H'uid, uid eachan, C'ait am bi sinn nochdan, Ann am baile Pheairtean, Ciod a gheibh sinn ann, Aran agus leann, 'S crap an cul a chinn, 'S chead dachaidh.

Cia mar theid na coin do n' mhuileann Mar sud, 's mar so, 'S bheir iad ullag as a phoc so, 'S ullag as a phoc sin,

And then moving them quicker--

'S thig iad dachaidh air an trot, Trit, trot, dhachaidh.

The following is a very imaginative piece, descriptive of a flighty individual who proposes to do more than he can accomplish:--

Cheann a'n Tobermhuire Head in Tobermory, 'S a chollainn 's a Chrianan, Body in Crianan, Cas a'm Boad hoi-e, Foot in Boad hoi-e, 'S a chas eil a'n Grianaig Other foot in Grianaig .

It is a most melancholy fact, that at present there is a combined and a determined effort put forth to banish the native language, and the native melodies of the Gael entirely from the country, and to bring the whole population under the sway of the artificial language taught in our schools, and of its artificial melodies. The foreigner represents our language as low and vulgar, quite destitute of the sterling qualities peculiar to his own; and consequently not deserving either to be held fast, or to be worthy of attentive study. And in order that he may be the more successful in his effort, he pretends to be our greatest, our only friend; heartily disposed to make us learned, wealthy and honourable, yes, and, of course, pious too. I say to him at once, without any ceremony, keep back, sir, give over your fallacious, your blustering bombast, we know the hollowness of your pretensions. The Gael has a language and melodies already, superior to any that you can give him, and would you attempt to rob him of his birthright and inheritance, which is dear to him as his heart's blood? Every true friend of the Gael would certainly give him a good English education; but instead of doing away with his own language and melodies, it would be such an English education as would ground him more than ever in a knowledge of his own. Is it not an acknowledged fact that, there is nothing that grounds students more thoroughly in a knowledge of a language than to translate it from his own. This mode of teaching is perhaps more troublesome to schoolmasters at first, but when once fairly tried and put in practice, it will, without doubt, be the most agreeable and the most successful part of their work, and would not have such a deadening effect, either upon their own minds, or upon those of their scholars.

ARCHD. FARQUHARSON.

ISLAND OF TIREE.

THE HARP BRINGETH JOY UNTO ME.

O autumn! to me thou art dearest, Thou bringest deep thoughts to me now, For the leaves in the forest are searest, And the foliage falls from each bough.

And then as the day was declining, While nature was wont to repose, A sage on his harp was reclining Who sang of Lochaber's bravoes.

He played and he sang of their glory, Their deeds which the ages admire; Then softly, then wildly, their story He told on the strings of his lyre.

While praise on the heroes he lavished, And lauded their triumphs again, A maid came a-list'ning, enravished-- Enrapt by his charming refrain.

O! bright were the beams of her smiling, I sigh for the peace on her brow, Not a trace on her features of guiling, My heart singeth songs to her now.

Inspired by the rapturous measure, This fair one skipt over the lea: One morning I sought the young treasure, Now dear as my soul she's to me.

DONALD MACGREGOR. Member of the Gaelic Society of London.

THE HIGHLAND CEILIDH.

Glen Urquhart, where Castle Urquhart is situated, is one of the most beautiful of our Highland valleys, distant from Inverness some fourteen miles, and expands first from the waters of Loch Ness into a semicircular plain, divided into fields by hedgerows, and having its hillsides beautifully diversified by woods and cultivated grounds. The valley then runs upwards some ten miles to Corriemonie, through a tract of haughland beautifully cultivated, and leading to a rocky pass or gorge half-way upwards or thereabouts, which, on turning an inland valley, as it were, is attained, almost circular, and containing Loch Meiglie, a beautiful small sheet of water, the edges of which are studded with houses, green lawns, and cultivated grounds. Over a heathy ridge, beyond these two or three miles, we reach the flat of Corriemonie, adorned by some very large ash and beech trees, where the land is highly cultivated, at an elevation of eight or nine hundred feet above, and twenty-five miles distant from, the sea. At the base of Mealfourvonie, a small circular lake of a few acres in extent exists, which was once thought to be unfathomable, and to have a subterranean communication with Loch Ness. From it flows the Aultsigh Burn, a streamlet which, tumbling down a rocky channel, at the base of one of the grandest frontlets of rock in the Highlands, nearly fifteen hundred feet high, empties itself into Loch Ness within three miles of Glenmoriston. Besides the magnificent and rocky scenery to be seen in the course of this burn, it displays, at its mouth, an unusually beautiful waterfall, and another about two miles further up, shaded with foliage of the richest colour. A tributary of the Coiltie, called the Dhivach, amid beautiful and dense groves of birch, displays a waterfall, as high and picturesque as that of Foyers; and near the source of the Enneric river, which flows from Corriemonie into the still waters of Loch Meigle, another small, though highly picturesque cascade, called the Fall of Moral, is to be seen. Near it, is a cave large enough to receive sixteen or twenty persons. Several of the principal gentlemen of the district concealed themselves here from the Hanoverian troops during the troubles of the '45.

How it came into the possession of John Grant the 10th Laird, surnamed the "Bard," is not known; but it was not won by the broadsword, from Huntly, the Lieutenant-General of the king. It has been the boast of the chiefs of the Clan Grant that no dark deeds of rapine and blood have been transmitted to posterity by any of their race. Their history is unique among Highland clans, in that, down to the period of the disarming after Culloden, the broadswords of the Grants were as spotless as a lady's bodkin. True it is, there were some dark deeds enacted between the Grants of Carron and Ballindalloch; and at the battles of Cromdale and Culloden, the Grants of Glenmoriston were present, but far otherwise was the boast of the Grants of Strathspey--a gifted ancestry seemed to transmit hereditary virtues, and each successive scion of the house seemed to emulate the peaceful habits of his predecessor. That this amiable life did not conceal craven hearts is abundantly evident from the history of our country. There is a continual record of gallant deeds and noble bearing in their records down to the present time, and there are few families whose names, like the Napiers and the Grants, are more conspicuous in our military annals. But their rise into a powerful clan was due to the more peaceful gifts, of "fortunate alliances," and "Royal bounties."

It is much to be regretted that so little has been transmitted to posterity of the history of this splendid ruin of Castle Urquhart.

The probability is that it is connected with many a dark event over which the turbulence of the intervening period and the obscurity of its situation have cast a shade of oblivion.

ALASTAIR OG.

THE LAST OF THE CLAN.

The last of the clansmen, grey-bearded and hoary, Sat lone by the old castle's ruin-wrapt shade, Where proudly his chief in the bloom of his glory Oft mustered his heroes for battle arrayed: He wept as he gazed on its beauties departed, He sighed in despair for its gloom of decay, Cold-shrouded his soul, and he sung broken-hearted, With grief-shaking voice a wild woe-sounding lay.-- "Weary, weary, sad returning, Exiled long in other climes, Hope's last flame, slow, feebly burning Seeks the home of olden times: In my joy why am I weeping? Where my kindred? Where my clan? Whispers from the mountains creeping, Tell me 'I'm the only man.' "Yon tempest-starred mountains still loom in their grandeur, The loud rushing torrents still sweep thro' the glen, Thro' low-moaning forests dim spirits still wander, But where are the songs and the voices of men? Tell me, storied ruins! where, where are their slumbers? Where now are the mighty no foe could withstand? The voice of the silence in echoing numbers, Breathes sadly the tale of fate's merciless hand.

"Ah me! thro' the black clouds, one star shines in heaven, And flings o'er the darkness its fast waning light, 'Tis to me an omen so tenderly given, Foretelling that soon I will sink in my night: The coronach slowly again is far pealing! The grey ghosts of kinsmen I fondly can trace! Around me they gather! and silent are kneeling, To gaze in deep sorrow on all of their race! Slowly, slowly, sadly viewing With their weird mysterious scan, Desolation's gloomy ruin! All of kindred! all of clan! Ah! my heart, my heart is fainting, Strangely shaking are my limbs, Heav'nward see! their fingers pointing, And my vision trembling swims. Slowly, slowly, all-pervading, O'er me steals their chilly breath, See! the single star is fading, Ling'ring in the joy of death, Darkness swiftly o'er me gathers, Softly fade these visions wan, Welcome give, ye spirit fathers, I'm the Last of all the Clan!"

WM. ALLAN.

SUNDERLAND.

WE do not care for Fairy Tales, as a rule, but we have read this book with genuine pleasure. It is written in a pleasant, easy style, and though it has the full complement of witchcraft, enchanted princesses, and, sudden transformations, it deals more with human sympathies and affections than is usual, in this class of literature. There are five different stories, of which the scene of two is laid in Germany, one in Denmark, one in Wales, and the other in the Highlands of Scotland. Baron Bruno, or the Unbelieving Philosopher, is the story of the Prime Minister at the Grand Ducal Court of Rumple Stiltzein. The Baron is not only a clever Statesman, but a Philosopher and Astronomer; albeit, a sceptic in religious matters. He is so wrapt up in his abstruse studies that he ignores the pleasures of domestic life, and lives a solitary man without wife or children. At last he begins to feel the loneliness of his home life, and overcome in spite of himself, he cries aloud--"To you distant stars! I nightly offer the homage of a constant worshipper; would that you in return could give me to know the spell of love, and teach me what it is that inspires the painter, the poet, and the lover." This impassioned address is immediately answered by the appearance of a beautiful maiden, who informs him that she is sent to teach him the spell of love, and to try to lead him through the influence of human affections to believe in the immortality of the soul. She becomes his wife, but exacts a promise from him, that once every month she is to spend the evening hours in undisturbed solitude, as her life depends on the strict observance of this. She also tells him that if he doubts her faith even for a moment she will have to leave him and return to her celestial home. They live happily for a time, but at length, through the machinations of a wicked Countess Olga, a spinster of uncertain age, who had hoped to have gained the Baron for herself, he becomes uneasy, and one night is so worked upon by the wily insinuations of the spiteful Countess, and irritated at the non-appearance of his wife at a Grand State Ball, that he rushes home in a frenzy of suspicion, and regardless of his promise, breaks in on the Baroness' seclusion. The result is disastrous, the child dies and his wife returns to her starry home; but her mission is fulfilled, for over the death-bed of his infant--a scene full of pathos--his heart softens and he avows his belief. This story is capitally told, and considerable humour is displayed in the account of a grand Court Dinner, at which the young Prince and his mischievous companions amuse themselves by sticking burrs on the footmen's silk stockings, much to the discomfiture of the poor flunkeys, the dismay of the high officials, and the indignation of the Grand Duke.

"Esgair: The Bride of Llyn Idwyl," is founded on an old Welsh Legend, and is a graceful, though rather weird story. "Eothwald, the young sculptor," tells how a Mermaiden was wooed and won, but in Eothwald's breast the artist was stronger than the lover, and the poor Mermaid died broken-hearted.

"Fido and Fidunia" is the longest of the tales, and will, we think, be the favourite with young folks. Fido is the very embodiment of canine sagacity, and poor, plain, unsophisticated Fidunia is a well drawn character, though she seems to be rather hardly dealt by. There is one thing which may be considered a defect in this otherwise charming book; all the heroines, though amiable and faultless, come to a sad end. They are made the scapegoats of their masculine companions. Though this is too often the case in real life, it is much more pleasant in a Fairy Tale, that all the amiable characters should be married and "live happy ever after."

Eudaemon, the hero of the Highland story, is the son of Valbion, the wild sea-king, who has deserted him and his mother. Eudaemon, as may be supposed from his mixed parentage, is a singular being, living a hermit-like life in the lonely Castle Brochel, on the Island of Raasay. Carefully educated by his mother, he knows all the medicinal properties of herbs and minerals. This, combined with magic lore inherited from his father, enables him to perform such wonderful cures that he is known far and wide as "The Enchanter of the North." His fame reaches the Lowlands, where lives a beautiful princess, afflicted, through the magical spells of Valbion, with dumbness. Her parents bring her to Castle Brochel in the hope that Eudaemon may work her cure. He begins by teaching her the game of chess, and then tries the power of music. This enables her to sing but not to speak. To complete the cure it is necessary that she should visit the abode of the powerful Valbion himself in the mysterious submerged halls of Thuisto--an expedition fraught with great danger; and which, though it proves the means of restoring speech to the princess, proves fatal to Eudaemon, through the indiscretion of the Queen. The poor Princess in gaining the use of her tongue loses her heart, and, like a second Ophelia, goes distracted, for the loss of her lover.

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