Part 21

O that I were the shaw in,[130] When Morag was there, Lots to be drawing For the prize of the fair! Mingling in your glee, Merry maidens! We Rolicking would be The flow'rets along; Time would pass away In the oblivion of our play, As we cropp'd the primrose gay, The rock-clefts among; Then in mock we 'd fight, Then we 'd take to flight, Then we 'd lose us quite, Where the cliffs overhung.

Like the dew-drop blue In the mist of morn So thine eye, and thy hue Put the blossom to scorn. All beauties they shower On thy person their dower; Above is the flower, Beneath is the stem; 'Tis a sun 'mid the gleamers, 'Tis a star 'mid the streamers, 'Mid the flower-buds it shimmers The foremost of them! Darkens eye-sight at thy ray! As we wonder, still we say Can it be a thing of clay We see in that gem?

Since thy first feature Sparkled before me, Fair! not a creature Was like thy glory.[131]....

[130] We must suppose some sylvan social occupation, as oak-peeling or the like, in which Morag and her associates had been employed.

[131] Here follows a catalogue of rival beauties, with satirical descriptions. Cowley has such a list, which may possibly have been in the poet's eye.

SIUBHAL.

Away with all, away with all, Away with all but Morag, A maid whose grace and mensefulness Still carries all before it. You shall not find her marrow, For beauty without furrow, Though you search the islands thorough From Muile[132] to the Lewis; So modest is each feature, So void of pride her nature, And every inch of stature To perfect grace so true is.[133]

* * * * *

O that drift, like a pillow, We madden to share it; O that white of the lily, 'Tis passion to near it; Every charm in a cluster, The rose adds its lustre-- Can it be but such muster Should banish the Spirit!

URLAR.

We would strike the note of joy In the morning, The dawn with its orangery The hill-tops adorning. To bush and fell resorting, While the shades conceal'd our courting, Would not be lack of sporting Or gleeful _phrenesie_; Like the roebuck and his mate, In their woodland haunts elate The race we would debate Around the tendril tree.

SIUBHAL.

Thou bright star of maidens, A beam without haze, No murkiness saddens, No disk-spot bewrays. The swan-down to feeling, The snow of the gaillin,[134] Thy limbs all excelling, Unite to amaze. The queen, I would name thee, Of maidenly muster; Thy stem is so seemly, So rich is its cluster Of members complete, Adroit at each feat, And thy temper so sweet, Without banning or bluster. My grief has press'd on Since the vision of Morag, As the heavy millstone On the cross-tree that bore it. In vain the world over, Seek her match may the rover; A shaft, thy poor lover, First struck overpowering.

When thy ringlets of gold, With the crooks of their fold, Thy neck-wards were roll'd All weavy and showering. Like stars that are ring'd, Like gems that are string'd Are those locks, while, as wing'd From the sun, blends a ray Of his yellowest beams; And the gold of his gleams Behold how he streams 'Mid those tresses to play. In thy limbs like the canna,[135] Thy cinnamon kiss, Thy bright kirtle, we ken a' New phoenix of bliss. In thy sweetness of tone, All the woman we own, Nor a sneer nor a frown On thy features appear; When the crowd is in motion For Sabbath devotion,[136] As an angel, arose on Their vision, my fair With her meekness of grace, And the flakes of her dress, As they stream, might express Such loveliness there. When endow'd at thy birth We marvel that earth From its mould, should yield worth Of a fashion so rare.

URLAR.

I never dream'd would sink On a peak that mounts world's brink, Of sunlight, such a blink, Morag! as thine. As the charmings of a spell, Working in their cell, So dissolves the heart where dwell Thy graces divine.

SIUBHAL.

Come, counsel me, my comrades, While dizzy fancy lingers, Did ever flute become, lads, The motion of such fingers? Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137] Or see or hear, before her, Such gracefulness, adore her Yet, woes me, how concealing From her I 've wedded, dare I? Still, homeward bound, I tarry, And Jeanie's eye is weary, Her truant unrevealing. The glow of love I feel, Not all the linns of Sheil, Nor Cruachan's snow avail To cool to congealing.[138]....

CRUNLUATH.

My very brain is humming, sirs, As a swarm of bees were bumming, sirs, And I fear distraction 's coming, sirs, My passion such a flame is. My very eyes are blinding, sirs, Scarce giant mountains finding, sirs, Nor height nor distance minding, sirs, The crag, as Corrie, tame is....

[132] Mull.

[133] Morag's beauties are so exquisite, that all Europe, nay, the Pope would be inflamed to behold them. The passage is omitted, though worthy of the satiric vein of Mephistopheles.

[134] The gannet, or the _stranger-bird_, from his foreign derivation and periodic visits to the Islands.

[135] A snowy grass, well known in the moors.

[136] _Lit._, On the day of devotion.

[137] The mainland, or _terra firma_, is called Morir by the islanders.

NEWS OF PRINCE CHARLES.

Though this, in some respects, may not rank high among Macdonald's compositions, it is one of the most natural and earnest. His appeal to the hesitating chiefs of Sleat and Dunvegan, is a curious specimen of indignation, suppressed by prudence, and of contempt disguised under the mask of civility.

Glad tidings for the Highlands! To arms a ringing call-- Hammers storming, targets forming, Orb-like as a ball.[139] Withers dismay the pale array, That guards the Hanoverian; Assurance sure the sea 's come o'er, The help is nigh we weary on. From friendly east a breeze shall haste The fruit-freight of our prayer-- With thousands wight in baldrick white,[140] A prince to do and dare; Stuart his name, his sire's the same, For his riffled crown appealing, Strong his right in, soon shall Britain Be humbled to the kneeling. Strength never quell'd, and sword and shield, And firearms play defiance; Forwards they fly, and still their cry, Is,[141] "Give us flesh!" like lions. Make ready for your travel, Be sharp-set, and be willing, There will be a dreadful revel, And liquor red be spilling. O, that each chief[142] whose warriors rife, Are burning for the slaughter, Would let their volley, like fire to holly, Blaze on the usurping traitor. Full many a soldier arming, Is laggard in his spirit, E'er his blood the flag is warming Of the King that should inherit. He may be loon or coward, That spur scarce touch would nearly-- The colours shew, he 's in a glow, Like the stubble of the barley. Onward, gallants! onward speed ye, Flower and bulwark of the Gael; Like your flag-silks be ye ruddy, Rosy-red, and do not quail. Fearless, artless, hawk-eyed, courteous, As your princely strain beseems, In your hands, alert for conflict, While the Spanish weapon gleams.-- Sweet the flapping of the bratach,[143] Humming music to the gale; Stately steps the youthful gaisgeach,[144] Proud the banner staff to bear. A slashing weapon on his thigh, He tends his charge unfearing; Nor slow, pursuers venturing nigh, To the gristle nostrils sheering. Comes too, the wight, the clean, the tight, The finger white, the clever, he That gives the war-pipe his embrace To raise the storm of bravery. A brisk and stirring, heart-inspiring Battle-sounding breeze of her Would stir the spirit of the clans To rake the heart of Lucifer. March ye, without feint and dolour, By the banner of your clan, In your garb of many a colour, Quelling onset to a man. Then, to see you swiftly baring From the sheath the manly glaive, Woe the brain-shed, woe the unsparing Marrow-showering of the brave! Woe the clattering, weapon-battering Answering to the piobrach's yell! When your racing speeds the chasing, Wide and far the clamours swell. Hard blows whistle from the bristle Of the temples to the thigh, Heavy handed as the land-flood, Who will turn ye, or make fly? Many a man has drunk an ocean Healths to Charlie, to the gorge, Broken many a glass proposing Weal to him and woe to George; But, 'tis feat of greater glory Far, than stoups of wine to trowl, One draught of vengeance deep and gory, Yea, than to drain the thousandth bowl! Show ye, prove ye, ye are true all, Join ye to your clans your cheer! Nor heed though wife and child pursue all, Bidding you to fight, forbear. Sinew-lusty, spirit-trusty, Gallant in your loyal pride, By your hacking, low as bracken Stretch the foe the turf beside. Our stinging kerne of aspect stern That love the fatal game, That revel rife till drunk with strife, And dye their cheeks with flame, Are strange to fear;--their broadswords shear Their foemen's crested brows, The red-coats feel the barb of steel, And hot its venom glows. The few have won fields, many a one, In grappling conflicts' play; Then let us march, nor let our hearts A start of fear betray. Come gushing forth, the trusty North, Macshimei,[145] loyal Gordon; And prances high their chivalry, And death-dew sits each sword on.

[138] Here Morag's musical performance on the flute, form the subject of a panegyric, in which Urlar, Siubhal, and Crunluath are imitated.

[139] "Round as the shield of my fathers."--_Ossian_.

[140] The French military costume, distinguished by its white colour, was assumed by the Jacobites.

[141] "Come, and I will give you flesh," a Highland war-cry invoking the birds and beasts of prey to their bloody revel.

[142] Macdonald of Sleat, Macleod, and others, first hesitated, and finally withheld themselves from the party of the white cockade.

[143] Flag.

[144] Warrior.

[145] Lovat and his clan.

JOHN ROY STUART.

John Roy Stuart was a distinguished officer in the Jacobite army of 1745. He was the son of a farmer in Strathspey, who gave him a good education, and procured him a commission in a Highland regiment, which at the period served in Flanders. His military experiences abroad proved serviceable in the cause to which he afterwards devoted himself. In the army of Prince Charles Edward, he was entrusted with important commands at Gladsmuir, Clifton, Falkirk, and Culloden; and he was deemed of sufficient consequence to be pursued by the government with an amount of vigilance which rendered his escape almost an approach to the miraculous. An able military commander, he was an excellent poet. His "Lament for Lady Macintosh" has supplied one of the most beautiful airs in Highland music.[146] In the second of his pieces on the battle of Culloden, translated for the present work, the lamentation for the absence of the missing clans, and the night march to the field, are executed with the skill and address of a genuine bard, while the story of the battle is recited with the fervour of an honourable partisan. Stuart died abroad in circumstances not differing from those of the best and bravest, who were engaged in the same unhappy enterprise.

[146] See the Rev. Patrick Macdonald's Collection, No. 106.

LAMENT FOR LADY MACINTOSH.

This is the celebrated heroine who defended her castle of Moy, in the absence of her husband, and, with other exploits, achieved the surprisal of Lord Loudon's party in their attempt to seize Prince Charles Edward, when he was her guest. Information had been conveyed by some friendly unknown party, of a kind so particular as to induce the lady to have recourse to the following stratagem. She sent the blacksmith on her estate, at the head of a party of other seven persons, with instructions to lie in ambush, and at a particular juncture to call out to the clans to come on and hew to pieces "the scarlet soldiers," as were termed the royalist troops. The feint succeeded, and is known in Jacobite story as the "Route of Moy." The exploit is pointedly alluded to in the Elegy, which is replete with beauty and pathos.

Does grief appeal to you, ye leal, Heaven's tears with ours to blend? The halo's veil is on, and pale The beams of light descend. The wife repines, the babe declines, The leaves prolong their bend, Above, below, all signs are woe, The heifer moans her friend.

The taper's glow of waxen snow, The ray when noon is nigh, Was far out-peer'd, till disappear'd Our star of morn, as high The southern west its blast released, And drown'd in floods the sky-- Ah woe! was gone the star that shone, Nor left a visage dry For her, who won as win could none The people's love so well. O, welaway! the dirging lay That rung from Moy its knell; Alas, the hue, where orbs of blue, With roses wont to dwell! How can we think, nor swooning sink, To earth them in the cell?

Silk wrapp'd thy frame, as lily stem, And snowy as its flower, So once, and now must love allow, The grave chest such a dower! The fairest shoot of noble root A blast could overpower; 'Tis woman's meed for chieftain's deed, That bids our eyes to shower.

Beseems his grief the princely chief, Who reins the charger's pride, And gives the gale the silken sail, That flaps the standard's side; Who from the hall where sheds at call, The generous shell its tide, And from the tower where Meiners'[147] power Prevails, brought home such bride.

[147] She was a daughter of Menzies of that Ilk, in Perthshire. The founder of the family was a De Moyeners, in the reign of William the Lion. The name in Gaelic continued to testify to its original, being _Meini_, or _Meinarach_.

THE DAY OF CULLODEN.

Ah, the wound of my breast! Sinks my heart to the dust, And the rain-drops of sorrow are watering the ground; So impassive to hear, never pierces my ear, Or briskly or slowly, the music of sound. For, what tidings can charm, while emotion is warm With the thought of my Prince on his travel unknown; The royal in blood, by misfortune subdued, While the base-born[148] by hosts is secured on the throne? Of the hound is the race that has wrought our disgrace, Yet the boast of the litter of mongrels is small, Not the arm of your might makes it boast of our flight, But the musters that failed at the moment of call-- Five banners were furl'd that might challenge the world, Of their silk not a pennon was spread to the day; Where is Cromarty's earl, with the fearless of peril, Young Barisdale's following, Mackinnon's array? Where the sons of the glen,[149] the Clan-gregor, in vain That never were hail'd to the carnage of war-- Where Macvurich,[150] the child of victory styled? How we sigh'd when we learn'd that his host was afar! Clan-donuil,[151] my bosom friend, woe that the blossom That crests your proud standard, for once disappear'd, Nor marshall'd your march, where your princely deserts Without stain might the cause of the right have uprear'd! And now I say woe, for the sad overthrow Of the clan that is honour'd with Frazer's[152] command, And the Farquharsons[153] bold on the Mar-braes enroll'd, So ready to rise, and so trusty to stand. But redoubled are shed my tears for the dead, As I think of Clan-chattan,[154] the foremost in fight; Oh, woe for the time that has shrivell'd their prime, And woe that the left[155] had not stood at the right! Our sorrows bemoan gentle Donuil the Donn, And Alister Rua the king of the feast; And valorous Raipert the chief of the true-heart, Who fought till the beat of its energy ceased. In the mist of that night vanish'd stars that were bright, Nor by tally nor price shall their worth be replaced; Ah, boded the morning of our brave unreturning, When it drifted the clouds in the rush of its blast. As we march'd on the hill, such the floods that distil, Turning dry bent to bog, and to plash-pools the heather, That friendly no more was the ridge of the moor, Nor free to our tread, and the ire of the weather Anon was inflamed by the lightning untamed, And the hail rush that storm'd from the mouth of the gun, Hard pelted the stranger, ere we measured our danger, And broadswords were masterless, marr'd, and undone.[156] Sure as answers my song to its title, a wrong To our forces, the wiles of the traitor[157] have wrought; To each true man's disgust, the leader in trust Has barter'd his honour, and infamy bought. His gorget he spurns, and his mantle[158] he turns, And for gold he is won, to his sovereign untrue; But a turn of the wheel to the liar will deal, From the south or the north, the award of his due. And fell William,[159] the son of the man on the throne, Be his emblem the leafless, the marrowless tree; May no sapling his root, and his branches no fruit Afford to his hope; and his hearth, let it be As barren and bare--not a partner to share, Not a brother to love, not a babe to embrace; Mute the harp, and the taper be smother'd in vapour, Like Egypt, the darkness and loss of his race! Oh, yet shall the eye see thee swinging on high, And thy head shall be pillow'd where ravens shall prey, And the lieges each one, from the child to the man, The monarch by right shall with fondness obey.

[148] George the First's Queen was a divorcee. The Jacobites retorted the alleged spuriousness of the Chevalier de St George, on George II., the reigning Sovereign.

[149] _Glengyle_, and his Macgregors, were on their way from the Sutherland expedition, but did not reach in time to take part in the action.

[150] Macpherson of Clunie, the hero of the night skirmish at Clifton, and with his clan, greatly distinguished in the Jacobite wars.

[151] Macdonald of the Isles refused to join the Prince.

[152] Of the routed army, the division whereof the Frazers formed the greater number fled to Inverness. Being the least considerable in force, they were pursued by the Duke of Cumberland's light horse, and almost entirely massacred.

[153] The Farquharsons formed part of the unfortunate right wing in the battle, and suffered severely.

[154] The Mackintoshes, whose impetuosity hurried the right wing into action before the order to engage had been transmitted over the lines. They were of course the principal sufferers.

[155] An allusion to the provocation given to the Macdonalds of Clanranald, Glengarry, and Keppoch, by being deprived of their usual position--the right wing. Their motions are supposed to have been tardy in consequence. The poet was himself in the right wing.

[156] The unfortunate night-march of the Highlanders is described with historic truth and great poetic effect.

[157] Roy Stuart lived and died in the belief (most unfounded, it seems), that Lord George Murray was bribed and his army betrayed.

[158] Military orders received from the Court of St Germains.

[159] The Duke of Cumberland.

JOHN MORRISON.

John Morrison was a native of Perthshire. Sometime before 1745 he was settled as missionary at Amulree, a muirland district near Dunkeld. In 1759 he became minister of Petty, a parish in the county of Inverness. He obtained his preferment in consequence of an interesting incident in his history. The proprietor of Delvine in Perthshire, who was likewise a Writer to the Signet, was employed in a legal process, which required _a diligence_ to be executed against one of the clan Frazer. A design to waylay and murder the official employed in the _diligence_ had been concerted. This came to the knowledge of a clergyman who ministered in a parish chiefly inhabited by the Lovat tenantry. The minister, afraid of openly divulging the design, on account of the unsettled nature of his flock, begged an immediate visit from his friend, Mr Morrison, who speedily returned to Perthshire with information to the laird of Delvine. The Frazers found the authority of the law supported by a sufficient force; and Mr Morrison was rewarded by being presented, through the influence of the laird of Delvine, to the parish of Petty. Amidst professional engagements discharged with zeal and acceptance, Morrison found leisure for the composition of verses. Two of his lyrics are highly popular among the Gael; one of them we offer as a specimen, and an improved version of the other will afterwards appear in the present work. Mr Morrison died in November 1774.

MY BEAUTY DARK.

The heroine of this piece was a young lady who became the author's wife, upon an acquaintance originally formed by the administration of the ordinance of baptism to her in infancy.

My beauty dark, my glossy bright, Dark beauty, do not leave me; They call thee dark, but to my sight Thou 'rt milky white, believe me.

'Twas at the tide of Candlemas,[160] Came tirling at my door, The image of a lovely lass That haunts me evermore.

Beside my sleeping couch she stood, And now she mars my rest; Still as I try the solemn mood, She hunts it from my breast.

At lecture and at study That ankle white I span, Its sandal slim, its lacings trim,-- A fay I seem to scan.

Thy beauty 's like a drift of spray That dashes to the side, Or like the silver-tail'd that play Their gambols in the tide.

As heaps of snow on mountain brow When shed the clouds their fleece, Or churn of waves when tempest raves, Thy swelling limbs in grace.

Thy eyes are black as berries, Thy cheeks are waxen dyed, And on thy temple tarries The raven's dusk, my pride!

Gives light below each slim eye-brow A swelling orb of blue, In April meads so glance the beads, In May the honey-dew.

Dark, tangled, deep, no drifted heap, But sheaf-like, neatly bound Thy tresses seem, in braids, or stream As bright thine ears around.

Those raven spires of hair, that fair, That turret-bosom's shine! False friends! from me that banish'd thee, Who fain would call thee mine.

No lilts I spin, their love to win, The viol strings I shun, But lend thine ear and thou shalt hear My wisdom, dearest one!

[160] Evidently a Valentine morning surprise.

ROBERT MACKAY.

THE HIGHLANDER'S HOME SICKNESS.

We have been favoured by Mr William Sinclair with the following spirited translation of Mackay's first address to the fair-haired Anna, the heroine of the "Forsaken Drover" (vol. i. p. 315). In the enclosures of Crieff, the Highland bard laments his separation from the hills of Sutherland, and the object of his love.

Easy is my pillow press'd But, oh! I cannot, cannot rest; Northwards do the shrill winds blow-- Thither do my musings go!