Elves and Heroes

THE SONG OF GOLL

O Son of The Red,Undone and laid dead—  The blood of a heroMy cold blade hath shed.Who fought me to-day?Who sought me to slay?—  The son of yon High KingI slew in the fray.O blade that yon braveLow laid in the grave,  Ye gladdened the FiansBut grief to Conn gave.Stone-hearted and strong,Lone-hearted with long,  Dark brooding, he sought toAvenge his deep wrong.Fair Son of The Red,Care none thou art dead?—  Old Goll of Clan MornaWill mourn thou hast bled.O where shall be foundTo share with thee round  The halls of ValhallaThy glory renowned?O true as the bladeThat slew thee, and made  My fear and thine angerFor ever to fade—Ah! when upon earthAgain will have birth  A son of such honourAnd bravery and worth?Above thee in splendourA love that could render  Brave service, burned star-likeAnd constant and tender.With fearing my name,With hearing my fame,  O none would dare combatWith Goll till Conn came? …O great was thine ire—The fate of thy sire,  Awaiting thy coming,Consumed thee like fire.O Son of The Red,Undone and laid dead—  The blood of a heroMy cold blade hath shed.

THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH

When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep,O the waters will be churning on the stream that never smiles,Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmčd isles.As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides;They will skim along like salmon—you can see their shoulders gleam,And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,The Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey faces;They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind,O, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray—For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!The whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles;They'll follow every fisher—ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream—When billows toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream?

THE URISK

O the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone moor!Ah! would I be forgetting of The Thing that came with me?For it was big and black as black, and it was dour as dour,It shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I e'er did see.For it came creeping like a cloud that's moving all alone,Without the sound of footsteps … and I heard its heavy sighs …Its face was old and grey, and like a lichen-covered stone,And its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad and weary eyes.O it's never the word it had to say in anger or in woe—It would not seek to harm me that had never done it wrong,As fleet—O like the deer!—I went, or I went panting slow,The waesome thing came with me on that lonely road and long.O eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the moor!When I was all so helpless and my heart was full of fear,Nor when it was beside me or behind me was I sure—I knew it would be following—I knew it would be near!

THE NIMBLE MEN

(AURORA BOREALIS.)    When Angus Ore, the wizard,      His fearsome wand will raise,    The night is filled with splendour,      And the north is all ablaze;    From clouds of raven blackness,      Like flames that leap on high—All merrily dance the Nimble Men across the Northern Sky.    Now come the Merry Maidens,      All gowned in white and green,    While the bold and ruddy fellows      Will be flitting in between—    O to hear the fairy piper      Who will keep them tripping by!—The men and maids who merrily dance across the Northern Sky.    O the weird and waesome music,      And the never-faltering feet!    O their fast and strong embraces,      And their kisses hot and sweet!    There's a lost and languished lover      With a fierce and jealous eye,As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky.So now the dance is over,      And the dancers sink to rest—    There's a maid that has two lovers,      And there's one she loves the best;    He will cast him down before her,      She will raise him with a sigh—Her love so bright who danced to-night across the Northern Sky.    Then up will leap the other,      And up will leap his clan—    O the lover and his company      Will fight them man to man—    All shrieking from the conflict      The merry maidens fly—There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky.    Through all the hours of darkness      The fearsome fight will last;    They are leaping white with anger,      And the blows are falling fast—    And where the slain have tumbled      A pool of blood will lie—O it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky.    When yon lady seeks her lover      In the cold and pearly morn,    She will find that he has fallen      By the hand that she would scorn,—    She will clasp her arms about him,      And in her anguish die!—O never again will trip the twain across the Northern Sky.

MY GUNNA

When my kine are on the hill,Who will charm them from all ill?While I'll sleep at ease until  All the cocks are crowing clear.Who'll be herding them for me?It's the elf I fain would see—For they're safe as safe can be  When the Gunna will be near.He will watch the long weird night,When the stars will shake with fright,Or the ghostly moon leaps bright  O'er the ben like Beltane fire.If my kine would seek the corn,He will turn them by the horn—And I'll find them all at morn  Lowing sweet beside the byre.Croumba's bard has second-sight,And he'll moan the Gunna's plight,When the frosts are flickering white,  And the kine are housed till day;For he'll see him perched aloneOn a chilly old grey stone,Nibbling, nibbling at a bone  That we'll maybe throw away.He's so hungry, he's so thin,If he'd come we'd let him in,For a rag of fox's skin  Is the only thing he'll wear.He'll be chittering in the coldAs he hovers round the fold,With his locks of glimmering gold  Twined about his shoulders bare.

THE GRUAGACH

(MILKMAID'S SONG.)The lightsome lad wi' yellow hair,The elfin lad that is so fair,He comes in rich and braw attire—To loose the kine within the byre—    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.He's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand,A supple switch is in his hand;I've seen while I a-milking satThe shadow of his beaver hat.    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.My chuckling lad, so full o' fun,Around the corners he will run;Behind the door he'll sometimes jink,And blow to make my candle blink.    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.The elfin lad that is so braw,He'll sometimes hide among the straw;He's sometimes leering from the loft—He's tittering low and tripping soft.    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.And every time I'll milk the kineHe'll have his share—the luck be mine!I'll pour it in yon hollowed stone,He'll sup it when he's all alone—    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.O me! if I'd his milk forget,Nor cream, nor butter I would get;Ye needna' tell—I ken full well—On all my kine he'd cast his spell.    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.On nights when I would rest at ease,The merry lad begins to tease;He'll loose the kine to take me out,And titter while I move about.    My lightsome lad, my leering lad,      He's tittering here; he's tittering there—    I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain      To find my lad wi' yellow hair.

THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN

When all the big lads will be hunting the deer,And no one for helping Old Callum comes near,O who will be busy at threshing his corn?Who will come in the night and be going at morn?    The Little Old Man of the Barn,    Yon Little Old Man—    A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn,    The Little Old Man of the Barn.When the peat will turn grey and the shadows fall deep,And weary Old Callum is snoring asleep;When yon plant by the door will keep fairies away,And the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering till day.    The Little Old Man of the Barn,    Yon Little Old Man—    Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the night,    The Little Old Man of the Barn.For the bodach is strong though his hair is so grey,He will never be weary when he goes away—The bodach is wise—he's so wise, he's so dear—When the lads are all gone, he will ever be near.    The Little Old Man of the Barn,    Yon Little Old Man—    So tight and so braw he will bundle the straw—    The Little Old Man of the Barn.

YON FAIRY DOG

'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals,  Whose heart would never fail,Would hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce  Come howling down the gale;The patt'ring of the paws would soundLike horse's hoofs on frozen ground,While o'er its back and curling round  Uprose its fearsome tail.'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—  Yon man that hath no fears—Beheld the dog with dark-green back  That bends not when it rears;Its sides were blacker than the night,But underneath the hair was white;Its paws were yellow, its eyes were bright,  And blood-red were its ears.'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—  The man who naught will dread—Would wait it, stooping with his spear,  As nigh to him it sped;The big black head it turn'd and toss'd,"I'll strike," cried he, "ere I'll be lost,"For every living thing that cross'd  Its path would tumble dead.'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals—  The man who ne'er took fright—Would watch it bounding from the hills  And o'er the moors in flight.When it would leave the Uist shore,Across the Minch he heard it roar—Like yon black cloud it bounded o'er  The Coolin Hills that night.

THE WATER-HORSE

O the Water-Horse will come over the heath,  With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes,He's black above and he's white beneath—  The hills are hearing the awesome cries;The sand lies thick in his dripping hair,And his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware.Alas! for the man who would clutch the mane—  There's no spell to help and no charm to save!Who rides him will never return again,  Were he as strong, O were he as braveAs Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell—He thrashed the devil and made him yell.He'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast,  So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound—Like the lightning flash he'll go prancing past,  Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound—And the man perchance who sees and hears,He would blind his eyes, he would close his ears.The horse will bellow, the horse will snort,  And the gasping rider will pant for breath—Let the way be long, or the way be short,  It will have one end, and the end is death;In yon black loch, from off the shore,The horse will splash, and be seen no more.

THE CHANGELING

By night they came and from my bed  They stole my babe, and left behindA thing I hate, a thing I dread—  A changeling who is old and blind;He's moaning all the night and dayFor those who took my babe away.My little babe was sweet and fair,  He crooned to sleep upon my breast—But O the burden I must bear!  This drinks all day and will not rest—My little babe had hair so light—And his is growing dark as night.Yon evil day when I would leave  My little babe the stook behind!—The fairies coming home at eve  Upon an eddy of the wind,Would cast their eyes with envy deepUpon my heart's-love in his sleep.What holy woman will ye find  To weave a spell and work a charm?A holy woman, pure and kind,  Who'll keep my little babe from harm—Who'll make the evil changeling flee,And bring my sweet one back to me?

MY FAIRY LOVER

My fairy lover, my fairy lover,  My fair, my rare one, come back to me—All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,  I would be dying, my love, for thee.Thine eyes were glowing like blue-bells blowing,  With dew-drops twinkling their silvery fires;Thine heart was panting with love enchanting,  For mine was granting its fond desires.    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,      My fair, my rare one, come back to me—    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,      I would be dying, my love, for thee.Thy brow had brightness and lily-whiteness,  Thy cheeks were clear as yon crimson sea;Like broom-buds gleaming, thy locks were streaming,  As I lay dreaming, my love, of thee.    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,      My fair, my rare one, come back to me—    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,      I would be dying, my love, for thee.Thy lips that often with love would soften,  They beamed like blooms for the honey-bee;Thy voice came ringing like some bird singing  When thou wert bringing thy gifts to me.    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,      My fair, my rare one, come back to me—    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,      I would be dying, my love, for thee.O thou'rt forgetting the hours we met in  The Vale of Tears at the even-tide,Or thou'd come near me to love and cheer me,  And whisper clearly, "O be my bride!"    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,      My fair, my rare one, come back to me—    All night I'm sighing, for thee I'm crying,      I would be dying, my love, for thee.What spell can bind thee? I search to find thee  Around the knoll that thy home would be—Where thou did'st hover, my fairy lover,  The clods will cover and comfort me.    My fairy lover, my fairy lover,      My fair, my rare one, come back to me—    All night I'm sighing, on thee I'm crying,      I would be dying, my love, for thee.

THE FIANS OF KNOCKFARREL

(A Ross-shire Legend.)

I

On steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made,For safe retreat, a high and strong stockadeAround their dwellings. And when winter fellAnd o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell—When days were bleak with storm, and nights were drearAnd dark and lonesome, well they loved to hearThe songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime—Their blind, grey bard, grown old before his time,Lamenting for his son—the young, the braveOscar, who fell beside the western waveIn Gavra's bloody and unequal fight.Round Ossian would they gather in the night,Beseeching him for song … And when he tookHis clarsach, from the magic strings he shookA maze of trembling music, falling sweetAs mossy waters in the summer heat;And soft as fainting moor-winds when they leaveThe fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve,Bound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night hearLow elfin pipings in the woodlands near.'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dreamThe fair maids sighed to hear. But when his themeWas the long chase that Finn and all his menFollowed with lightsome heart from glen to glen—His song was free as morn, and clear and loudAs skylarks carolling below a cloudIn sweet June weather … And they heard the fallOf mountain streams, the huntsman's windy callAcross the heaving hills, the baying houndAmong the rocks, while echoes answered round—They heard, and shared the gladness of the chase.He sang the glories of the Fian race,Whose fame is flashed through Alba far and wide—Their valorous deeds he sang with joy and pride …When their dark foemen from the west came o'erThe ragged hills, and when on Croumba's shoreThe Viking hordes descending, fought and fled—And when brave Conn, who would avenge the Red,By one-eyed Goll was slain. Of Finn he sang,And Dermaid, while the clash of conflict rangIn billowy music through the heroes' hall—And many a Fian gave the battle-callWhen Ossian sang.                  Haggard and old, with slowAnd falt'ring steps, went Winter through the snow,As if its dreary round would ne'er be done—The last long winter of their days—begunEre yet the latest flush of falling leavesHad faded in the breath of chilling eves;Nor ended in the days of longer light,When dawn and eve encroached upon the night—A weary time it was! The long Strath laySnow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to dayThe tempests raved across the low'ring skies,And they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes,The while their stores shrank low, waiting the dawnOf that sweet season when through woodlands wanFresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing—For Winter on the forelock of the SpringIts icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pinedIn their dim dwellings, wearily confined,While the loud, hungry tempest held its sway—The red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by day,And birds fell frozen in the snow.                                   Then throughThe trackless Strath a balmy south wind blewTo usher lusty Spring. Lo! in a nightThe snows 'gan shrinking upon plain and height,And morning broke in brightness to the soundOf falling waters, while a peace profoundPossessed the world around them, and the blueBared heaven above … Then all the Fians knewThat Winter's spell was broken, and each oneMade glad obeisance to the golden sun.Three days around Knockfarrel they pursuedThe chase across the hills and through the wood,Round Ussie Loch and Dingwall's soundless shore;But meagre were the burdens that they boreAt even to their dwellings. To the west"But sorrow not," said Finn, when all dismay'dThey hastened on a drear and bootless quest—With weary steps they turned to their stockade,"To-morrow will we hunt towards the eastTo high Dunskaith, and then make gladsome feastBy night when we return."                          Or ever mornHad broken, Finn arose, and on his hornBlew loud the huntsman's blast that round the benWas echoed o'er and o'er … Then all his menGathered about him in the dusk, nor knewWhat dim forebodings filled his heart and drewHis brows in furrowed care. His eyes a-gleamStill stared upon the horrors of a dreamOf evil omen that in vain he soughtTo solve … His voice came faint from battling thought,As he to Garry spake—"Be thou the wardStrong son of Morna: who, like thee, can guardOur women from all peril!" … Garry turnedFrom Finn in sullen silence, for he yearnedTo join the chase once more. In stature heWas least of all the tribe, but none could beMore fierce in conflict, fighting in the van,Than that grim, wolfish, and misshapen man!Then Finn to Caoilte spake, and gave commandTo hasten forth before the Fian band—The King of Scouts was he! And like the deerHe sped to find if foemen had come near—Fierce, swarthy hillmen, waiting at the fordsFor combat eager, or red Viking hordesFrom out the Northern isles … In Alba wideNo runner could keep pace by Caoilte's side,And ere the Fians, following in his path,Had wended from the deep and dusky strath,He swept o'er Clyne, and heard the awesome owlsThat hoot afar and near in woody Foulis,And he had reached the slopes of fair RosskeenEre Finn by Fyrish came.                         The dawn broke green—For the high huntsman of the morn had flungHis mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strungHis silver bow; then rising, bright and bold,He shot a burning arrow of pure goldThat rent the heart of Night.                              As far behindThe Fians followed, Caoilte, like the wind,Sped on—yon son of Ronan—o'er the wideAnd marshy moor, and 'thwart the mountain side,—By Delny's shore far-ebbed, and wan, and brown,And through the woods of beautous Balnagown:The roaring streams he vaulted on his spear,And foaming torrents leapt, as he drew nearThe sandy slopes of Nigg. He climbed and ranTill high above Dunskaith he stood to scanThe outer ocean for the Viking ships,Peering below his hand, with panting lipsA-gape, but wide and empty lay the seaBeyond the barrier crags of Cromarty,To the far sky-line lying blue and bare—For no red pirate sought as yet to dareThe gloomy hazards of the fitful seas,The gusty terrors, and the treacheriesOf fickle April and its changing skies—And while he scanned the waves with curious eyes,The sea-wind in his nostrils, who had spentA long, bleak winter in Knockfarrel pentOver the snow-wreathed Strath and buried wood,A sense of freedom tingled in his blood—The large life of the Ocean, heaving wide,His heart possessed with gladness and with pride,And he rejoiced to be alive…. Once moreHe heard the drenching waves on that rough shoreRaking the shingles, and the sea-worn rocksSucking the brine through bared and lapping locksOf bright, brown tangle; while the shelving ledgesPoured back the swirling waters o'er their edges;And billows breaking on a precipiceIn spouts of spray, fell spreading like a fleece.Sullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleekAnd foaming lips, before the flooded creekDeep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green expanseWind-wrinkled and translucent … A bright tranceOf sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wideBlue ocean swept with loops of silvern tideHeavily heaving in a long, slow swell.A lonely fisher in his coracleCame round a headland, lifted on a waveThat bore him through the shallows to his cave,Nor other being he saw.                        The birds that flewClamorous about the cliffs, and diving drewTheir prey from bounteous waters, on him castCold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling pastAnd sliding down the wind.

II

                           The warm sun shoneOn blind, grey Ossian musing all aloneUpon a knoll before the high stockade,When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laidOn the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayedOver the face and round the tender chin—"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn,"Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would beA bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee.""Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said,"My song was born in sorrow for the dead!…O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!—If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pineMurmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be,Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking seaAnd death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my songThat rose in sorrow must survive in wrong—My life is spent and vain—a day of thineWere better than a long, dark year of mine….But come, my son—so lead me by the hand—To hear the sweetest harper in the land—The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hillsAnd under, let us go, by tuneful rillsWe'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened beWith echoes of the moorland melody—My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went theyTogether from Knockfarrel. Long they layWithin the woods of Brahan, and by the shoreOf silvery Conon wended, crossing o'erThe ford at Achilty, where Ossian toldThe tale of Finn, who there had slain the boldBlack Arky in his youth. And ere the taleWas ended, they had crossed to Tarradale.Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient raceDeep-learned in lore, and with the gift to traceThe thread of life in the dark web of fate.And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest lateToo late, alas! this day of all dark days—Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze—A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes—O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the criesOf those that perish in yon high stockade—O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid,Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old—O Ossian could'st thou see—O child, beholdYon ruddy, closing clouds … so falls the fateOf all the tribe … Alas! thou comest late." …

III

When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a bandOf merry maidens, trooping hand in hand,Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair,To share the freedom of the morning air;Adown the steep they went, and through the woodWhere Garry splintered logs in sullen mood—Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wroughtUpon the trees that morn, as if he foughtAgainst a hundred foemen from the west,Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.The maids were wont to shower upon his headTheir merry taunts, and oft from them he fled;For of their quips and jests he had more fearThan e'er he felt before a foeman's spear—And so he chose to be alone.                             The airWas heavily laden with the odour rareOf deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet,As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet,Went treading needled sward, in light and shade,Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade,And ever bloom and ever pass away …Upon a fairy hillock Garry layIn sunshine fast asleep: his head was bare,And the wind rippling through his golden hairLaid out the seven locks that were his pride,Which one by one the maids securely tiedTo tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep,Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleepThen to a thicket all the maidens crept,And raised the Call of Warning … Garry leaptFrom dreams that boded ill, with sudden fearThat a fierce band of foemen had come near—The seven fetters of his golden hairHe wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bareA shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bledWith bitter agony … The maidens fledWith laughter through the wood, and climb'd the pathOf steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrathWhen he perceived who wronged him. With a shriekThat raised the eagles from the mountain peak,He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet,And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete—The lust of blood possessed him, and he sworeTo slay them…. But they shut the oaken doorEre he had reached that high and strong stockade—From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maidCame forth again.