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A BOOK 
 
 HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY GEORGE BARCLAY, 28 CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE. 
 
THE BOOK 
 
 HIGHLAND MINSTRELSY 
 
 MRS. D. OGILVY. 
 
 WITH I1LTJSTBATIOH-S 
 
 3 
 
 R. R. M'lAN. 
 
 $Lcfo '(fruition. 
 
 LONDON AND GLASGOW: 
 EICHARD GRIFFIN AND COMPANY, 
 
 $3 rtblisljers io tlje 3Itu(j£rsttg of <HIasga£u. 
 1860. 
 
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It is hoped that the brief introductions 
 severally prefixed to the following poems will be found 
 more convenient to the reader than the scattered foot- 
 notes which would otherwise have been necessary. They 
 have no pretension to erudition, and, unless where they 
 are the result of personal observation, have been drawn 
 from such authorities as are most readily accessible, and 
 as bear most directly upon the traditions, the sentiments, 
 and the customs of a romantic people. 
 
 The writer takes this opportunity to thank her Scot- 
 tish friends for the local information so obligingly com- 
 municated, which has proved of material service. 
 
 E. A. H. 0. 
 
Content** 
 
 Cije <£ule at Culloom 1 
 
 %ty 3Ca"Oj> of £obat 7 
 
 Craggan an Pjttfjtcfc; tlje Iftocfe of tlje a&aben . 21 
 
 29unfallanttn 27 
 
 €!)* fonproatum &j) tijs CvatrU . . .37 
 
 Ci)e <®Vtl Hotufe of ©teat* 46 
 
 tttftitc 23ell ant» $flarg <&raj> 54 
 
 Ci)c g>f)rift of Slanet CampMl .... 62 
 
 €f)t mtuvn of @uan 2ii)u 77 
 
 Craig «Had)te 86 
 
 QLty parting on tf)* JSrig ..... 93 
 
 €J)« ?§?auntrtJ Cant on ti)t Ploot ... 98 
 
 (KBtlan Jftoijr 107 
 
 ^ CaU of dfoms Coimt 116 
 
 €ty TOoofoa of K.od)j) ...... 125 
 
 IHavj) of tfje <$afcemiJ)afo£ . . . . . 132 
 
viii Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 EortJ Plutrai) 146 
 
 €i)c ^ptnntns of tfjr &l)voufc .... 155 
 
 Cl)f 2Ftgtl of ti)t 20catf .163 
 
 Cljr dfatn> Hament 169 
 
 Cljc Spirit Crjtft 179 
 
 €\)t £pcll of Caatlt Caotioll ... 191 
 
 Cljc $mt on Hodj dFnne 207 
 
 £ori)an a Corp 216 
 
 %\)t Hertfelman'a 39aufijtn- ..... 226 
 
 %\)z Wote of Jfan Horn 236 
 
 %\)t OTolf of etfnacpite 251 
 
 €*K portents of tfj* fitjjljt .... 260 
 €f)e JSlacfc Cijantn- of CJattan . . . .267 
 
 
THE EXILE AT CULLODEN. 
 
 Time, in its progress, has deprived even this " blasted heath " of some 
 of its romantic desolation. Farms and fields, a dwelling-house erected 
 since the beginning of this century, and its cheerful accompaniments, 
 combine to give the scene a less dreary air than it wore in the earlier 
 days of its unhappy celebrity. Drummossie Muir, where the battle was 
 fought, is, indeed, for the greater part still under heather, but at inter- 
 vals is the waving of grain on its ridges, and a carriage-road may be 
 seen winding through its graves. Yet, girdled as it is with lofty moun- 
 tains and hallowed by melancholy memories, Culloden has a gloomy 
 grandeur which cannot but impress the visitor. Every stone may be 
 regarded as a hero's monument, every twining tuft of heather as a wreath 
 hung by Fame over the slumber of a warrior. Then heavily and sad 
 will come upon the soul the thought of the terrible calamities of civil 
 war. Brothers arrayed in fight against brothers, fathers against sons, 
 women widowed and children orphaned by the hands of their fellow 
 countrymen ; and all this devastation and sorrow wrought in singleness 
 of heart and loftiness of soul by those who thought so erroneously of 
 
 B 
 
2 €ty (ttyilt at Cullotfen. 
 
 loyalty as to sacrifice at its shrine the strongest and holiest ties of nature. 
 If those brave, misguided men erred in spreading ruin over their country, 
 and involving their families and connexions in beggary and death, they 
 laid down their own lives as an atonement with a fervour of chivalrous 
 devotion to which history has scarcely a parallel. The more hopeless the 
 struggle became their faith burned the brighter ; and never had it a purer 
 and more unwavering glow than when all was suddenly lost, their prince 
 an outlaw, and hunted like a very wolf, with a price upon his head. It 
 may be readily supposed that the survivors who followed his fortunes 
 amid the cold dependence of foreign courts, could not lose with the homes 
 they had quitted the ardent love which had made those homes so dear to 
 them. They were haunted in exile by heart-sickness and sorrow, yearn- 
 ing to look once more upon their mountains and die. It is said that " the 
 gentle Lochiel" — who, too sagacious not to foresee ruin in the desperate 
 enterprise, reluctantly, and not without the reproaches of his prince, drew 
 the sword — died in exile of a broken heart. Some even dared to revisit 
 in disguise the scenes where the mention of their names would have drawn 
 on them a hundred foes ; and it is well known that Dr. Cameron, Lochiel's 
 brother, was taken in an attempt of this kind, and fell a victim to political 
 justice or revenge. Who can forget the touching picture drawn by 
 Smollett of the exiles at Calais, who went every day to the beach to gaze 
 on the white cliffs of their native island, from which they were separated 
 by a far wider gulf than even the stormy waters that rolled between ? 
 
u&rtftjUt* JT-^A'v 
 
 THE EXILE AT CULLODEN. 
 
 There was tempest on the waters, there was darkness on the earth, 
 When a. single Danish schooner struggled up the Moray Firth, 
 Looming large the Ross-shire mountains frowned unfriendly on its track. 
 Shrieked the wind along their gorges like a sufferer on the rack ; 
 And the utmost deeps were shaken by the stunning thunder-peal — 
 'T was a sturdy hand, I trow ye, that was needed at the wheel ! 
 
4 €f)e <£vtte at Cultottm. 
 
 Though the billows flew about them till the mast was hid in spray, 
 Though the timbers strained beneath them, still they bore upon their way, 
 Till they reached a fisher- village, where the vessel they could moor — 
 Every head was on its pillow when they landed on the shore ; 
 And a man of noble presence bade the crew, " Wait here for me, 
 I will come back in the morning when the sun has left the sea." 
 
 He was yet in manly vigour, though his lips were ashen white, 
 On his brow were early furrows, in his eyes a clouded light ; 
 Firm his step withal and hasty, through the blinding mist so sure, 
 That he found himself by dawning on a wide and lonesome muir, 
 Marked by dykes and undulations, barren both of house and wood ; 
 And he knew the purple ridges — 'twas Culloden where he stood ! 
 
 He had known it well aforetime — not, as now, so drear and quiet ; 
 Then astir with battle's horror, reeling with destruction's riot ; 
 Now so peacefully unconscious, that the orphan'd and exiled 
 Was unmanned to see its calmness, weeping weakly as a child ; 
 And a thought arose of madness, and his hand was on his sword, 
 But he crushed the coward impulse, and he spake the bitter word : 
 
 " I am here, O sons of Scotland — ye who perished for your king, 
 In the misty wreaths before me I can see your tartans swing ; 
 I can hear your slogan, comrades, who to Saxon never knelt ; 
 Oh ! that I had died among ye with the fortunes of the Celt ! 
 
Ci;e dByilt at Cullotten. 5 
 
 There he rode, our princely warrior, and his features wore the same 
 Pallid cast of deep foreboding as the First one of his name ; 
 Ay, as gloomy is his sunset, though no Scot his life betrayed : 
 Better plunge in bloody glory than go down in shame and shade ! 
 
 Stormy hills, did ye protect him, that o'erlook Culloden's plain, 
 Dabbled with the heather blossoms red as life-drops of the slain ? 
 Did ye hide your hunted children from the vengeance of the foe ? 
 Did ye rally back the flying for one last despairing blow ? 
 No ! the kingdom is the Saxon's, and the humbled clans obey, 
 And our bones must rot in exile who disdain usurpers' sway. 
 
 He is sunk in wine's oblivion for whom Highland blood was shed, 
 
 Whom the wretched caterans sheltered with a price upon his head ; 
 
 Beaten down like hounds by whipping, crouch they from their masters' sight, 
 
 And I tread my native mountains as a robber in the night ; 
 
 Spite of tempest, spite of danger, hostile man and hostile sea, 
 
 Gory field of sad Culloden, I have come to look on thee ! " 
 
 So he plucked a tuft of heather that was blooming at his foot, 
 
 That was nourished by dead kinsmen, and their bones were at its root; 
 
 With a sigh he took the blossom ere he strode unto the strand, 
 
 Where his Danish crew awaited with a motley fisher band ; 
 
 Brief the parley, swift his sailing with the tide, and ne'er again 
 
 Saw the Moray Firth that stranger or the schooner of the Dane. 
 
THE LADY OF LOVAT. 
 
 It seems impossible to contemplate without a feeling of compassion 
 the spectacle of a hoary head laid on the block and severed from the 
 aged frame. Yet such were the vices and crimes of Simon Fraser, last 
 Lord Lovat, and so shamefully did he abuse the long term of years which 
 Heaven's mercy had allowed him for repentance, that we can give him 
 little pity when we see him, at the age of eighty, arrived at a violent end. 
 
 His life has been so amply and frequently related, that few of his 
 flagrant enormities need be recapitulated here. He was, it is said, far 
 from prepossessing in person — a fact which none who have seen his 
 picture by Hogarth will dispute. But he possessed great abilities, a 
 winning tongue, whose aptitude for falsehood enabled him to play any 
 part necessary for his crafty policy, and a rare talent for acquiring and 
 retaining unbounded influence over his vassals, whom he made the instru- 
 ments of his secret resentments. 
 
 The description of him in his day of power by a contemporary writer 
 makes one's heart ache for the deluded creatures who were ever ready at 
 his bidding to undertake the darkest crimes, and of whose lives he was 
 utterly regardless, so long as he could sit safely entrenched behind their 
 fidelity. 
 
 Such a man was not likely to shew to much advantage as a husband, 
 
%\)t Hatry of %obat. 7 
 
 and we are not surprised to find that his marriages partook largely of the 
 deceit and cruelty of his general character. His first wife he obtained by 
 force ; but as the affair threatened to ruin his fortunes instead of forward- 
 ing them, he returned the victim to her relatives, the powerful family of 
 Athole, denying " he had had any thing to do with her." 
 
 His second wife was the daughter of the Laird of Grant ; and during 
 her life he contented himself with annoying and harassing his neighbours, 
 whenever offended with them — an event which seems to have taken place 
 very frequently. 
 
 This lady dying, he took him a third wife, the unhappy subject of the 
 poem. Having occasion for the interest of the Argyle family in some of 
 his crooked schemes, he paid his addresses to Primrose, daughter of 
 Campbell of Mamore, and niece of the first Duke of Argyle. The young 
 lady shrinking in horror from his suit, he decoyed her from the house of 
 her sister, Lady Roseberry, by means of a forged letter, which implored 
 her presence with her mother, who was represented as lying dangerously 
 ill in a house in Edinburgh, to which she was directed. On hurrying 
 thither, she found in place of her mother her unprincipled suitor. He 
 told her she was in his power, for that the character of the house was 
 such that, did she not leave it as his wife, her fair name would be irre- 
 trievably sullied. 
 
 Distracted and helpless, after a struggle of some days the poor girl 
 consented to the distasteful nuptials, immediately after which he carried 
 her to his castle of Downie, near Inverness. Here he immured her in a 
 turret, deprived of proper or sufficient clothing, and occasionally under 
 the terror of absolute starvation. 
 
 Many years elapsed before the real circumstances of her situation 
 transpired, when Lady Lovat obtained a formal separation, and returned 
 to the quiet home of her girlhood. She passed the latter years of her life 
 
8 €\)t Itatfi) of %oUt 
 
 in Edinburgh, and the reader of Chambers' very interesting" Traditions" 
 of that city will find many curious anecdotes of her eventful career. 
 
 Her husband, after numberless evasions and windings of policy, was 
 at last submerged in the vortex of 1745, having declared for the Stewart 
 cause when deceit was no longer practicable, the lure which confirmed his 
 wavering faith being the promise of a dukedom from the court of St. 
 Germains. He was then very old and infirm, but the energies of his 
 mind were unimpaired. In the general rout after the defeat of Culloden 
 he was compelled to fly, and was hidden for some days in a secret cell in 
 the roof of CaAvdor Castle. 
 
 This refuge proving ineffectual he repaired to Moidart, on the coast of 
 Argyle, where he was present at a futile meeting of the Jacobite lairds, 
 whose attempt to rally being hopeless, they once more dispersed, and 
 Lord Lovat was in a few days discovered by the military, concealed in the 
 trunk of a tree as aged and hollow-hearted as himself. Lady Lovat, 
 hearing of his capture and removal to London, offered to join him in his 
 prison ; but he refused her kindness, as feeling himself unworthy of such 
 a generous return. In this alone he shewed evidence of a softened heart, 
 levity and sneering indifference marking his conduct to the end. 
 
 He defended himself in person at the bar of the House of Lords, 
 displaying great acuteness, and his exertions to procure a pardon were 
 unremitting and full of cringing and meanness. All was in vain, and he 
 met death with a careless fortitude. 
 
 The tradition of a gory head appearing to a member of the family in 
 Scotland, while its owner was executed in London, was heard by the 
 writer in early youth ; but as no published accounts of the times take 
 any notice of such an apparition, it is difficult to decide whether the story 
 referred to Lovat or to either of his companions in misfortune, Lords 
 Balmerino and Kilmarnock. 
 
THE LADY OE LOVAT. 
 
 The mournful Lady Lovat, 
 
 She sat within the tower ; 
 " Now would, thou false, false Fraser, 
 
 I were beyond thy power ! 
 
 c \ 
 
10 C^e Eatrj) of Hobat. 
 
 Now would I stood on Jura's steep, 
 
 Or Scarba's iron isle, 
 Or 'neath my kinsman's roof might sleep, 
 
 In the halls of proud Argyle ! 
 For if I were by blue Loch Fyne, 
 
 That feeds the western main, 
 Where every eye looks scorn to thine, 
 
 I'd hold thee in disdain. 
 A wife without the honour, 
 
 A mistress without power, 
 The daughter of a noble house, 
 
 And prisoned in thy tower. 
 Oh ! friends I left behind me — 
 
 Oh ! Lorn, my gallant chief, 
 Ye reck not of my misery, 
 
 Ye bring me no relief ! " 
 
 Said the mournful Lady Lovat, 
 
 IT. 
 
 In the ancient Castle Downie, 
 There seemed unwonted stir. 
 
 The piper blew the welcome 
 He once had blown for her. 
 
 A clattering sound of horses 
 
€I)e HatJg of Hofcat. 1 1 
 
 She heard within the court, 
 The noisy vassals suddenly 
 
 Arrested all their sport. 
 And the Fraser to a noble guest 
 
 Went forth in feudal power, 
 But the lady of the castle 
 
 Sat weeping in the tower. 
 " I know that stranger's accents, 
 
 That stranger's form I know ; 
 It is my cousin Annabel, 
 
 Who loved me long ago ! " 
 
 Said the mournful Lady Lovat. 
 
 III. 
 
 The mournful Lady Lovat, 
 
 She had not dried her tears, 
 When a trampling on the turret-stair 
 
 Rewakened all her fears ; 
 A trampling on the turret-stair — 
 
 It was her gaoler stern ; 
 I wot her heart was spiritless, 
 
 When the lock began to turn ! 
 With a mocking smile he entered — 
 
 With a mocking grace he bowed ; 
 
12 m)t Hafci) of ICouat. 
 
 " Come down, my Lady Lovat — 
 
 Come down ! " he spake aloud ; 
 " Here rides thy cousin Annabel, 
 
 To question of thy weal ; 
 For men have spread ill tales of me — 
 
 Of me, thy husband leal. 
 And thou must doff that squalid weed, 
 
 And don this garment gay ; 
 And as thou art of Christian creed, 
 
 Mark well the words I say ! 
 With rings upon thy fingers, 
 
 With brooches on thy vest, 
 With golden nets around thy locks, 
 
 Thou shalt be bravely drest. 
 And see thou wear the smiling eye 
 
 Befits a happy wife, 
 And see thou praise me tenderly, 
 
 As thou dost heed thy life ! 
 And sit thou at the banquet 
 
 As suits a chieftain's bride, 
 And drink to her right merrilie 
 
 Who drinketh by thy side. 
 So turn thou back the scandal 
 
 Men spread abroad of me. 
 
€f)e Hatfj) of £ouat. 13 
 
 Now, swear to me obedience — 
 
 Now, swear it on thy knee !" 
 He flashed his dirk before her, 
 
 He forced her on her knee ; 
 She vowed to him obedience, 
 
 So faint of heart was she. 
 " Thou false, false Lord of Lovat — 
 
 God judge 'twixt us, I pray ! 
 Like mercy from the merciless 
 
 May fail thy dying day !" 
 
 Said the mournful Lady Lovat. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The wily Lord of Lovat, 
 
 He led her down the stair, 
 And she was decked with broidery, 
 
 With jewelled vestments rare ; 
 And she was gay with forced smiles, 
 
 And spake in forced tone, 
 But never the Lady Annabel 
 
 Gat speech of her alone. 
 They two were bred as sisters 
 
 Beside the blue Loch Fyne, 
 
14 Cfje Hatfj) of Hobat. 
 
 And with the love of sisters 
 
 Their hearts did intertwine ; 
 And neither had a separate thought 
 
 In days of youth gone by, 
 But now the Lady Lovat, 
 
 She did not dare to sigh. 
 She led her to the banquet, 
 
 She placed her by her side, 
 With courtly grace she ruled the feast, 
 
 As suits a chieftain's bride. 
 " I pledge thee, cousin Annabel, 
 
 I pledge thee joyfullie ; 
 Right welcome is thy leal fair face 
 
 Unto my lord and me !" 
 " A boon ! " cried Lady Annabel ; 
 
 " I pray, my lord, a boon ! 
 Thy presence and thy lady wife's 
 
 In our castle of Duntroon. 
 We hold a festive gathering, 
 
 Within Loch Crinan's towers ; 
 And might we hail you for our guests, 
 
 What cheerful hearts were ours ! " 
 The wily Lord of Lovat, 
 
 With cunning sneer he heard : 
 
€i)e 2U&# of Ho&at. 15 
 
 " There sits my lady and my wife, 
 
 I will abide her word !" 
 " Content thee, cousin Annabel," 
 
 She cried in hurried fear ; 
 " I cannot leave my happy home, 
 
 Although thou art so dear ! 
 My lord has business here awhile, 
 
 And I have work at home ; 
 And truly as I love Argyle, 
 
 Need be, I cannot come." 
 " Well said, thou lady of my heart !" 
 
 The treacherous Fraser cried ; 
 " Nor thou nor I can live apart ->— 
 
 We'll dwell at home, my bride ! " 
 Then mused the Lady Annabel, 
 
 " I find not what I sought ; 
 Here is too much of loving word 
 
 For much of loving thought ! 
 Yet gained I for one hurried hour 
 
 My cousin's ear alone, 
 Despite this arch-dissembler's power, 
 
 Her secret heart were known ! " 
 " But go thy ways, keen Annabel — 
 
 Thou art outwitted here ; 
 
16 €i)e 5£a*g oi iUbat 
 
 For thou hast nought at home to tell, 
 And I have nought to fear ! " 
 
 Said the wily Lord of Lovat. 
 
 V. 
 
 The mournful Lady Lovat, 
 
 She saw her friend depart, 
 She had not left for comforter 
 
 Aught save her own weak heart. 
 But man hath bounds in tyrannie, 
 
 And woman turns when stung ; 
 And at his sneer she lost her fear, 
 
 And brake out with her tongue : 
 " Thou false and cruel Fraser, 
 
 That dost rejoice in lies, 
 Thou hast put words into my lips, 
 
 And looks into mine eyes ; 
 Thou hast constrained me to my hurt, 
 
 Hast worked me to my fall — 
 Yet hear, thou Lord of Lovat, 
 
 Thou shalt account for all ! 
 The books are full against thee, • 
 
 The furies hotly burn, 
 Thou art upon a downward track, 
 
 And there is no return ! 
 
€f}t Hatrj) of Eobat. 17 
 
 I see the sordid grasping 
 
 At an unreal name, 
 The futile plots and counterplots — 
 
 Their end a flight of shame. 
 I see the fruitless shelter 
 
 In Cawdor's castled height, 
 The creeping o'er the battlements, 
 
 The fleeing forth by night ; 
 I see the troops pursuing, 
 
 Through Moidart's midnight gloom — 
 They hunt the wretch whose aged head 
 
 Is bending to the tomb. 
 I see the airy semblance 
 
 Of greatness fade and die ; 
 I see the headsman with his axe, 
 
 The people crowding by. 
 Thine — thine the hoary temples 
 
 That stoop upon the block — 
 Blench not, my Lord of Lovat, 
 
 Thou must abide this shock ! 
 Then shalt thou fawn and flatter, 
 
 And cringe to friends and foes, 
 And cry with age's idiocy 
 
 'Gainst such an age's close. 
 
18 Cije Hatii) of Eobat. 
 
 When thou shalt crave compassion, 
 
 And pray and be denied, 
 Then in thy spirit's anguish, 
 
 Remember me, thy bride ! 
 Remember, in like manner, 
 
 I sued to thee in vain ; 
 Smile not, my Lord of Lovat, 
 
 I heed not thy disdain ! 
 When the knell of death is pealing, 
 
 When the axe of death is bright, 
 When the rabble by the scaffold 
 
 Are shouting at their height — 
 My spirit shall be with thee, 
 
 To look upon thy doom, 
 Or if I be on Scottish land, 
 
 Or if I swell the tomb ! " 
 She spake with heat of passion, 
 
 Yet every word had might — 
 He shivered like an aspen leaf, 
 
 He fled beyond her sight, — 
 
 Fled the guilty Lord of Lovat. 
 
 VI, 
 
 The mournful Lady Lovat, 
 It is her youth's decline, 
 
€fjt 2La*j) of Ecfcat. 19 
 
 She sitteth in her kinsman's halls, 
 
 Beside the blue Loch Fyne ; 
 A widow with a husband 
 
 She fled from like a slave, 
 Bound with a chain of dissonance 
 
 That stretcheth to the grave. 
 She hath not seen the Fraser 
 
 For many a peaceful year, 
 Who late to win a coronet, 
 
 Hath served the Chevalier. 
 She looks upon the sunny shore, 
 
 Upon the tranquil bay, 
 Where calm the verdant shadows sleep 
 
 From wooded Dunnaquaich. 
 She turneth to the arrassed walls, 
 
 And lo ! upon the floor, 
 The semblance of a human head 
 
 All slowly dropping gore ; 
 The matted hoary tresses 
 
 Have crimson on their snows, 
 The eyes are full of agony — 
 
 Those dreadful eyes she knows. 
 She cries with grief remorseful, 
 
 The vision melts away ; 
 
20 Wtjt £a*j) of Hobat. 
 
 She seeth but the arrassed walls. 
 
 The tranquil, sunny bay : 
 " Too well am I avenged 
 
 For all I suffered long, 
 Too terrible this recompense, 
 
 Lord Lovat, for thy wrong ! 
 Thy failing limbs unpitied, 
 
 And shamed thy locks of grey — 
 The mercy of the merciless 
 
 Hath failed thy dying day ! " 
 
 Said the mournful Lady Lovat. 
 
CKAGGAN AN PHITHICK; 
 
 THE EOCK OF THE BAVEK 
 
 The ruined castle of Invergarry is seated on a rock on the banks of 
 Loch Oich, Invernesshire, close to the confluence of the river Garry with 
 the lake. The crag on which it is built was the ancient gathering- 
 place of that branch of Clan Colla called the Macdonells of Glengarry, 
 and gave its name, " the Rock of the Raven," to the slogan of that . 
 formidable tribe. By some authorities the castle is honoured with the 
 appellation of "ancient ;" but Mrs. Thomson, in her recently published 
 " Memoirs of the Jacobites," mentions its founder as that Chief of Glen- 
 garry who was a Lord of Session, and the immediate predecessor of " the 
 heroic Alaster Dhu," which would fix the date of the castle at about the 
 same time as the battle of Killiecrankie. However this may be, we learn 
 from Captain Burt's " Letters from the North " that it was partially 
 burned in the rebellion of 1715, that it was repaired by a trading 
 company who had leased Glengarry's woods for the purpose of smelting 
 ore with the charcoal of the timber, and that on the agent of the company 
 attempting to live in it, he was rudely expelled by the gentlemen of the 
 Macdonell clan, who could not brook the idea of a trading Sassenach 
 "being the occupant of their chief's hereditary mansion. Invergarry had 
 a gleam of its ancient splendour at the commencement of Prince Charles 
 
22 C$i l&ocfe of tf)e &aben. 
 
 Edward's rash enterprise ; for we read in Chambers's " History of the 
 Rebellion" that the prince spent a night there in August 1745, and was 
 visited by an emissary from the deceitful Lord Lovat. Once again 
 Charles slept in the castle, but in sadly changed guise, for it was on the 
 morning after the fatal fight of Culloden. A few days afterwards the 
 deserted fortress fell a prey to the destroying army of Duke William of 
 Cumberland. Its strength resisted in some measure the flames with 
 which it was assailed, and the blackened and ivy-grown bulwarks still 
 rear themselves grandly over the blue waters of Loch Oich. 
 
 The modern house of Glengarry lies lower down on the beach, and 
 scarcely interferes with the solemn gloom of the ruined fortalice. 
 
 The cruelties practised by the duke and his generals were beyond 
 description. Miller's " Survey of the Province of Moray " informs us 
 that so active were the ministers of vengeance, that " in a few days neither 
 house nor cottage, man nor beast, was to be seen within the compass of 
 fifty miles — all was ruin, silence, and desolation." 
 
 It appears that the Chief of Glengarry himself took no part in the 
 rising, nor did his eldest son, who was absent in France. The younger 
 son was the leader, and the intended scapegoat for the family ; but the 
 government was too irritated to attend to distinctions of so doubtful 
 a character, and, accordingly, in the succeeding vengeance, the Mac- 
 donells of Glengarry suffered bitterly for their disaffection. In 1794, 
 the Macdonells were formed into a government corps under the com- 
 mand of their chieftain; but this regiment being disbanded in 1802, 
 the principal part of the clan removed to Upper Canada, where they 
 have given to many scenes the same beloved names as those borne by 
 the glens of their fathers. The remnant of these Macdonells live peace- 
 ably in their old locality, nor is there in all Scotland a more interesting 
 or beautiful district than that of Glengarry. 
 

 THE ROCK OF THE RAVEN. 
 
 Beware of Macdonell, beware of his wrath ! 
 In friendship or foray, oh ! cross not his path ! 
 He knoweth no bounds to his love or his hate, 
 And the wind of his claymore is blasting as Fate ; 
 Like the hill-cat who springs from her lair in the rock, 
 He leaps on his foe — there is death in the shock; 
 And the birds of the air shall be gorged with their prey, 
 When the chief of Glengarry comes down to the fray, 
 With his war-cry, " The Rock of the Raven ! " 
 
24 €i)? aaocfe of ti)t &abm. 
 
 The eagle he loveth dominion on high, 
 He dwells with his kindred alone in the sky, 
 Nor heedeth he, sailing at noon o'er the glen, 
 The turbulent cares and dissensions of men. 
 But the raven exulteth when strife is at hand, 
 His eyes are alight with the gleam of the brand ; 
 And still, when the red burning cross goeth round, 
 And gathers Clan Colla at fortified mound, 
 The first at the tryst is the Raven. 
 
 On the Rock of the Raven, that looks o'er the flood, 
 All scathed with the cannon, all stained with the blood, 
 Had old Invergarry long baffled the snows, 
 The gales of the mountain, the league of the foes ; 
 And sternly its bulwarks confronted the tide, 
 And safely the skiff in their shadow could ride, 
 For upwards and downwards as far as the sight, 
 That castle commanded the vale and the height, 
 From its eyrie, the Rock of the Raven. 
 
 But woe for Duke William ! his doom shall be bale, 
 When against him in judgment upriseth the Gael, 
 When they cry how green Albyn lay weltering in gore, 
 From western Loch Linnhe to Cromarty's shore ; 
 
€J)c laocfe of tty ifcabm. 25 
 
 How the course of the victor was marked on the cloud, 
 By the black wreathing smoke hanging down like a shroud 
 O'er the hut of the vassal, the tower of his lord, 
 For the fire worketh swifter than carbine or sword, 
 And giveth more joy to the Raven. 
 
 Then downcast was Colla, sore smitten with dread, 
 And hunted for sport with the fox and the gled, 
 While old Invergarry, in silence forlorn, 
 Resounded no longer the pipe and the horn. 
 But the Raven sat flapping his wings in the brake, 
 When the troops of Duke William marched down by the lake ; 
 Their march was at sunset — at dawning of day 
 In smouldering heaps were those battlements gray, 
 And the castle was left to the Raven. 
 
 From mountain and loch hath departed its sway, 
 Yet still the old fortress defieth decay ; 
 The name of Duke William is foul with disgrace, 
 But the bastions he fired are as firm in their place ; 
 And the clansmen he scattered are gathered again, 
 The song and the dance are restored to the glen, 
 And the chief of Glengarry hath builded his halls 
 On the low woody beach in the shade of those walls 
 That frown from the Rock of the Raven. 
 
26 €i)t Sftocit of tj)« 3ftauw. 
 
 And still hath Macdonell the soul of his sires, 
 
 And still hath Clan Colla the old Gaelic fires, 
 
 For the pulse beateth strongly for honour and pride, 
 
 As it throbbed in their breasts who for loyalty died ; 
 
 » 
 With peace and with plenty the valleys rejoice, 
 
 And the wind hath forgotten the slogan's dread voice, 
 
 And the home of the Gael is as tranquil and bright 
 
 As Loch Oich when it sleeps on a blue summer's night 
 
 At the foot of the Rock of the Raven . 
 
DUNFALLANDY. 
 
 English travellers and Lowland neighbours have united in represent- 
 ing the Highlanders as barbarians and savages, destitute of the higher 
 attributes of humanity, who lived by rapine and feud. On the other 
 hand, their own traditions and the enthusiastic zeal of later Celtic writers 
 have done much towards clearing their fame, and proving that over the 
 darkness of a lawless and predatory people there played much of the light 
 of man's diviner nature. Romance, likewise, steps eagerly forward to aid 
 in their vindication. Their virtues were on the same exaggerated scale 
 as their vices. If their revenge was unrelenting, their good faith was 
 unwavering ; if they hated to the death, their love lived even beyond the 
 grave. Their passions were those of a nation, often persecuted, always 
 misunderstood, with a certain wild chivalry which casts the grace of 
 poetry over their memory. 
 
 The policy adopted with regard to them by the ancient Scottish kings 
 was indiscriminately cruel and uniformly injudicious. 
 
 The jealousies between rival clans were oftener fomented than healed 
 by statesmen who looked on them as so many wild animals, whose de- 
 struction would prove rather a benefit than a misfortune. The same 
 treatment was extended to them after the union of the kingdoms ; in 
 
•2$ Jiunfallairtrg. 
 
 short, until recent times, the whole history of the Gael exhibits a series of 
 sanguinary feuds and formidable insurrections. With the more paternal 
 sway of the third George a new era commenced for the clans, and kind- 
 ness has done what severity failed to achieve ; it has crumbled into dust 
 the ancient bulwarks of their patriarchal government. 
 
 As danger drew them more closely together, so freedom has dispersed, 
 and the Highlanders are now loyal subjects though more indifferent 
 vassals. The chieftainship exists but in name ; the clansmen are scattered 
 through the far colonies of Britain, and have almost forgotten the romantic 
 peculiarities of their ancestors. 
 
 The story of Dunfallandy, or " The Bloody Stone," is characteristic as 
 a record of the past. Its date lies so far back, that the former name of 
 the estate has passed away, and the peasants of the vicinity are unable to 
 supply any failing links in the tradition. 
 
 The present generation have been too plodding to care for the pre- 
 servation of those local legends which it was the pride of their fathers to 
 narrate, and which have thus descended with the old people into the 
 tomb. 
 
 The modern house of Dunfallandy is plain and unadorned ; it crowns 
 a green terrace above the river Tummel, and looks down, somewhat con- 
 temptuously, upon the low haugh on the level of the stream, where, in 
 former days, dwelt that Laird of " Middlehaugh " whose ruthless style of 
 courtship has given rise to the ballad. 
 
 The creaghs were the forays undertaken by large bodies of Highland- 
 ers at certain seasons of the year; the bright moonlight of autumn was 
 their favourite period, and the cattle of the Lowlanders, or the herds of a 
 rival clan, were liberally laid under contribution. 
 
 The chiefs did not think it derogatory to lead the bands who set forth 
 on such expeditions. Often, indeed, a chieftain would make a contract 
 
Utmfallairtrj). 29 
 
 with his daughter's bridegroom to give as her dowry the purchase of 
 three Michaelmas moons ; hence arose a Lowland proverb, " Highland 
 lairds tell out their daughters' tochers by the light of the Michaelmas 
 moon." 
 
 Petty thievery was almost unknown ; even the English visitors re- 
 mark with commendation on the honesty of the meanest kerne. Every 
 thing in the hills was conducted in due form, and they went forth to rob 
 as they went to fight, attaching nearly equal merit to success in either 
 undertaking. 
 
 The Highland ladies wore the rich silks and velvets which were 
 readily imported from France ; the lower classes contented themselves 
 with a garment called arisaid, of striped cloth, probably not unlike 
 the tartans which formed the distinguishing apparel of their male kins- 
 men : that they at times wore the tartan itself appears from Martin's 
 work on the Western Islands, and also from an English writer who 
 dwells on the fastidious nicety displayed by the Highland ladies in the 
 arrangement of the coloured checks, which they drew with their own 
 hands as a pattern ere the work was woven in the loom. 
 

 ^^2J 
 
 DUNEALLANDY. 
 
 In the good old stirring time 
 
 Celt and Saxon lived at feud, 
 Oft their hands in foulest crime 
 
 By that variance were imbrued ; 
 Passions then were falsely large, 
 
 Love impulsive, fierce desire, 
 Hate bequeathed in dying charge 
 
 To the children from the sire ; 
 
Jtofattanty). 31 
 
 Life was cheap and vengeance stern, 
 
 Death familiar presence wore, 
 Softer was the Druid's cairn 
 
 Than the warrior's heart of yore. 
 
 Then the heather and the broom 
 
 Clothed from head to foot the strath, 
 Few were gardens trim in bloom, 
 
 Shaven turf or gravelled path ; 
 Poor the crops along the haugh, 
 
 Wild the pastures on the hill, 
 And the burn knew not the law 
 
 Of the life-supporting mill. 
 Then with Autumn's yellow leaves 
 
 Swept the creagh through the glen, 
 And the Saxons' choicest beeves 
 
 Vanished with the Highlandmen. 
 
 Then in pride of silken dress 
 
 Walked the dames of high degree, 
 
 Those of homelier comeliness 
 Garbed by simple housewifery. 
 
 Maids untochered maids were left, 
 While the heiress richly dowered 
 
32 Uunfallanto. 
 
 Oft was from her parents reft, 
 And by outrage overpowered, 
 
 When, at deadest of the night, 
 On her sleep the suitor broke, 
 
 Bore her off in friends' despite, 
 Forced into the bridal yoke. 
 
 Yonder house that, glaring white, 
 
 Crowns the bank of mossy green, 
 Standing like a beacon bright 
 
 Far adown the valley seen ; 
 Tame, prosaic, though the look 
 
 Of its unromaiitic pile, 
 Yet its walls are as a book 
 
 Where I read of blood and guile. 
 Long before its stones were placed, 
 
 Long before our grandsire's sire, 
 Yon fair hillock was disgraced 
 
 By a murder strange and dire. 
 
 Vague and garbled is the tale 
 Shewn by faint tradition's gleam, 
 
 How an heiress ruled the vale 
 
 From that mount above the stream ; 
 
20tmfanan*£. 33 
 
 How a Laird of Tummelside, 
 
 Dwelling on the farther shore, 
 House and holm aspiring eyed 
 
 With an envious heart and sore. 
 If he loved the maiden's self 
 
 Story hath forgot to tell, 
 But he loved the maiden's pelf, 
 
 Lands and rental, passing well. 
 
 Then he sought a neighbour friend, 
 
 Spake him fair in loving guise, — 
 " Unto me assistance lend, 
 
 For I know thee good and wise ! 
 Muireal, queen of Tummelside, 
 
 I have loved with love intense, 
 Win that maiden for my bride, 
 
 Rich shall be thy recompense ! 
 I am rude of speech and look, 
 
 Thou hast clerkly wit at will ; 
 Thou art sweet-voiced as a brook, 
 
 I am mute as yonder hill." 
 
 Forth went Donald, soft of tongue, 
 
 To the lady of the mount, 
 And his suit auspicious sprung 
 
 From his breast's o'erwelling fount. 
 
 F 
 
34 launfaltantti). 
 
 Words of love, her face so fair, 
 
 Words of hope, so kind her tone, 
 That the youth's impassioned prayer 
 
 Wooed her for himself alone : 
 Wooed and won her, all forgot 
 
 How the silent suitor waited, 
 Till was tied the marriage-knot, 
 
 And his ardent passion sated. 
 
 One forgot — the pleasure-crowned, 
 
 One remembered — the betrayed, 
 Night and day he watched the mound, 
 
 Hidden in a bushy glade ; 
 Crouching by a huge grey stone, 
 
 Armed, he breathless long had stood, 
 When the bridegroom passed alone 
 
 From the dwelling to the wood. 
 Proud of heart and step he came, 
 
 Gloating on the peaceful scene, 
 While his foe took deadly aim 
 
 From the covert's rocky screen ! 
 
 Did the widow wail and shriek ? 
 
 Did she rouse her vassal kerne ? 
 Ah ! too oft is woman weak 
 
 When her ire should fiercest burn. 
 
29tmfallaHfoj>. 35 
 
 Mayhap 'twas a wanton heart, 
 
 Mayhap terror crazed her mood, 
 Mayhap force might have its part 
 
 On her helpless womanhood. 
 Ere the evening's twilight died, 
 
 Ere the corse was stiff and cold, 
 Ere the murderer's hand was dried, 
 
 She was wedded in its hold ! 
 
 Now oppressor and oppressed 
 
 Both have gone to their account, 
 And a race of gentler breast 
 
 Hold the lairdship of the mount. 
 Rooted up as noxious weeds 
 
 Have the traces passed away, 
 Nor, like many barbarous deeds, 
 
 Chant they this in barbarous lay. 
 Now on Tummelside the farm 
 
 Thickly hath its produce sown, 
 You may sleep and fear no harm 
 
 E'en beside " The Bloody Stone." 
 
 So it is with human deeds, 
 
 Too ephemeral to last, 
 Bounteous loves and lustful greeds 
 
 Intermingle in the past. 
 
36 Utmfallanfcj). 
 
 So confused the records stand 
 
 Of this crime-traditioned glen, 
 When the Gael had Ishmael's hand 
 
 Raised against his fellow-men ; 
 Nought remaineth but the name, 
 
 Spectre-like that clings to thee, 
 Handing down thy gory fame, 
 
 Hill of blood, Dunfallandy, 
 
 From the good old stirring time ! 
 
THE IMPRECATION BY THE CRADLE. 
 
 A young lady of rank, belonging to an ancient family in the north of 
 Scotland, was betrothed, with the consent of her relations, to a gentleman 
 of equal birth. Their union being delayed by unforeseen obstacles, the 
 lover found means to ruin the unhappy girl, whose affection for her 
 plighted husband left her more exposed to his unprincipled passion. 
 Then, notwithstanding the wealth to which she was heiress, he deserted 
 her, and completed his perfidy by carrying his addresses to the daughter 
 of a neighbouring earl, by whom they were accepted. 
 
 The distracted lady heard of his new betrothal when on the point of 
 becoming a mother. With a strength almost supernatural in one so 
 delicately reared, she rose from her bed the very day her child was born, 
 and attiring herself in costly garments, went to a public assembly, where 
 her fickle lover and his engaged wife were to be present. There she 
 danced so gaily and so lightly as completely to belie the rumours scandal 
 had circulated regarding her. 
 
 But shortlived was her assumed gaiety. Keturned to her dishonoured 
 home, heartbroken and a prey to her emotions, she knelt down by the 
 cradle of her son and prayed that on the father's head sorrow and retri- 
 bution might descend, and that he might never know happiness in his 
 home or child in his wedlock. 
 
38 Cje Jfatproatfon ftp tyt Cradle. 
 
 Her adjuration seemed a prophecy, for she who had filled her place in 
 his affections, learning the story of her hapless rival, conceived a violent 
 hatred for her husband. So far did this dislike proceed that her mind 
 became unsettled. She repeatedly attempted both her own and her 
 husband's life ; and at last, confined to prevent fatal consequences, she 
 died a raving and a childless maniac. 
 
 The boy, whose birth had brought misfortune on both his parents 
 and caused so much sorrow on all sides, grew to manhood, when he 
 distinguished himself greatly in the profession of arms, gaining both 
 honour and wealth in his country's service. 
 
 Such are the romantic incidents of a story which is literally true. 
 

 Jml 
 
 m 
 
 *Tr#ym 
 
 THE IMPEECATTON BY THE CEADLE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Slumber sweet, my babie, 
 
 Slumber peacefullie, 
 Mickle grief and mickle wrang- 
 
 I have borne for thee ! 
 
40 Cije Jfmproatum fcj> tf)e Crafcle. 
 
 Hush thee, heir of sorrow ! 
 
 Sleep and sleep away, 
 All of thy fause father's heart 
 
 Mingled with thy clay. 
 
 Dinna wear his likeness, 
 Dinna smile his smile ; 
 
 I should hate thee, innocent, 
 For that look of guile ! 
 
 Dinna speak his accents, 
 
 Lest my heart of fire 
 Spurn the child for blandishments 
 
 Borrowed from the sire. 
 
 Faint with mother-anguish 
 
 From my bed I rose, 
 Kamed the locks he praised so weel, 
 
 Donned my richest clothes, 
 
 Danced amang the blythest, 
 
 Gay as ony bride, 
 All the weakness of my limbs 
 
 Iron-braced by pride. 
 
€f)* fonprwatum bv tfje CratJle. 41 
 
 Fair is Lady Ellen, 
 
 He her hand did hold, 
 Breathed to her the flatteries 
 
 Breathed to me of old. 
 
 Dancing- down the measure, 
 
 Ne'er his thoughts could be 
 How to him a child was born 
 
 That dark day by me. 
 
 Oh ! ye dreams of vengeance, 
 
 Which the injured haunt, 
 If ye come like evil powers 
 
 Evil prayers to grant, 
 
 Cursed be his union ! 
 
 Cursed be his name ! 
 Trodden in forgetful ness, 
 
 Blotted out in shame ! 
 
 Barren be his wedlock, 
 
 Desolate his hearth, 
 Never may. his ancient halls 
 
 Echo children's mirth. 
 
42 C!jt Jfmprtratum by tf)t Cratrtr. 
 
 Childless Lady Ellen ! 
 
 Never may her hand 
 Rock the cradled little one, 
 
 Heir of all her land. 
 
 Land and lordly glories 
 Passing to another, 
 
 Never may a lawful heir 
 Mock his elder brother ! 
 
 Slumber sweet, my babie, 
 
 Slumber peacefullie, 
 Mickle grief and mickle wrang- 
 
 Life has yet for thee ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Slumber sweet, my mother, 
 
 Slumber peacefullie, 
 Dinna heed the grief and wrang 
 
 Life has brought to me ! 
 
 Dinna heed the scorning 
 
 Of thy haughty kin, 
 Dinna weep sae bitter lie 
 
 Lang repented sin ! 
 
Cije fmpwattmt bj> tty Crafcl*. 43 
 
 Dinna heed the portion 
 
 Lawful heirs enjoy, 
 Forfeit lands and forfeit name 
 
 Wrested from thy boy. 
 
 Dinna weep the traitor 
 
 Who thy youth betrayed, 
 Wooed thee in the sunny time, 
 
 Left thee in the shade. 
 
 For the curse is working, 
 
 At my birth conjured, 
 Sharper griefs are piercing him 
 
 Than thyself endured ! 
 
 Lonely are his castles, 
 
 Desolate his halls, 
 Never child hath propped the house 
 
 Which to ruin falls. 
 
 Hate is in her bosom, 
 
 Who the long night lies 
 Gazing in his haggard face 
 
 With unquiet eyes. 
 
44 %\)t Ifmprwatfon fcj> tf)e CrafcU. 
 
 Crazed is Lady Ellen, 
 She whose beauty won 
 
 Lover from his plighted bride, 
 Father from his son. 
 
 Crazed is Lady Ellen, 
 Yet her madness knows 
 
 Horror for his perjury, 
 Pity for thy woes. 
 
 Softly sleep, my mother, 
 He can sleep no more, 
 
 Fearfulness and gaunt remorse 
 Knocking at his door. 
 
 Outcast from my lineage, 
 
 He to me denied 
 Father's love and father's name, 
 
 Wealth and rank and pride ; 
 
 Yet my blood is burning 
 With ancestral fires, 
 
 And the glory of the child 
 Shall outshine the sire's. 
 
Cfjc imprecation by tlje CratJlc. 45 
 
 And the landless soldier, 
 
 From the gory field, 
 From the ramparts won shall carve 
 
 His unspotted shield. 
 
 Softly sleep, my mother, 
 Slumber peacefullie, 
 
 Justice for its cruel wrong- 
 Life shall yield to me ! 
 
THE OLD HOUSE OF UERARD. 
 
 The pass of Killiecrankie, justly celebrated for its beauty, is said to 
 have derived its name from the Gaelic expression, " Coile-chrionaich," 
 signifying decayed brushwood. Most inappropriate in the present day is 
 this title, since its precipitous sides are now clothed with towering foliage 
 of every kind. Among the other trees the gracefully feathered birch is 
 conspicuous, whose golden columns, anticipating in summer the hues of 
 autumn, shed a peculiarly beautiful lustre over the pass. The abandon- 
 ment of the old road by the river-side in favour of a modern one which 
 follows a more elevated course, added to the tasteful distribution of the 
 woods, has changed what was formerly a savage defile to a sylvan glen. 
 Thus the imagination of the present traveller can scarcely realise the 
 horror felt by the Hessian troops, who drew back in terror from the 
 entrance, and absolutely refused to penetrate its gloomy recesses. 
 
 It was here that in 1689 the Hanoverian army sustained a bloody 
 defeat from the Highlanders under Viscount Dundee, " that last and best 
 of Scots," as Dryden emphatically terms him. The battle raged most 
 hotly in the fields and garden immediately surrounding the house of 
 Urrard, which, from a high, wooded bank, overlooks the northern outlet 
 
El)t <3lti ^ottSc of SBrrarti. 47 
 
 of the pass. A green mound, darkened by overhanging branches, points 
 out the spot where the gallant Claverhouse fell. The missile which 
 pierced him is said to have been a silver button employed by a fanatic 
 enemy, who believed him proof by the power of Satan against all more 
 ordinary weapons. With his death victory was bought at too high a 
 price, as it paralysed the subsequent exertions of the Jacobites, and 
 proved more disastrous to their cause than a reverse could have been. 
 After receiving his wound, Dundee was carried to die in the castle of 
 Blair, where he had been previously residing, and was buried in the 
 neighbouring churchyard. 
 
 The house of Urrard has been of late years altered and enlarged, 
 though enough of the old building remains to keep alive the memory of 
 its traditions. In the progress of these alterations the workmen laid open 
 a secret passage, wherein were found two skeletons, their rusted swords 
 and mouldered garments. It was supposed from the appearances that one 
 combatant having been pursued thither by another, both had fallen in 
 the struggle, and their bodies were left forgotten to decay. The adjoining- 
 room was of course peculiarly obnoxious to spiritual intrusion. Often 
 has the writer, when a child, lain awake at nights listening apprehensively 
 for the expected knocks and groans by which the imprisoned spectres ex- 
 pressed their dislike of confinement. As the wainscot was old and the 
 window-frames addicted to rattling, there was no danger of the listener 
 being otherwise than confirmed in credulity. 
 
 The garrets were likewise the nocturnal resort of ghostly company. 
 Thither they came to array themselves in the brocaded robes and sweeping 
 trains which lay garnered in certain old chests. The servants used to tell the 
 children about hearing sounds of silken dresses trailed along the floor, and 
 the idea had a kind of grotesque horror attractive to the young imagina- 
 tion. Vanity beyond the grave, love of dress in mouldering corses, 
 
48 €ty <©tt House of Uvvavti. 
 
 skeletons arrayed in stiff and pompous robes — such were the strange 
 fancies that haunted the sleep of childhood. 
 
 Moreover, Dundee himself (said the learned) was to be evoked by 
 the bold wight who should approach at midnight the spot where he 
 received his death-wound. One occasion is particularly remembered when 
 a party sallied out on such an adventurous errand ; but whether it was 
 that the number of the spirit-hunters frustrated the spell, or that the 
 redoubtable warrior scorned a summons from the lips of frightened school- 
 girls, the green- shadowed mound continued still and undisturbed in the 
 moonlight, and the ghost-seekers returned as wise as they went. 
 
THE OLD HOUSE OF DERAED 
 
 Dost fear the grim brown twilight ? 
 
 Dost care to walk alone 
 When the firs upon the hill-top 
 
 With human voices moan ? 
 When the river twineth restless 
 
 Through deep and jagged linn, 
 Like one who cannot sleep o' nights 
 
 For evil thoughts within ? 
 
50 Cfje <©Ifc floutfe of Uvvaxtl. 
 
 When the hooting owls grow silent 
 The ghostly sounds to hark 
 
 In the ancient house of Urrard, 
 When the night is still and dark ? 
 
 There are graves about old Urrard, 
 
 Huge mounds by rock and tree, 
 And they who lie beneath them 
 
 Died fighting by Dundee. 
 Far down along the valley, 
 
 And up along the hill, 
 The fight of Killiecrankie 
 
 Has left a story still. 
 But thickest shew the traces, 
 
 And thickest throng the sprites, 
 In the woods about old Urrard 
 
 On the gloomy winter nights. 
 
 In the garden of old Urrard, 
 
 Among the bosky yews, 
 A turfen hillock riseth, 
 
 Refreshed by faithful dews ; 
 Here sank the warrior stricken 
 
 By charmed silver ball, 
 And all the might of victory 
 
 Dropped nerveless in his fall. 
 
€f)e <&n* tousle of ^rrartJ. 51 
 
 Last hope of exiled Stuart, 
 
 Last heir of chivalrie, 
 In the garden of old Urrard 
 
 He fell, the brave Dundee ! 
 
 In the ancient house of Urrard 
 
 There's many a hiding den, 
 The very walls are hollow 
 
 To cover dying men ; 
 For not e'en lady's chamber 
 
 Barred out the fierce affray, 
 And couch and damask curtain 
 
 Were stained with blood that day. 
 And there's a secret passage, 
 
 Whence sword and skull and bone 
 Were brought to light in Urrard, 
 
 When years had passed and gone. 
 
 If thou sleep alone in Urrard, 
 
 Perchance in midnight gloom 
 Thou'lt hear behind the wainscot 
 
 Of that old haunted room 
 A fleshless hand that knocketh, 
 
 A wail that cries on thee, 
 And rattling limbs that struggle 
 
 To break out and be free. 
 
52 Cf)t #1* ferns'* of mtvaxlt. 
 
 It is a thought of horror — 
 I would not sleep alone • 
 
 In the haunted rooms of Urrard, 
 Where evil deeds were done. 
 
 Amid the dust of garrets 
 
 That stretch along the roof, 
 Stand chests of ancient garments 
 
 Of gold and silken woof. 
 When men are locked in slumber 
 
 The rustling sounds are heard 
 Of dainty ladies' dresses. 
 
 Of laugh and whispered word, 
 Of waving wind of feathers, 
 
 And steps of dancing feet, 
 In the garrets of old Urrard, 
 
 Where the winds of winter beat. 
 
 By the ancient house of Urrard 
 
 Its guardian-mountain sits, 
 Whene'er those sounds arouse him 
 
 His cloudy brow he knits ; 
 For he the feast remembers, 
 
 Remembers eke the fray, 
 And to him flit the spectres 
 
 At breaking of the day. 
 
€i)e <©ttJ feoxiSt of ©tear*. 53 
 
 There under mossy lichen 
 
 They couch with hare and fox, 
 Near the ancient house of Urrard, 
 
 'Mong Ben-y-Vrachy's rocks. 
 
BESSIE BELL AND MABY GBAY. 
 
 Who knows not the old ballad of " Bessie Bell and Mary Gray," 
 simple and pathetic both in its melody and theme ? 
 
 The sisterly affection of these young girls — their night together from 
 the dreary, plague-stricken town to the healthful solitudes of nature — 
 their unconscious rivalry in love, and the melancholy consequences of 
 their lover's eager pursuit, by which he communicated to them the pesti- 
 lence from which they had fled — their deaths together and burial in the 
 same grave, " to beek forenent the sun," — all these sad features of their 
 story make up a picture of beauty to which the Scottish muse has ever 
 been feelingly alive. 
 
 The following relation is given in the " New Statistical Account of 
 Scotland : " — 
 
 " The common tradition is that Bessie Bell was the daughter of the 
 Laird of Kinvaid, and Mary Gray of the Laird of Lednock. Being near 
 neighbours, a great intimacy subsisted between the young ladies. They 
 were together at Lednock when the plague which ravaged Perth and its 
 environs broke out, in 1645. To avoid it they retired to a romantic spot 
 called Burn Braes on the estate of Lednock, where they lived for some 
 time, but afterwards caught the infection from a young gentleman, an 
 
fttMit 53ell an* Ptovj) <&raj). 55 
 
 admirer of both, who came to visit them in their solitude ; and here they 
 died, and were buried at some distance from their bower, upon a beautiful 
 bank of the Almond." — See Parish of Methven, Perthshire. 
 
 Acting on the hint that " the young gentleman " was an admirer of 
 both, Allan Cunningham has added to the ballad one or two verses repre- 
 senting the youth in a state of perplexing vacillation between the charms 
 of the affectionate rivals. With what taste these verses were appended to 
 the simple old fragment, in which some nameless bard had given immor- 
 tality to the names of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, every reader can judge 
 for himself. 
 
 The grave where these fair maidens lie will disappoint the expectations 
 of the enthusiastic visitor. Though the scene be a deep glen, through 
 which runs the rapid Almond, flinging its bells of foam within a few feet 
 of the slumberers' resting-place, though the bank rises behind precipitously, 
 and an old pine waves its dark branches overhead, shutting out the ex- 
 cessive beams of summer, good taste is offended by the heavy square stone 
 sunk to a level with the ground, and the high, inelegant railing which 
 surrounds the slab, giving the tomb the dull, gloomy air of a city church- 
 yard. 
 
 The present arrangements were effected by the late Lord Lynedoch, 
 the proprietor, whose cottage occupies a sunny bank amid those scenes of 
 song. The gallant veteran, it would appear, knew better what became a 
 hero's life than a maiden's grave, or he would have left in their primitive 
 rusticity the grassy mound and unhewn headstone which formerly pointed 
 out the tomb of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray. 
 
BESSIE BELL AND MART GRAY. 
 
 Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 Ye damsels famed in Scottish lay, 
 
 How knew ye I was roving 
 By Lynedoch's elms and hazel bowers, 
 Where Almond sings unto the flowers, 
 
 Where ye were lost through loving ? 
 
 How knew ye by your grave I stood, 
 Where thickest twines the tangled wood 
 
 And saddest plains the river ; 
 Where overhead, with feeble stir, 
 Trembled an old and withered fir, 
 
 As whispering, " Lost for ever ?" 
 
 How knew ye I bemoaned the tomb 
 Where ye were laid in youthful bloom, 
 Now curbed with stone and paling 
 
So high and strong, and closely barred, 
 The fielding-mouse would find it hard 
 To creep within the railing ? 
 
 Oh where, I cried, the heaving mound 
 That clasped you in its mossy bound, 
 
 The lichened stone that headed ; 
 When ye were left to buds and dews, 
 Save when some faithful Scottish muse 
 
 Your glen sequestered threaded ? 
 
 The trace of many a vulgar soul 
 Is carved upon the pine-tree's bole, 
 
 Your deathless fame to borrow. 
 Ah, tasteless hands ! to lacerate 
 That aged trunk, long consecrate 
 
 To love alone and sorrow ! 
 
 Oh ! Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 My heart has thrilled to hear your lay 
 
 From bard or harper hoary ! 
 But why, ye ghosts, disturb my rest, 
 All scarred with that contagious pest 
 
 Whereof ye died in story ? 
 
58 fttteiz ?3ril an* |Karj> (ferap. 
 
 Ye stood together by my bed, 
 
 Blue haloes round your features played, 
 
 From ruder gaze to screen you ; 
 For oh ! your bloom was sadly changed, 
 Since lover's heart uncertain ranged, 
 
 And could not choose between you. 
 
 " Alas ! " ye sighed, " we heard your moan ; 
 1 Where is the damsels' burial- stone, 
 
 That whilome marked their slumber ? 
 What evil hand this weight hath laid, 
 The gentle breast and youthful head 
 
 With iron cage to cumber ? ' 
 
 Oh ! stranger, once above us grew 
 The feather fern, the harebell blue, 
 
 And decked our bosoms lightly ; 
 And through the slender crested grass, 
 Unto the free air we could pass, 
 
 When stars were shining nightly. 
 
 And we could wander on the brae, 
 Where still he came at break of day, 
 His fond allegiance proving. 
 
fttteit ?3ell antr Plavj? <&vaj). 59 
 
 Ah ! had we been content to dwell 
 Without bim in our hermit cell ! — 
 But we were lost through loving ! 
 
 From dire disease in danger's hour 
 We fled unharmed to Lynedoch's bower, 
 
 While horrors raged around us, 
 For never yet had Almond's glen 
 Been tainted by the breath of men, 
 
 Till that true lover found us. 
 
 He brought us food and kindly cheer, 
 And dying words from parents dear, 
 
 Our hearts to anguish moving ; 
 But in his looks and in his breath, 
 And in his presence, there was death, 
 
 And we were lost through loving ! 
 
 Yet still of us it shall be sung, 
 
 Two maidens lived admired and young, 
 
 By envy's cark unblighted ; 
 Though to the same beloved youth 
 Their virgin innocence and truth 
 
 In secret soul were plighted. 
 
60 ftmit JSell antt #flari) <fera». 
 
 But now no more our restless sprites 
 May wander forth on dewy nights, 
 
 Each fond remembrance hailing. 
 Allhallows' Eve alone is ours, 
 When nought can bind the viewless powers, 
 
 Nor stone nor iron railing. 
 
 Or when some sympathetic spell 
 Of minstrel mourning in our dell 
 
 Brings friendly help to free us ; 
 Then may we roam till peep of morn, 
 And sigh our symphonies forlorn, 
 
 And mortal eye may see us. 
 
 Oh! stranger, heed the boon we ask — 
 No irksome toil, no sinful task, 
 
 No soul-defiling duty ; 
 We seek but pity for our fate, 
 Imprisoned, dark and desolate, 
 
 In Lynedoch's glen of beauty. 
 
 We seek but freedom — from us far 
 Be tablet-stone and iron bar, 
 Our peaceful ashes crushing ; 
 
33«Wie Bell airtr JHarj) <&vaj>. 61 
 
 Let us again feel sun and showers, 
 
 And hear the tinkle of the flowers, 
 
 And Almond's waters gushing. 
 
 So, when ye list the mavis sing 
 
 On Lynedoch's braes in early spring, 
 
 Beside some dear one roving, 
 Shall grateful accents swell the lay 
 From Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 Those maidens lost through loving ! " 
 
 So said the ghosts, or rather sung 
 With a sweet, sighing, dolorous tongue, 
 
 That melted me to sorrow ; 
 When on my couch a red ray fell 
 From the waked sun, they knew it well, 
 
 And hasty cried, " Good morrow ! " 
 
 A cold air swept me, as if stirred 
 By the strong pinions of a bird 
 
 Who skyward fast is roving. 
 And thus I learned the mournful lay 
 Of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, 
 
 Those maidens lost through loving. 
 
THE SHRIFT OF JANET CAMPBELL. 
 
 The following tale, which is based on a current tradition, has under- 
 gone some alteration in the handling. The character of the Lord of 
 Balloch is entirely fictitious. However, the dark annals of a Scottish 
 family relate that once an aged husband, roused to jealousy by the indis- 
 creet levity of his young and beautiful wife, immured her in a closet in 
 his own castle, keeping watch himself with horrible perseverance till his 
 victim died of starvation. 
 
 Balloch Castle was the former name of the seat of the Marquis of 
 Breadalbane, now called, from its position, Taymouth. The present 
 building is of recent erection ; the ancient one (to which we have trans- 
 ferred the locality of the poem) was the work of Sir Duncan Campbell, 
 the Black Knight of Lochawe. He, by authority of royal charter and 
 by force of arms, drove out the unfortunate clan Gregor from the vale of 
 Breadalbane, which they had possessed for more than a century ; and his 
 descendants have ever since remained the lords paramount of the goodly 
 heritage. 
 
 The doctrines of the Covenanters, widely spread over the south of 
 Scotland, made but slow progress in the Highlands. They were not 
 congenial to the spirit of clanship, which supposed a sacrifice of personal 
 
€!)* &!)rtft of $anet Campbell. 63 
 
 opinions to the superior wisdom of the chief. But the Campbells of 
 Breadalbane, influenced by their relationship to Argyle, had generally 
 sided with the cause of the Covenant. Hence, Janet Campbell's father is 
 described in the poem as belonging to the Cameronian sect, one of the 
 severest among the Covenanters ; while it is evident that the fierce cha- 
 racter of the imaginary tyrant, the Lord of Balloch, would ill assimilate 
 with a party who entertained such rigid notions of religion, and insisted 
 on such unbounded freedom of political action. 
 
 Among the Highlanders the nuptial tie was kept sacredly inviolate ; 
 but it is to be feared that previous to marriage Celtic manners were not so 
 laudably rigid, and that the frailty of a vassal maiden, when her chief was 
 the tempter, would have been reckoned but a venial sin. The new and 
 purer faith adopted by Janet's father would inspire him with very differ- 
 ent sentiments on the occasion of his daughter's fall. 
 
 The summary punishment inflicted by the Lord of Balloch on his 
 wife will not surprise those who remember the arbitrary power possessed 
 by the chiefs. Though public opinion placed some restraint upon them 
 (for the most irresponsible and powerful Gael was ever jealous of his 
 reputation), and the deference they were expected to pay to the elders of 
 their tribe frequently called others to their counsel, still instances were 
 frequent where unbridled fury scorned all these barriers, and the evil 
 effect of an irresponsible authority over life and death displayed itself in 
 glaring colours. 
 
 This " power of pit and gallows," as it was termed, was not formally 
 revoked by government till near the end of last century. We may 
 imagine how often it must have been abused, how often the innocent 
 must have suffered where law and a regulated system of justice were 
 unknown. It must, in fairness, be allowed that the mutual affection 
 which united the chieftain and his clan made such ebullitions of despotism 
 
64 Cfje gtyitt of $aiut Campbell. 
 
 very rare, as, indeed, they would have been unsupportable if frequently 
 indulged. 
 
 Like all mankind when in a half-civilised state, the Gael possessed 
 virtues and vices strongly inconsistent. Generous as he was, almost 
 chivalrous in high-toned sentiment, he held it cowardly to forgive an 
 injury. The memory of offences was carefully treasured in the songs of 
 the bards ; resentment grew in strength, instead of wearing away under 
 the softening influence of the past. The spirit of the injured dead called 
 on his descendants for vengeance on his wrongs. He who would willingly 
 have forgotten was not allowed to forgive ; the prejudices of education, 
 the voice of his people, the stirring strains of the minstrel, stimulated the 
 meekest into fury. "Wrong was accumulated on wrong; and thus the 
 sin of one ungoverned heart might prove the death-doom of hundreds 
 unborn. 
 

 THE SHRIFT OF JANET CAMPBELL. 
 PART I. 
 
 " Stir the flame and heap the faggot — do not leave me, child, I pray ! 
 Nothing here hath power to startle in the lightsome look of day : 
 But the night — the night is peopled, full of voices, full of forms ; 
 Rather than in darkling chamber, I would lie out in the storms. 
 
 K 
 
66 %%t ^Ijrtft of $aiut CampMt. 
 
 Stir the flame ! — the shadows flicker with the bursts of driving rain, 
 
 And the wind behind the wainscot moaneth o'er and o'er again ; 
 
 And the secret door that leadeth to the inner closet small — 
 
 Hist ! — what hands are at the fastening, and what woman's voice doth call?" 
 
 " Hush thee, Janet — good old Janet !" through the gloom the child replied, 
 With a girlish terror crouching to the wretched pallet's side ; 
 " Hush thee, Janet ! none is calling, none is here but little Jean ; 
 Nothing moveth at the wainscot: fearful words! — what can they mean?" 
 
 " Nothing ! saidst thou ?" cried the beldam, springing up upon her bed, 
 With her long grey hairs dishevelled, backwards streaming from her head ; 
 " Nothing ! see'st thou not those embers burning to foreshew my doom ?" 
 From the sycamore's dark branches came a sighing through the room. 
 
 " Hush thee, Janet ! — how thou starest !" sobbed the girl, and caught her arm 
 " Lie thee down and try to slumber, here is nought that need alarm ; 
 I will read thee from the Scriptures all the blessed words He said, 
 Yon old minister whose praying left thee calmer in thy bed." 
 
 " Prayers and preachings for the guiltless ! not for me, child — I am foul 
 With red blood and dare not worship, dare not think I have a soul. 
 Now she calleth ! now she cometh ! — hold my hand, thou sinless child ; 
 Evil things will stand at distance, thou art meek and undefiled. 
 
Cfje &l>viit of Sanet Campbell. 67 
 
 Hast thou courage, youthful Jeanie, for a tale of sin and wrong- ? 
 Weary, weary is this sickness, and the darkness lasts so long ! 
 I must speak before I perish, or my spirit, unconfest, 
 Still would haunt the mouldering body were I dead and laid to rest. 
 
 Haggard now is Janet Campbell, yet men once said I was fair, 
 And the fair have many lovers, and love proved to me a snare ; 
 Round me came the youth of Balloch, undissuaded by my pride, 
 And the Lord of Balloch loved me, and I thought to be his bride. 
 
 But my sire, the Cameronian, was a hard man and austere, 
 
 And it vexed his solemn spirit all my levity to hear ; 
 
 So he spake to me at evening, when the weary prayers were done, — 
 
 ' Child, these prayers may rise against thee ere the setting of youth's sun !' 
 
 Little recked I then of warning, little grieved I then for blame, 
 Yet his words came back to scorch me when I sank in sin and shame ; 
 For the Lord of Balloch wooed me, drew me swiftly through love's fire 
 To the loss of home and honour, to the curses of my sire. 
 
 Lord of many a fruitful manor, courtly gallant in the hall, 
 I, the daughter of his vassal, I was born to be his thrall ; 
 I was poor and he was wealthy, I unlearned, and he was skilled 
 In all arts that conquer woman, so he made me what he willed. 
 
6$ Cije &\)viit of $auet Campbell. 
 
 And he loved me then ; he promised, ' If the babe that thou shalt bear 
 Shew man's likeness I will wed thee, and thy boy shall be mine heir ! ' 
 I was lured by hope of riches, hope of honours for my child, 
 So my sins were unrepented, and my heart was still beguiled. 
 
 In this turret I was sitting when he came to me one day, 
 ' Janet, war has ta'en the Lowlands and they summon me away ; 
 I will think of thee in battle, and, whene'er the fight is done, 
 Rush with all a father's rapture to embrace my firstborn son.' 
 
 Oh, man's promise ! ever ready, ever broken at the last ; 
 Never came he to his infant, nor redeemed his pledges past ; 
 With the royal troops he followed in the footsteps of Dundee, 
 And the hunted Covenanters had no fiercer foe than he. 
 
 From the south he sent a letter when he heard my infant's birth ; 
 ' Knew I not man's fickle fancy ? all his vows were made in mirth. 
 Fie upon my credulous fooling ! illness surely crazed my head ! 
 He, the Lord of stately Balloch, with a cottar lass to wed !' 
 
 Yet he shunned to meet his victim, or he followed whim perchance, 
 When he sought the courtly nobles and the sunny clime of France ; 
 Thence he sent me golden monies, while I toiled in want and pain, 
 And I grasped the hire of passion for the payment of my stain. 
 
€f)e g>l)vtft of $auet Campbell. 69 
 
 Then I took my son and decked him in fine linen needle-wrought, 
 To the holy church I bore him with a drooping brow of thought ; 
 ' If that mercy be in heaven man has banished from the earth, 
 The baptismal rites may cleanse him from the foulness of his birth.' 
 
 But beside the plate of offerings, with his hand upon its rim, 
 Stood my father in the doorway, and his look was cold and grim. 
 And he waved his arm repelling, to withstand the sinner's foot, 
 6 Go, thou lost one and degraded, sit in sackcloth and be mute ! 
 
 Go, repent ere thou approachest !' But I laid my sleeping child 
 On the step of stone beneath him, and the babe awoke and smiled, 
 Stretched his arms towards his grandsire, — all the old man's ire it brake, 
 To his breast he clasped the smiler, and in gentler accents spake : 
 
 ' Thou that once hast been my daughter, thou that heaped'st age with shame, 
 Leave this innocent, I charge thee, but return not whence thou came ; 
 Live obscurely and repentant ! ' Then I wept and hid my face, 
 And without a word of pleading went in silence from the place, 
 
 Through the crowding congregation, who beheld me hurrying by, 
 With a pleasant self-complacence that they were not such as I ; 
 Who stood up before their Maker and confessed them sin-defiled, 
 With a sneer upon their faces for the outcast and her child. 
 
70 €f)e ^fjrtft of $amt Campbell. 
 
 There were spates that stormy winter, flooding all the vale of Tay, 
 And the Loch rose like an ocean, sweeping huts and herds away ; 
 In that flood my father's cottage, while its inmates were asleep, 
 Floated tomblike down the valley to the waters of the deep. 
 
 Oh, my Kenneth, drowned in sleeping ! while thy father, all the same, 
 Slept in foreign halls voluptuous, never asking of thy name ; 
 While I wished to die and could not, while I sought from fate a sign, 
 And a voice rose in my bosom, ' Live, and vengeance shall be thine ! ' 
 
 Help me, Jeanie, words are weary, breath is short, and feeling wanes, 
 And the chill of dissolution creepeth o'er my sluggish veins ; 
 Life will fail me ere I finish — oh ! the guilt that tears my breast ! 
 Oh ! this conscience ever gnawing ! — oh! for life to tell the rest !" 
 
 PART II. 
 
 There was silence in the chamber save the trickling of the shower, 
 And the dashing of the branches on the window of the tower ; 
 All deserted was that turret, blasted by an evil name, 
 'Twas the home of Janet Campbell, and her fate had been the same. 
 
 Other towers had Balloch Castle, where the rich and great might dwell, 
 This was left to desolation, and it matched her fortunes well ; 
 Owls were roosting in the closet, and the bat clung to the beam, 
 And it roused the dying woman with its sudden shrilly scream. 
 
m)t ^Ijrtft of $anet CampMl. 71 
 
 " Hear her, hear her ! she is calling as she called on me for food, 
 As she called on him who starved her, shut within that chamber rude ; 
 Young she was and famed for beauty, when he brought her home his wife — 
 That was my reward, oh Jeanie, for the misery of a life ! 
 
 On his homeward voyage sailing (many years had passed the while) 
 Baffling winds detained his vessel on the coast of Erin's isle ; 
 There he saw her, long descended, but impoverished were her kin, 
 She was bartered to the stranger — 'twas a trafficking of sin. 
 
 Life the sooner wears for trouble, grief accelerateth age, 
 I was worn and memory-blighted, she had barely turned youth's page ; 
 Young as might have been his offspring, ill-consorted sure were they — 
 How she queened it on her palfrey as they trode the bridge of Tay ! 
 
 How she smiled and how she dallied with a squire was in her train ! 
 Meeter for her happy bridegroom than the lord who held her rein ; 
 By the bridge I stood and watched them, and I marked their looks and sighs, 
 Vowing, by my wrongs neglected, he should see them through mine eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, deceiver !' inly said I, ' now deceived in thy turn, 
 Thinkest thou in life's declension woman's love for thee will burn, 
 As mine did to self-destruction ? Hopest thou for wedlock's peace ? 
 Here I swear that thorned suspicion in thy soul shall never cease!' 
 
72 CJe &tyilt of 3 anet Campbell. 
 
 Artfully and slow I shewed him, word by word and sign by sign, 
 That the star of his devotion on another bent to shine ; 
 If she smiled with eye averted, if she sighed when he caressed, 
 He would fling her from his presence with the furies in his breast. 
 
 By the water's edge one morning as I walked in sullen mood, 
 I espied the Lady Campbell and the stripling in the wood ; 
 Side by side they stood together, and they spoke of love and death, 
 But as sinless was her passion as an infant's earliest breath. 
 
 ' Fly with me,' he said in anguish ; she repelled him, gently strong, 
 
 ' Dearest friend, 't is thou must leave me ; well I know this love is wrong ! 
 
 Yet my heart was never wedded — by my parents was I sold, 
 
 For they saw that he was wealthy, and they cared not he was old. 
 
 It is o'er ! my life is darkened, but my soul is pure of sin ; 
 Go — thou hast a traitorous helper in the love I crush within ! 
 Add not Conscience to mine enemies ! ' To the castle then I crept ; 
 To the presence of Lord Campbell with a haughty jeer I stept. 
 
 ' Ha ! thou false one ! that didst trifle with each woman as a toy, 
 
 See thyself, thou churl decrepit, ousted by a beardless boy ! 
 
 Seek in Balloch wood ! ' He rushed there, saw them stand in weeping drowned ; 
 
 With a howl he felled the stripling, stunned and bleeding, to the ground. 
 
Ci)e M)vih of $mtt CampML 73 
 
 Not a word of rage he uttered, but he wrenched the lady's arm, 
 And his cheek had bloodless pallor, and his eye had deadly harm ; 
 Back he dragged her to this castle, to this turret rude and small, 
 There he barred her in that closet — Jeanie ! hark ! I hear her call. 
 
 Here we guarded night and morning, we that once in love were bound, 
 
 Now united in hate's shackles — but we never looked around ; 
 
 With a steady purpose gazing on the doorway of her den, 
 
 Only for subsistence quitting — sleep we ne'er might know again. 
 
 Through a crevice in the wainscot did we feed the prisoned wretch 
 From a little pan of water, which I daily went to fetch ; 
 Upon that she lived and struggled many a day and many a night, 
 Gasping, fainting, and yet living, as we listened in affright. 
 
 Oh ! to hear her shriek of anguish ! ' Give me food, but give me food ! 
 Or else kill me with your claymore — oh ! my husband, that ye would ! 
 Help me ! never, never sinned I 'gainst thine honour or my own ; 
 Give me food ! ' and then her screaming died away into a moan. 
 
 So she wailed until she perished ; till upon that guilty cell, 
 After those despairing ravings, deep and sudden silence fell ; 
 Then we knew our work was finished, that her soul had fled away ; 
 And the boy, whose wound had fevered, died of pain and grief that day. 
 
74 Ulty g>f)rift of $anet CampMl 
 
 By his corse I stood and pondered, for strange memories came back, 
 Strangely summoned by his features, by his eyebrows straight and black ; 
 By the curve of lip and nostril ; and I cried, ' Alas ! my son, 
 Had he lived to such a manhood, had been like thee, hapless one ! 
 
 Such his sire was when I loved him ! ' as I looked I saw a scroll 
 Hidden in his garment's foldings, which I careless did unroll ; 
 'Twas unsigned ; oh, fatal writing ! — 'twas the letter of my lord, 
 When he hurled me to destruction with his cold and scoffing word. 
 
 This I bound about my Kenneth in the madness of my scorn, 
 This had been upon his bosom when to church I him had borne, 
 When his gloomy grandsire took him — yes, my Kenneth, it was thou, 
 Lying murdered by thy father, with his handmark on thy brow ! 
 
 * 
 Thou wert, then, his wife's young lover, thou her squire from Erin's isle, 
 With thy father's fatal beauty, with thy father's treacherous smile ; 
 Ah ! what film mine eyes had darkened, bleared with passion truth to shun ? 
 Dulled, indeed, the mother's instinct when she knew not 'twas her son ! 
 
 Pacing up and down this chamber was the unrelenting Lord, 
 By the dead wife of his bosom keeping late and useless ward ; 
 ' Go thou down ! ' I said in frenzy : ' once to thee a son I bore ; 
 Thou hast slain him in thy fury — go, and look on him once more ! 
 
€J)e ^Ijrtft oi gjaiut Campbell. 75 
 
 For that squire is our own offspring !' Loud he laughed in scornful rage, — 
 ' Janet, wouldst thou melt ray spirit to weak pity for her page — 
 For her paramour ? ' ' Nay, look here, proof is plain if thou canst read ; 
 Man ! I say our son lies murdered, and thy hand has done the deed !' 
 
 Vacantly he stared and listened, stupefied and slow he went 
 To the place where Kenneth's body lay in cold abandonment ; 
 But, upon the very threshold, swift he turned and fled away, 
 And for years a raving maniac roamed the terror of Strath Tay. 
 
 Oh, that I like him had maddened, had forgotten all my woe ! — 
 Better quick annihilation than this agony so slow, 
 Eating cancerous my bosom ; death itself me cannot save, 
 For the evil of our courses doth pursue us in the grave. 
 
 And for me there's no repentance !" " Say not so !" cried Jeanie then ; 
 " Mother tells me of forgiveness in His Name who died for men !" 
 " Ay ! for thee — for childish follies, disobedience, pettish tears — 
 Thou canst kneel for that forgiveness, and sleep calmly without fears. 
 
 But for me there's no returning, no repentance 'vaileth me, 
 Till the Tay that leaves the mountains shall flow backward from the sea ; 
 Blood of woman, young and spotless — blood of man, mine only son, 
 Did the sky rain down for ages, 't would not wash what I have done ! 
 
76 %ty ^f)rift ot Bmtt Campbell. 
 
 Hear her ! hear her ! I have listened to her groans and to her cries, 
 When the air is calm in summer, when the winter blast replies ; 
 Here, with Terror for companion, I have passed my wretched life, 
 Fixed in this deserted turret, where she died, that fair young wife. 
 
 Ever have I watched unceasing, fearing, though I knew not why, 
 She would break out were I absent, and stand forth beneath the sky : 
 Therefore have I never left her ; night and day throughout the year, 
 When the birds in heaven are singing, still my dreadful post is here. 
 
 Here I die ; and let them lay me not by any kindred grave, 
 Not where churchward steps are passing, not where airy blossoms wave, 
 But in yonder darksome closet, near the stanchioned lattice high, 
 Where her skeleton is bleaching, where I heard her wail and die. 
 
 Dost thou heed me well, my Jeanie?" — but the child spoke not for dread. 
 
 For the clammy touch appalled her of that creature almost dead ; 
 
 And the images of horror gathered by that fearful tale, 
 
 And the morning twilight ghastly breaking o'er those features pale. 
 
 She had fainted, and she woke not, till her mother's loving tone 
 Called her back to life and sunshine, now no longer left alone, 
 With her little arms close clinging to the pallet of the corse, 
 For the soul of Janet Campbell passed away in that remorse ! 
 
THE RETURN OF EVAN DHU. 
 
 The paraphrases of Scripture, appended to the Bible as circulated in 
 Scotland, were principally written by Logan, a Presbyterian minister of 
 great poetical taste. Almost as much a part of a Scottish education as 
 the sacred volume itself, they well merit the distinction, for they transfuse 
 into measured verse the language and spirit of the Bible, and make its 
 subject more winning to the youthful ear, ever susceptible of the charm 
 of melody. Long after the thoughtless child may have passed into the 
 hardened man, the simple but powerful music of earlier years reverberates 
 unbidden in his soul, and perhaps succeeds at times in checking the career 
 of ungodliness. 
 
 Early associations are the firmest bulwarks of religion round so sensi- 
 tive and impressible a thing as the human heart. Reason fails the wisest 
 and most learned ; but the mysterious sympathies of our nature are inde- 
 pendent of our will — they " constrain us by the law of love." Of such 
 influences the following poem attempts an illustration. 
 
 The reformed Presbyterian religion has displaced that of Rome over 
 the greater part of the Highlands ; indeed, the Gael has of later years 
 learned from his Lowland neighbour a love of argumentation unknown to 
 his simple and credulous forefathers, who believed every thing they were 
 taught without examination or dispute. 
 
78 Cf)c &etum of eUn 20J)it. 
 
 jSTo sight can be more interesting than the gathering of a Highland 
 congregation round the door of the church at the deep-voiced summons 
 of the bell. These places of worship, though generally of rude and 
 ungainly architecture, are often found in the most beautiful situations — 
 sometimes in the hollow of a glen, sometimes half way up a hill that 
 commands a magnificent prospect, sometimes on the brink of a wide- 
 spreading loch. One knows not where the attention is most riveted 
 among the serious and composed faces around. The men with their 
 decent blue Sunday suits, their manly Glengarry bonnets, and, if they 
 have come from any distance, the plaid wrapped loosely over their 
 shoulders ; the old women in scarlet shawls, and clean " mutches " bound 
 closely over the grey hair and shrewd, puckered features ; the younger 
 females, wives and maidens alike, gay with Lowland finery, each young 
 face fresh-coloured and bright, with its own natural liveliness struggling 
 through that serious rigidity of feature which forms what in Scotland is 
 called " a Sunday face ;" and the little children, proud of the honour of 
 accompanying their elders to church, yet somewhat inclined to barter that 
 privilege for a good romp in the churchyard among the daisied and 
 thymy mounds, of whose mournful import they have as yet so vague an 
 idea. The sight of these earnest-minded Highlanders assembling to 
 worship amid the solemnising scenery of their mountain glens, disposes 
 one's thoughts to seriousness, and is no unworthy preparation for the 
 absorbing services of the sanctuary. 
 
''"'A-;. -^'^\\\m v ,^-), 7 _ w< 
 
 u^nsM, 
 
 THE RETURN OF EVAN DHU. 
 
 As swarming bees upon the wing, 
 The people crowded o'er the hill ; 
 
 And now the bell had ceased to ring. 
 The Highland kirk had ceased to fill. 
 
80 Efje Return of <£»an IBint. 
 
 The mountain burn that washed the graves 
 Murmured a hymn while running by ; 
 
 And with the solemn chime of waves 
 A hundred voices clomb the sky. 
 
 The sunbeams through the open door 
 Came streaming in across the place, 
 
 And, messengers of gladness, bore 
 
 Heaven's radiance to each humble face. 
 
 On upturned foreheads, sage and good, 
 They lingered with seraphic smile, 
 
 When in the darkened doorway stood 
 A stranger man, and paused awhile. 
 
 His raiment had a foreign air, 
 
 His brow was burnt by foreign skies ; 
 
 And there was fierceness in his stare 
 That suited ill Devotion's eyes. 
 
 He looked around with changing cheek, 
 Then to the nearest seat withdrew, 
 
 As one whose heart, too full to speak, 
 
 Those time-worn stairs and benches knew 
 
Wt\e Return of «£ban 29i)u. 81 
 
 The preacher eyed him as he went, 
 Remembrance on his features shone ; 
 
 His pleading waxed more eloquent, 
 A warmer pity shook his tone. 
 
 " Why will ye die who know full well 
 Your sentence just, our warning true ? 
 
 The Lord our God is terrible, 
 
 And yet the Lord hath bled for you ! 
 
 Whate'er your weakness, e'er your guilt, 
 His fountains wash the blackest crime ; 
 
 Ah ! not in vain His blood was spilt ! 
 Turn, sinners, in th* Accepted Time ! " 
 
 The stranger stirred, as ill at ease, 
 
 And shunned the preacher's earnest gaze ; 
 
 When, strong as wind that shakes the trees, 
 Upswelled the stately Paraphrase : 
 
 " As long as life its term extends 
 Hope's blest dominion never ends ; 
 For, while the lamp holds on to burn, 
 The greatest sinner may return." 
 
 M 
 
82 Cije ifceturn of <£bm\ 29fnt. 
 
 From lisping child and tuneful girl 
 The glorious measure rolled on high ; 
 
 Ah, Evan Dhu, the battle's whirl 
 
 Ne'er sent such dimness to thine eye ! 
 
 Oft on the lawless Spanish main, 
 
 When pirate colours shamed thy mast, 
 
 The voice of that reproving strain 
 
 At midnight o'er thy slumbers passed ! 
 
 Oft heaving on the southern swell, 
 
 A thousand watery leagues from land, 
 
 The Highland kirk's familiar bell 
 
 Rang through the stillness, close at hand. 
 
 " Hope's blest dominion ! " for those years, 
 Of reckless youth, of hardened prime ! 
 
 The stricken wretch arose in tears, 
 And fled as from pursuing crime. 
 
 The hymn sank down, the singers' eyes 
 Each other sought in wondering dread, 
 
 Until an old man spake, with sighs, 
 " My son is living, who was dead ! 
 
CIk Return of QBbm mi)\i. 83 
 
 Yes, 'tis the son whom I have wept 
 
 As false to God, and lost to me ; 
 But He whose hand the wanderer kept, 
 
 Will set the slave of Satan free." 
 
 With tears upon his visage old, 
 
 The trembling father sought his son, 
 
 Who, flung upon the heathy mould, 
 Embraced his mother's burial-stone. 
 
 A woman sat beside the tomb ; 
 
 Her youth was fled, her eyes were dim ; 
 For she had lived away her bloom 
 
 In agonising thoughts of him. 
 
 Ah, Evan Dhu ! beloved of yore, 
 
 Thy wooing met no coy denial ; 
 But pleasure gilt a foreign shore, 
 
 And she was left to faith and trial ! 
 
 Thou, all unworthy of her love, 
 
 Debased thy heart to low desires ; 
 She was a star that watched above 
 
 The marshes' false, uncertain fires. 
 
84 €f)e Return of <£&an 2Bf)u. 
 
 Long watched, long waited, till, at last, 
 Her soul was from its anchor driven ; 
 
 And reason was by love o'ercast, 
 And every link of memory riven. 
 
 With inexpressive sweetness smiled 
 
 Her eyes, that knew not friend from friend, 
 
 While, harmless as a gentle child, 
 
 Her daily steps would church-ward tend. 
 
 Ah, Evan Dhu ! beside thee sat 
 This idol of thy young romance ; 
 
 Ah, Evan Dhu ! returned too late 
 To wildered brain and vacant glance ! 
 
 She knew him not, but chanted low 
 An ancient lay of love and sorrow, 
 
 And aye its sad returning flow 
 
 Was " Smile to-day, grief comes to-morrow." 
 
 But many years were yet for him, 
 
 A penitent, heart-broken man, 
 To drain a cup that o'er the brim 
 
 With bitter juice of memory ran ; 
 
€i)t Return of <&bm M)\i. 85 
 
 Long years for him to tend the maid, 
 Whose restless eyes still turned away, 
 
 Who spoke his name but to upbraid 
 With tender plaints the Far-away. 
 
 This was his penance, by her side, 
 
 To mark the wreck, to feel the shame, 
 
 She never knew him, though she died 
 Calling on his beloved name. 
 
CRAIG ELACHIE. 
 
 " There are two rocks of the same name, one at each extremity of the 
 country called Strath Spey, about thirty miles distant from each other. 
 Each of these rocks is called Craig Elachie, ' Rock of Alarm.' Upon the 
 approach of an enemy, the signal was given from the one to the other for 
 all fit to bear arms to appear at an appointed place of rendezvous. Hence 
 the Grant's motto, ' Stand fast, Craig Elachie !' " — Beauties of Scotland — 
 Inverness-shire. 
 
 How imposing must have been the flashing of the fiery cross in those 
 troublous times down the broad valley of the Spey ! and how well is the 
 idea of unanimity communicated by the circumstance of both the bound- 
 ary crags bearing the same name, as if all who dwelt within their limits 
 had but one heart and soul ! 
 
 The upper Craig Elachie, the more lofty of the two, commands a mag- 
 nificent range of hill and valley, standing near Aviemore, at the head of 
 the noble strath through which runs the river Spey. On this stream 
 rises the lower Craig Elachie, at a point where the waters take a sudden 
 bend, and are curbed by a stately suspension bridge. The castellated 
 style of this structure harmonises well with the sheer and rugged preci- 
 
Cratg <£lad)te. 87 
 
 pice that springs up behind its round, hollow towers. It was built very 
 shortly before the remarkable floods of 1829, and was among the few 
 bridges that withstood the destructive force of the swollen Spey. 
 
 The Clan Grant were not of the Jacobite faction in 1745 ; on the con- 
 trary, their chief was one of the warmest supporters of the cause of 
 Hanover. Their sufferings began with the Disarming Act, a measure 
 whose operation was not confined to the rebellious tribes. Although as 
 effectual as its originators could wish in destroying the turbulent quar- 
 rels among the Highlanders, and reducing them to the state of harmless 
 peasants, it produced the strongest feelings of shame and indignation in the 
 free, proud spirit of the Gael. The loss of their weapons, and the prohi- 
 bition of their national dress, were considered grievous affronts, to which, 
 as their strength was too much broken to resist, the clans submitted with 
 a sullen despair. 
 
 But the hand which dealt the death-blow to their old habits and 
 affections was that of their own chiefs. After the final ruin of the 
 Stewarts, the Highland proprietors experienced the usual influence of a 
 state of ease and security. Being obliged to give up their former love of 
 independence, a love of money crept in as its substitute ; if they could no 
 longer remain powerful rulers of a warlike people, they might become 
 wealthy subjects of a peaceful state. They began to copy the southern 
 and more lucrative mode of farming ; they ejected the small farmers, who 
 had from time immemorial cultivated the land in small glebes, or occupied 
 the fields with herds of cattle, and threw the whole extent of their posses- 
 sions into large grazing sheep -farms, under the management of agents 
 from the south. 
 
 This plan brought the proprietor a great increase of income, but it 
 was the ruin of the poor tenants, who were turned out to starve. With 
 tastes and habits widely differing from the Lowlanders, the Gael, thus 
 
88 Craig <£lacj)ie. 
 
 cruelly thrust from his native glens, became too frequently an idle and 
 spiritless vagabond. 
 
 Those were fortunate who, by entering the army, found some outlet 
 for the ardent energy of their youth. They made excellent soldiers ; and 
 every battle-field where British valour has shone, is bright with a memory 
 of their deeds. 
 
 But thousands were left destitute and helpless. Emigration, that last 
 resource of an impoverished population, was all that remained to them. 
 They were unfitted by nature and education for the factory ; but the vast 
 forests of America offered a home and liberty as free as the wild animals 
 themselves enjoyed. The beloved glens of their childhood could afford 
 them neither of these blessings. Partly by public assistance, partly by 
 their own exertions, the Highlanders went forth to an unknown world in 
 the far West, and there they built themselves dwellings, and, like the 
 patriarchs of old, " called the lands after their own names." 
 
 The following poem originated in a desire to shew the unflagging 
 energy, as well as regretful remembrance, with which the Gael com- 
 menced his new career amid the savage solitudes of his Transatlantic 
 home. 
 
CBAIG ELACHIE. 
 
 Blue are the hills alcove the Spey, 
 The rocks are red that line his way, 
 Green is the strath his waters lave, 
 And fresh the turf upon the grave 
 
90 Cvatg OEUctyt. 
 
 Where sleep my sire and sisters three, 
 Where none are left to mourn for me : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 The roofs that sheltered me and mine 
 Hold strangers of a Sassenach line ; 
 Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew 
 The friendly forms of long ago ; 
 The rooks upon the old yew-tree 
 Would e'en have stranger notes to me : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 The cattle feeding on the hills, 
 We tended once o'er moors and rills, 
 Like us have gone ; the silly sheep 
 Now fleck the brown sides of the steep, 
 And southern eyes their watchers be, 
 And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Where are the elders of our glen, 
 Wise arbiters for meaner men ? 
 Where are the sportsmen keen of eye, 
 Who tracked the roe against the sky — 
 The quick of hand, of spirit free ? 
 Passed, like a harper's melody : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
Cratg <£lad)tc. 91 
 
 Where are the maidens of our vale, 
 Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael ? 
 Changed are they all, and changed the wife 
 Who dared for love the Indian's life ; 
 The little child she bore to me 
 Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey, 
 Shaggy the western forests grey ; 
 Wild is the corri's autumn roar, 
 Wilder the floods of this far shore ; 
 Dark are the crags of rushing Dee, 
 Darker the shades of Tenassee ; 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn, 
 Since first amid the mountains born ; 
 Great rock, whose sterile granite heart 
 Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart ; 
 The river sporting at thy knee, 
 On thy stern brow no change can see : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground, 
 By Scottish mountains flanked around, 
 
92 Craig <£lad)u\ 
 
 Though we uprooted, cast away 
 From the warm bosom of Strathspey 
 Flung pining by this Western sea, 
 The exile's hopeless lot must dree, 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise, 
 Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies ; 
 In these grim wastes new homes we'll rear, 
 New scenes shall wear old names so dear ; 
 And while our axes fell the tree, 
 Resound old Scotia's minstrelsy : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
 Here can no treacherous chief betray, 
 For sordid gain, our new Strathspey ; 
 No fearful king, no statesman pale, 
 Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael. 
 With armed wrist and kilted knee, 
 No prairie Indian half so free : 
 Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 
 
THE PARTING ON THE BRIG, 
 
 The reformed faith, when it penetrated into the wild Highlands in the 
 end of the sixteenth century, found an appalling array of visionary ter- 
 rors established in the minds of the inhabitants. The devoted ministers, 
 however, exerted themselves strenuously to dispel these clouds of error ; 
 and although at first their progress in the work was discouragingly tardy, 
 for they had to annihilate the impressions strengthened by many centuries, 
 they have now so fully succeeded that the inquisitive traveller finds great 
 difficulty in discovering any traces of the once prevalent superstitions. 
 The Highlanders are, in fact, rather ashamed of their " auld warld " tales, 
 and seem rather indignant if they fancy themselves suspected of placing 
 any reliance on the traditions of their forefathers. 
 
 Among many others which have died away there was one superstition 
 of mingled poetry and sadness, which it were a pity to have let pass into 
 oblivion. It is alluded to by Miss Sinclair, in her lively tour entitled 
 " Shetland and the Shetlanders," in these words, " friends or lovers who 
 part on a bridge never meet again." 
 
 What fatality did the Gael's imagination attach to the running waters 
 below his parting feet ? Did the friends then separating think that the 
 
94 Cfje parting on tyt ISvtg. 
 
 stream which could not pause or return in its hurrying course typified 
 the current of their lives, which, once dividing, might never flow back to 
 the meeting place ? 
 
 This curious fancy was directly in opposition to all other Highland 
 ideas regarding running water. It was generally considered to have an 
 influence quite destructive of evil spells ; and the fairies, when engaged in 
 their predatory excursions, were often baffled by the intervention of a 
 stream. 
 
 The Tahusk was the spirit- voice heard before a death. Sometimes it 
 was like a human voice, but more frequently it would seem to come 
 from the wild birds, whose mournfully piercing notes rung at evening 
 over the mountains. From whatever quarter, however, it arose, there 
 was always something unearthly in the tones by which the warning of 
 death could be distinguished. The corncraik was one of those birds 
 whose cry was particularly ominous. 
 
 The " Brig of Tay," built by Marshal Wade on the great military road 
 constructed after Earl Mar's insurrection in 1715, is a massive and ancient 
 looking structure — older, indeed, in appearance than it is in reality. It 
 spans the river at a wide reach near the town of Aberfeldy, and forms 
 one of the most picturesque objects in the rich and luxuriantly wooded 
 Vale of Tay. 
 
THE PARTING ON THE BRIG. 
 
 Oh ! Hamish, lover of my youth and husband of my vows, 
 When shall I loose the maiden snood from these betrothed brows ? 
 When will you clasp your mournful bride, whose hopes in absence wane ? 
 For they who parted on a brig maun never meet again ! 
 
 It was upon the Brig of Tay ye took the bountith fee, 
 
 It was upon the Brig of Tay ye looked your last on me ; 
 
 A year hath dragged its heavy course since that ill-omened night, 
 
 But heavier weigh upon my soul the bodings of a fight. 
 
96 €\)t -Parting; on tfje 33rtg. 
 
 The shearing in our harvest-field sped busily that day, 
 
 When ye were sent with horse and cart down to the Brig of Tay ; 
 
 There sold ye birthright liberty for less than Esau's hire, 
 
 Nor thought of Elsie Robertson, your minnie, or your sire. 
 
 Your tongue was slow to tell the tale that saddened your return, 
 
 Ye came not to our trysting-tree that grows beside the burn ; 
 
 In silence ye departed from the home where ye were bred, 
 
 And streaming were your minnie's eyes, and bowed your father's head. 
 
 But I went following after you down to the Brig of Tay, 
 
 And there I clung unto your breast and woeful words did say, 
 
 And might have won you — but, alas ! came marching through the glen 
 
 The best and bravest of the clan, all picked and chosen men. 
 
 By king and country were they sworn unto the death to fight, 
 An iron-hearted band they trod, though self-exiled that night ; 
 Red grew the cheek of him I clasped, he tore himself away, 
 And left me standing on the brig, the aged Brig of Tay. 
 
 Fair art thou, water of Moness, with many tinkling falls, 
 And proud, old Aberfeldy, rise thy ancient piers and walls, 
 And glorious are ye, heather hills, along the strath that wind — 
 But deep I cursed you in my heart when I was left behind. 
 
€!)* parting on t^e 33ng. 97 
 
 The moon from broad-browed Ferragon her silver pennon spread, 
 The frosty stars went shivering to follow where she led ; 
 The troops moved onward to the south, the pibroch died away, 
 And still I leaned upon the brig, the aged Brig of Tay. 
 
 That stalwart band in perils now is tossing on the wave. 
 Fate surges onward to the field of many a bloody grave ; 
 Ah me ! I fear thou art foredoomed to fall on battle plain, 
 For they who part upon a brig maun never meet again. 
 
 Upon the muirland yesternight I heard the Tahusk cry ; 
 It was no voice of earthly bird, no living thing was nigh . 
 I had a vision yesternight, thy shrouded form and stark, 
 While sleeplessly I lay and stared right onward through the dark. 
 
 Our minister from Holy Writ brings promises to cheer, 
 He speaks such gracious comfortings as should dispel my fear, 
 He tells me Hands Omnipotent can ward the blows that strike, 
 That eyes of Love Divinest watch o'er thee and me alike. 
 
 Yet ever come those childish words by childish fancy caught, 
 Words far too terrible for jest, or e'en to scorn in thought ; 
 Whene'er I think of meeting you they peal across my brain, 
 " Ye parted on the Brig of Tay, ye maunna meet again !" 
 
 o 
 
THE HAUNTED TARN ON THE MOOR. 
 
 From the lonely mountains among which the Highlander dwelt 
 every murmur of wind or wave bore to him a spiritual meaning, every 
 shape of tree or rock, confused by the misty twilight, assumed a spiritual 
 form. He saw portents in the cloud, and heard prophecies in the 
 stream. 
 
 There was attached a peculiar sacredness to the rites of sepulture. It 
 was believed that the spirit of the dead hovered restless and discontented 
 around its former tenement, till the body to which it clung so affection- 
 ately was laid with becoming ceremonies in the grave. The unburied 
 corpse was thus an object of indescribable horror to the living. 
 
 " To be buried decently " was, and is to this day, one of the wishes 
 that lie nearest to the heart of a Highlander. It happened, within our 
 own knowledge, that a poor woman was reduced to the extremity of indi- 
 gence. Her emaciated and bedridden form was often in want of necessary 
 sustenance, subsisting precariously on the alms of the charitable ; and yet 
 she preferred thus to starve by slow degrees rather than to break a small 
 sum which she had deposited with a trusty friend to defray the expenses 
 of " a decent funeral." 
 
%\)t flaunte* Cant on t^e Ptoov. 99 
 
 In another case, a Highland woman dying in the Lowlands told her 
 two sons she wished her remains to be interred among her kindred in a 
 churchyard far embosomed among the hills. Notwithstanding that the 
 sons were hardworking, scantily paid labourers, they cheerfully devoted 
 the joint sum, trifling as it was, which their industry had saved, to the 
 fulfilment of their beloved mother's last request. Accordingly, her corpse 
 was conveyed upwards of forty miles to the Highlands, and laid with her 
 own people in the burial-ground of her tribe. 
 
 The ghost of Celtic faith differed widely from the clumsy hobgoblins 
 who excited the terror of Saxon rustics. To every living man was 
 ascribed a wraith or double resembling him exactly in appearance, though 
 generally invisible to all — born at his birth, growing with his growth, 
 and descending with his body into the tomb. The wraith occasionally 
 appeared during the lifetime of its mortal partner, but its visible presence 
 always portended evil. From the grave it often returned to arrange 
 business which the deceased had left unsettled, or, in cases of violent 
 death, to stimulate the survivors to revenge. 
 
 Sometimes, however, the ghost played a more Christian part, when it 
 visited the mourning friends to console or rebuke them, if their grief for 
 the dead passed the bounds of religious resignation. 
 
 The two lochs of Tummel and Rannoch occupy a long valley, con- 
 nected by the river Tummel, and overlooked by high hills and wild moors. 
 On one of the latter, at a considerable height above the lochs, lies the 
 gloomy tarn, or mountain-pond, mentioned in the ballad. The neigh- 
 bouring district was long held by the Macgregors ; but here, as in Bread - 
 albane, this ill-fated clan was dispossessed by a more powerful tribe. 
 
 The Robertsons, or Clan Donnachie, were the successful intruders, 
 and their chief fixed his hereditary residence at Mount Alexander on the 
 river side, under the shadow of the cone-shaped and lofty Schihallion. 
 
100 Cije flatmtctt Cam on tlje 0loor. 
 
 The Stewarts of Athole and Appin, whose lands lay contiguous, 
 looked upon Rannoch's new possessors with no friendly eye, and the 
 skirmishes which ensued on every slight pretext kept the country in 
 continual excitement. 
 
 The little tarn upon the moor may be supposed to have been the 
 scene of one of the many combats of these rival tribes, for its situation 
 and gloomy character suggest to the mind of the spectator no associations 
 save those of sorrow and misfortune. 
 
 The cheerful fields and lifelike moving woods lie far below in the 
 valley. The lochs catch the rays of the setting sun, but the cold shade 
 of the overhanging mountains intercepts their brightness from the tarn. 
 Even the heather grows scantily among the rocks that scatter their 
 broken masses along the barren soil. Here and there the ground sud- 
 denly sinks into deep pools, filled with thick, brown, stagnant water, 
 where large clods of peat are slowly settling down, as they become gradu- 
 ally detached from the treacherous sides of the chasm. There are the 
 pits left in many places, whence the fuel has been dug till its depth of 
 layer has been exhausted. These are very dangerous at night, as the sod 
 around them is saturated with the bog-water, and yields to the slightest 
 pressure. 
 
r.CALZ-ZSL.S 
 
 THE HAUNTED TARN ON THE MOOR. 
 
 There lies a lonely mountain tarn 
 On Albyn's wildest ground, 
 
 Scarce known but to the heather bee 
 On homeward errand bound, 
 
 Or to the weary shepherd boy 
 Who seeks his charge around. 
 
102 Cfje fetmtrtr Cam on tyt ptoor. 
 
 It is a solitary moor, 
 
 Girt by a giant band ; 
 Schihallion throned, like Jove on high, 
 
 With his thunders in his hand ; 
 While a hundred lesser mighty ones 
 
 In glory 'neath him stand. 
 
 From either side, below the tarn, 
 Two vales together blend ; 
 
 Loch Tummel and Loch Rannoch stretch 
 Their arms from end to end ; 
 
 Down to their margins from the steep 
 The yellow birches bend. 
 
 Hamlets and wooded knolls are there, 
 And fields of plumy grain, 
 
 And troops of cheerful labourers 
 Work busy in the plain ; 
 
 But tillage on this mountain moor 
 Were all bestowed in vain. 
 
 No plough has torn its clotted moss, 
 
 No foliage waves in sight, 
 Save one dark clump of ragged pines 
 
 That crest a rocky height — 
 A fearful place it were to pass 
 
 On a gusty winter night ! 
 
Cije flauntett Cam on tyt #floot\ 103 
 
 A tale is told of battle fought 
 
 'Twixt clans a feud that bare : 
 The Robertsons, by Stewarts chased 
 
 From Rannoch's forest lair, 
 Turned by the lonely tarn at bay, 
 
 And took them unaware. 
 
 Then had the Robertsons revenge, 
 
 Their foes were rash and few ; 
 The waters gurgled red with blood 
 
 Their mossy basin through, 
 Nor was a Stewart left to tell 
 
 What hand his clansmen slew. 
 
 Down in the vale beside her fire, 
 
 The wife of one there slain 
 Sang to the babe upon her knee 
 
 That could not sleep for pain ; 
 When, hush ! a sound is at her door 
 
 Of neither wind nor rain. 
 
 Nor sound of foot, though shape of man, 
 
 Pale, shadowy, blood-defiled, 
 Withouten latch or turn of hinge 
 
 Stood by her and her child, 
 Then glided back with beckoning hand 
 
 Towards the gloomy wild. 
 
104 €f)t HatttitriJ Cant on tfje Hfloor. 
 
 She sprang and called her sister dear, 
 A maiden fresh and young, 
 
 " I pray thee tend my little child, 
 I shall be back ere long ; 
 
 I fear me lest the Eobertsons 
 Have done my husband wrong." 
 
 She kissed the babe, whose downy limbs 
 
 Lay folded in her breast, 
 She gave it to her sister's charge 
 
 From its maternal nest ; 
 Then, with her plaid about her wound, 
 
 Unto the moorland pressed. 
 
 The shadowy wraith beside her stood 
 Soon as she closed the door, 
 
 And, as she passed by kirk and wood, 
 Still flitted on before, 
 
 Guiding her steps across the burn, 
 Up, up unto the moor. 
 
 The moon was hid in weeds of white, 
 The night was damp and cold, 
 
 The wanderer stumbled in the moss, 
 Bewildered on the wold, 
 
 Till suddenly the clouds were rent, 
 The tarn before her rolled. 
 
CfK f^aunte* Cant on tljt Ploor. 105 
 
 The heather with strange burdens swelled — 
 
 On every tuft a corse, 
 On every stunted juniper, 
 
 On every faded gorse ; 
 The woman sank, and o'er her eyes 
 
 She clasped her hands with force. 
 
 Again she was constrained to gaze,— 
 
 Lo ! on each dead man's brow, 
 A tongue of flame burned steadily, 
 
 Though there was breeze enow 
 To shake the pines that overhead 
 
 Waved black, funereal bough. 
 
 And, dancing on the sullen loch, 
 
 A ghostly troop there went, 
 Whose airy figures floated high 
 
 On the thin element ; 
 And fiercely at each other's breasts 
 
 Their mock claymores they bent. 
 
 One brushed so near, she turned her gaze, 
 
 She stood transfixed to stone ; 
 It was her husband's spectre face, 
 
 Close breathing on her own — 
 Damp, icy breath, that filled her ear 
 
 With a deep, hollow moan. 
 
 p 
 
106 Olfy flaunts Cam on tyt ffiioov. 
 
 She started back with frenzied shriek — 
 Shriek echoed by the dead ; 
 
 She gave a hurried prayer to heaven, 
 Then o'er the moorland fled ; 
 
 Until she reached the village kirk, 
 She dared not turn her head. 
 
 Not long her thread of life endured, 
 
 Not long her infant hung 
 Upon that bosom terror-dried, 
 
 That mouth no more that sung. 
 She died, and ever since the tarn 
 
 Is shunned by old and young. 
 
 For still the gusty breezes raise 
 The phantoms' anguished cry, 
 
 Still by the water's marge they flit, 
 When winter storms are high ; 
 
 Still flames, nor wind nor wave can quench. 
 Are ever burning nigh. 
 
 Nay, if you doubt it, wend your way 
 In twilight's deepening blue, 
 
 And watch beneath those shuddering pines 
 One stormy midnight through ; 
 
 And, if your courage fail you not, 
 You shall behold them too ! 
 
EILAN MOHK. 
 
 Loch Swin, an arm of the Atlantic, which stretches almost across the 
 peninsula of Cantyre, is as worthy of a visit as any part of the Highlands. 
 Dr. M'Culloch pronounces its scenery no less romantic than that of Loch 
 Katrine, the latter conveying but a faint idea of the picturesque beauty of 
 its briny rival. 
 
 Loch Swin stretches for about ten miles into the land, but divides 
 into three parts at some distance from its mouth, and the many windings 
 of these branches make its whole extent about fifty miles in circuit. The 
 waters indent the shores with deep bays, and are in other places driven 
 back by rocky projections and promontories ; the hills rise on every side 
 clothed with luxuriant natural verdure ; the dwellings are thinly scat- 
 tered, and suited in wild roughness to the character of the scenery ; sea 
 and land are so intermingled that every step presents a new and wonderful 
 combination of objects, and over all broods a deep and thrilling solitude. 
 
 On a rock overhanging the loch at its entrance from the sea stand the 
 bold and ancient walls of Castle Swin. Immemorial tradition points out 
 Sweno, prince of Denmark, as the founder of this fortress, which for many 
 centuries was the key of Loch Swin, and of great importance in the 
 continual warfare between the Scots and Scandinavians, and afterwards 
 between the Lords of the Isles and the Scottish kings. 
 
 Here Robert the Bruce besieged Alexander of the Isles, and bestowed 
 the castle on the family of Menteith. It subsequently reverted to the 
 crown, and was then held, like Dunstaffnage, in charge of a powerful 
 
108 eiUn Maty. 
 
 noble styled " the heritable keeper." Finally, when possessed by the 
 house of Argyle, it was burned by Alastair Mac Cholla, the lieutenant of 
 Montrose. 
 
 Eilan Mohr vie O'Charmaig lies in a group of smaller islets between 
 the mouth of Loch Swin and the opposite coast of Jura. It is very 
 barren and rocky, having its edges covered with sea-weed, and crusted 
 with the moss-like, variegated branches of the Highland coral, which 
 abounds on these western shores. 
 
 The chapel, or convent, as it was called by the old Highlander who 
 shewed it to our party, was built by O'Carmaig, an Irish saint, who pos- 
 sessed this island, and who, after founding some very beautiful chapels on 
 the mainland, expired here, and was buried in a tomb which is still to be 
 seen about a hundred yards distant from the ruined convent. 
 
 The stone cross on the summit of the island bears a rudely carved 
 representation of the crucifixion, Avith two female figures at the feet of the 
 dying Saviour. 
 
 In the side of the hill is a vaulted cell, used as an oratory or occa- 
 sional chapel in former days, whose miraculous effects upon intruders 
 were gravely announced by the old peasant before mentioned, who like- 
 wise related the legend belonging to the stone cross. He was a white- 
 haired, venerable-looking Gael, the very portrait of a Seannachie, and 
 delivered his traditions in Gaelic with much volubility, the boatmen who 
 had conveyed us to the island acting as interpreters. 
 
 To add to the impression excited by these local marvels a violent 
 thunderstorm came on, and the rain compelled the whole party to take 
 refuge in that small portion of the convent which still retains its roof, and 
 which had been devoted to the entire use of the only tenant of Eilan 
 Mohr, a huge bull, too wild to be kept on the mainland. The bull was 
 driven out to allow a shelter to the visitors, who, seated on the stone 
 sarcophagus, which is said to contain the bones of more than one of the 
 former priests, listened well pleased to the legends of the mountaineer. 
 
EILAN MOHE. 
 
 In the cold Atlantic billows, 
 
 Where they toss on Jura's shore, 
 Rousing all the ancient caverns 
 
 With the fury of their roar ; 
 Where thy rocks, old Corryvrekan, 
 
 Vex the downward speeding main. 
 Stemless as a passion-torrent 
 
 That returneth not again ; 
 
110 eftlan flfld&r. 
 
 Where the wind with fitful howling 
 
 Through the mountain gully drives, 
 And the crew that breast the current 
 
 Row in silence for their lives : 
 There thou stretchest black and rocky, 
 
 Weed and shingle cumbered o'er, 
 With the cross of stone downfallen 
 
 On thy summit, Eilan Mohr. 
 
 II. 
 
 On that cross is ancient sculpture 
 
 Sore defaced by gale and tide, 
 'Tis the crucified Redeemer, 
 
 With his mother by his side. 
 Once an impious rover, landing, 
 
 Stole that hallowed slab away, 
 In his vessel straight he bore it, 
 
 While the billows sleeping lay. 
 On a sudden woke the tempest 
 
 Like a tiger from repose, 
 And the conscious sinner trembled 
 
 When the angry sea arose ; 
 Then he cast the cross, imploring, 
 
 From the frail and sinking boat, 
 
mimx Plo^r. 1 1 1 
 
 And at once the waves were tranquil, 
 
 And the massive stone, afloat 
 On the firm sustaining waters, 
 
 Glided backward to the shore, 
 Till it rested on thy bosom, 
 
 Ever-hallowed Eilan Mohr ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Where the ground more gently slopeth 
 
 To the shelter of a cove, 
 With dark Jura's peaks in distance, 
 
 And the dim grey sky above, 
 Sleeps a convent old and ruined ; 
 
 Half its roof is torn away, 
 Letting in on cell and chancel 
 
 The unbidden light of day. 
 Long a holy man of Erin 
 
 Called the islanders to prayer, 
 In a chapel rudely hollowed 
 
 'Neath the cross-crowned hillock there. 
 (Now in sand to ruin to crumbling, 
 
 For tradition's awful lore 
 Every wandering footstep scareth 
 
 From thy chapel, Eilan Mohr !) 
 
112 eilm flfofjr. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long ago it was St. Carmaig 
 
 To this lonely isle withdrew, 
 Where he still could see the mountains 
 
 Of far Erin, dimly blue ; 
 Here he kept austerest penance, 
 
 Here he built a convent rude, 
 And he taught the Gael religion 
 
 From his sea-girt solitude. 
 Chapels rose upon the mainland, 
 
 Men repented at his word, 
 For his voice, like inspiration's, 
 
 Brought a message from the Lord, 
 And the people loved his teaching, 
 
 And his fame, from shore to shore, 
 Went abroad with acclamations 
 
 For the saint of Eilan Mohr ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Then it chanced a Danish pirate 
 Held those western seas in sway, 
 
 In the castled walls of Sweno 
 He was wont to store his prey ; 
 
 While the bastions, nightly guarded. 
 Scorned surprisal from the foes, 
 
<£tlan f&ifyv. H3 
 
 In the richly garnered chambers 
 
 Riot rang till morning rose. 
 He had one fair child, whose meekness 
 
 Still could soothe his maddest ire, 
 And for her his callous bosom 
 
 Owned a spark of human fire. 
 But her spirit, vexed with evil, 
 
 Turned for shelter unto heaven, 
 And the church her vows accepted, 
 
 In that island-chapel given. 
 When the pirate heard he trembled 
 
 Pale with anger, and he swore, 
 " We shall find a day of reck'ning : 
 
 Wait thou, Priest of Eilan Mohr !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Twas a day of solemn service ; 
 
 From the isles and from the coast 
 Thronged the seamen and the landsmen 
 
 To adore the sacred Host ; 
 In the holy mass they chaunted, 
 
 When a barbarous shout behind 
 Scattered all the crowd asunder — 
 
 Withered leaves before the wind. 
 
114 @iUn flflo|>r. 
 
 " Fly ! the Danes, the Danes are on us ! " 
 
 With a coward speed they ran, 
 Leaving only in the chapel 
 
 One undaunted holy man. 
 " Back ! pollute ye not God's dwelling ! " 
 
 Rang his loud, appealing cry ; 
 Stopped the Danes upon the threshold, 
 
 Quailing at his steady eye. 
 " Strike !" in vain the pirate shouted, 
 
 Then in wrath he strode alone 
 To the priest beside the altar, 
 
 And he dashed him on the stone ! 
 Bruised and dying fell St. Carmaig, 
 
 But he raised his arm to heaven, 
 Saying, "Lo! a sign prophetic, 
 
 Hardened one, to me is given. 
 Thou hast sullied God's own altar, 
 
 Thou art childless from this hour ; 
 For the guiltless dies the guiltless, — 
 
 Bear me witness, Eilan Mohr!" 
 
 VII. 
 In the deepening glow of sunset 
 
 Homeward soon the pirate hies, 
 But a darker gloom is o'er him 
 
 Than now falleth on the skies ! 
 
Gtlan flW&r. 115 
 
 Many a soul his hand remorseless 
 
 To its last account had sped, 
 And his heart had never sickened 
 
 With the pressure of the dead. 
 But those dying eyes are glaring- 
 Through the darkness of the seas, 
 But those fearful accents haunt him, 
 
 Shrieking sharply in the breeze. 
 Late at night he nears the castle, 
 
 Moors his boat the walls below, 
 Sees unwonted lights are gleaming 
 
 At the casements to and fro ; 
 Hears within a voice of wailing — 
 
 Now the pirate's cheek is white, 
 And he bends the mast beside him 
 
 In his anguish and his might ! 
 Soon the menials cluster round him, 
 
 Not a word of doom is said, 
 But he looks into their faces, 
 
 And he feels that she is dead. 
 Ages since have swept the island, 
 
 But a curse still hangeth o'er, — 
 " Whoso entereth thy chapel 
 
 Shall be childless, Eilan Mohr ! " 
 
 
A TALE OF FORRES TOWN. 
 
 The following ballad claims no more than to be a simple paraphrase 
 of a true story of " the '45," the circumstances of which cannot be more 
 appropriately detailed than in the words of the lady in whose family 
 they occurred : — 
 
 " When a mere child, I used to sit at my father's knee and listen 
 greedily to tales of Prince Charlie. My grandfather, like many of the 
 well-born though unwise gentlemen of the north, had the honour of 
 being ruined in Charles Edward's cause. 
 
 " My father was a boy of six years of age when the prince with his 
 followers rode into Forres before the battle of Culloden. He said he 
 could never forget the lovely, almost femininely-fair, countenance, with 
 the long curled hair hanging about the shoulders, and a star on the left 
 side. 
 
 " The prince rode a Spanish jennet, and sat exactly as a lady sits on 
 the saddle, riding slowly that all might see him. 
 
 " My father, with other little children, attended a dame's school, and 
 
& €ah of tfovxtsi Cofon. 117 
 
 the worthy woman had that day, as the safest plan, placed what she 
 called a loyal cockade (that is a Hanoverian one) in the hats of her 
 pupils. When he came from school his mother plucked it out indignantly, 
 and put the white cockade in its stead. 
 
 " After Culloden matters were sadly changed. My grandfather was 
 obliged to fly for his life, and my grandmother's house was filled with 
 the officers of the king's army, even the dining-room being used by them 
 as a stable for their horses. 
 
 " In the midst of this, my father said, that he and his brothers being 
 huddled together in one room to be out of the way of their unwelcome 
 visitors, he had a vivid recollection of seeing a beggarwoman come into 
 the chamber when they were in bed, and weep over and hug them and 
 their mother. 
 
 " The poor little fellows soon found out it was their father venturing 
 thither to take a last look at them before leaving them for ever, nearly 
 beggared by his ruin. He himself had to wander about till he escaped 
 to Maryland, whence he never returned, his young and high-spirited wife 
 being left, as too many were in that day, to struggle with poverty and 
 hopeless separation." 
 
 Forres and its inhabitants are said to be of Flemish origin ; certainly 
 the style of building in the old parts of the town is very unlike the 
 generality of Scottish cities. Part of the parish is situated in the 
 Highlands, and at one time Gaelic was spoken at one end of the 
 town and English at the other, but the Gaelic is now falling fast into 
 disuse. 
 
 The Cloven hills, which have also the name of Clunie, lie close to 
 the town ; they are well-wooded, and laid out in winding walks. The 
 tallest of them is crowned with one of those nondescript round towers 
 
118 & Cafc of tfovvrt Cohm. 
 
 which it seems the taste of the day considered the most appropriate form 
 of homage to be offered to the hero of Trafalgar. The top, however, 
 commands a view nearly as magnificent as that unrivalled one from the 
 Calton Hill of Edinburgh, which is also, like the Cloven hills, disfigured 
 by a " Kelson's monument." 
 
A TALE OF FOERES TOWN. 
 
 Oh, bonny are the Cloven hills 
 
 By Forres town that lie, 
 As brothers guard a sister fair 
 
 Who grows beneath their eye ; 
 Fair Forres of the sunny streets, 
 
 Far glancing o'er the deep, 
 Where old Ben Wywis shakes the snows 
 
 From off his winter sleep ! 
 
120 & Calf of dfam* Cotmt. 
 
 Fair Forres, glorious sight was mine 
 
 Ere yet from childhood grown, 
 That army of red Highlanders, 
 
 Whose march shook England's throne. 
 The shout of men, the tramp of horse, 
 
 Came sounding on our ears, 
 A group of boys who sat in school, 
 
 We sprang and joined the cheers. 
 
 The quiet streets were all astir, 
 
 With tartans gay bespread ; 
 The meanest clansman walked a king, 
 
 So haughty was his tread ; 
 And with them gallant cavaliers 
 
 And chiefs of old renown, 
 While woman's hand and woman's voice 
 
 Gave welcome through the town. 
 
 Before them rode a lovely youth, 
 
 His cheek as maiden's fair, 
 And all adown his corslet plate 
 
 Fell curling yellow hair ; 
 Upon his breast a diamond star — 
 
 But brighter shone his eyes 
 To mark his people's loyalty, 
 
 Their love and glad surprise. 
 
31 Calf of dfovm; GTofon. 121 
 
 I shouted for the Chevalier, 
 
 But in my cap disgraced 
 The adverse badge of Hanover 
 
 Our Whiggish dame had placed. 
 How knit the Gael their brows at me ! 
 
 I sobbed and shrank away ; 
 The Stuart emblem, snowy white, 
 
 Had empire for that day. 
 
 My mother snatched the Whig cockade 
 
 And cast it in the flame : 
 " Well, boy, thy Gumming blood may mount 
 
 To own that badge of shame ! 
 They deck them as for bridal feast 
 
 Who charge for prince and land ; 
 Now Heaven's applause attest the cause, 
 
 Thy Father's in the band ! " 
 
 But woe for sunny Forres town ! 
 
 And woe for Scotland wide ! 
 Three days beheld that brave array 
 
 Cast down from all its pride, 
 Slaughter and flight, and hot pursuit, 
 
 And plundered homes and ruin ; 
 O Fate ! that pulse of loyalty 
 
 Should be true hearts' undoing ! 
 
122 a Calc of dforresl Cofon. 
 
 Again the streets were all astir, 
 
 King's troopers rough and wild 
 Filled humble cot and lordly house, 
 
 And swore at wife and child. 
 Into my mother's helpless home 
 
 They rode with greeting small, 
 And stabled twenty chargers 
 
 In our stately dining-hall. 
 
 Unwelcome change ! for loyal toast, 
 
 For courtly feast's parade, 
 The champ of bit, the neigh of steed, 
 
 The flash of threatening blade. 
 We children in an upper room 
 
 Together huddled sate, 
 And wondered at the soldiers' arms 
 
 And hearkened to their prate. 
 
 It was but like a jest to us, 
 
 A game of feats exciting ; 
 But hopelessly our mother wept 
 
 While we saw nought affrighting. 
 Death — death, the word on every tongue, 
 
 Our father's fate unknown ; 
 Danger in every face she met, 
 
 And doom in every tone. 
 
& Cale of ffiom* Coimt. 123 
 
 One night we laid us down to sleep, 
 
 But could not sleep to hear 
 The horses grinding at their corn, 
 
 The noises were so near, 
 When stealthily the door was moved, 
 
 And stealthily alone 
 A woman crept across the floor, 
 
 An aged beggar crone. 
 
 We hid beneath the coverlet, 
 
 But to our beds she came, 
 Fell weeping on our shrinking necks, 
 
 And called us each by name ; 
 Our father's voice, and such disguise ! 
 
 We laughed in childish glee. 
 " Now hush ye," said the beggar crone, 
 
 " Ye would not murder me ? 
 
 I am your father, thus reduced 
 
 In rags to crouch and crawl. 
 Foes in mine ancient dwelling-place 
 
 And horses in mine hall ; 
 No longer mine — nor home have I, 
 
 Nor shelter, save the deep ; 
 One kiss, my children, ere I go, 
 
 One blessing, turn and sleep !" 
 
<24 ft Calr of dTorve^ Cofou. 
 
 Ah ! bitter was his parting kiss, 
 
 The last that father gave, 
 He wandered on the Highland hills 
 
 Till he could reach the wave ; 
 Far, far in Maryland he died, 
 
 Heartbroken for his king, 
 And we were left in penury, 
 
 That base, contemned thing, 
 
 In sleep alone that beggar crone 
 
 Oft weeping o'er me bends, 
 But, widowed mother, never more 
 
 Returned thy friend of friends ; 
 And never more through Forres town 
 
 With tartaned clans beside, 
 With pipe and cheer and trumpet clear, 
 
 Shall Charlie Stuart ride. 
 
 I who had then but summers six, 
 
 Am now a white-haired man, 
 Have seen the crown thrice handed down 
 
 In recollection's span ; 
 The sceptre cast to stranger hands, 
 
 Transferred the right divine ; 
 The Stuart cause an old man's tale, 
 
 Extinct the Stuart line ! 
 
THE WIDOWS OF LOOHY. 
 
 In the sixteenth century a sanguinary conflict took place between the 
 Macdonalds of Clanranald and the Frasers, the latter headed by their 
 chief, Hugh fifth Lord Lovat. The circumstances which led to this 
 battle are sufficiently characteristic of the times : — 
 
 The young chieftain of Clanranald had been fostered and educated 
 among the Frasers, with whom he was connected by the mother's side ; 
 and, on reaching manhood, he w T ent home to take possession of his estates 
 and feudal dignity. He had probably been sent by the Frasers to one of 
 the Lowland universities, as was sometimes, though rarely, the case with 
 young men of rank among the Highlanders, for he was called " Donald 
 Gaulta," the Lowlander, or " Stranger " as some accounts have it. 
 
 Great preparations were made by the Macdonalds to receive their 
 chieftain with due honour. Oxen and sheep were slaughtered in pro- 
 fusion for a grand festival ; but this unbounded hospitality seemed more 
 than necessary to the young man, who found himself the unconsulted host 
 in so magnificent a display. With a truly Lowland prudence he asked if 
 a few hens would not have been sufficient for himself and his retinue. 
 This uncongenial remark circulated from lip to lip. Parsimony in a chief 
 was a sin of the deepest dye. The more than patriarchal hospitality 
 
126 Elje TOtatoS of %od)v. 
 
 which the heads of the clans exercised towards their dependants, whom 
 they fed as a father feeds his children, made a niggard spirit the most 
 revolting of all in the eyes of the Gael. 
 
 " We will not have a hen-chief to rule over us ! " cried the indignant 
 vassals, their overflowing welcomes suddenly changed into contempt and 
 anger. 
 
 Unusual as it was to depose a chieftain, the Macdonalds proceeded at 
 once to this strong expression of disapprobation. They elected in the 
 place of Donald Gaulta a natural son of the late Clanranald, and the 
 rightful heir fled for assistance to his friends the Frasers. 
 
 As these had allowed him to be reared in such principles of economy, 
 they felt themselves bound to support him under the inconvenient con- 
 sequences of his Sassenach education. They at once espoused his cause, 
 and sallied forth to attack the Macdonalds. 
 
 The two parties joined battle at Kinloch Lochy, on the banks of Loch 
 Lochy, on the loth July, 1544. The fight began at morning, and was 
 obstinately contested till nightfall. The day being sultry both parties 
 stripped to their shirts, wherefore that battle was ever after distinguished 
 by the name of " Blaranlien." Lord Lovat, his son, and eighty gentle- 
 men of the Fraser clan, fell in the fight, and the unfortunate Donald 
 Gaulta was taken prisoner by his rebellious vassals. His heedlessness of 
 speech seemed fated to be his destruction, for having irritated them amid 
 the turbulent rejoicings for their victory by some foolish boast, they 
 cruelly murdered him in their passion. 
 
 The following anecdote occurs in an MS. history of Inverness and its 
 vicinity, written in 1644 by a clergyman of the Fraser clan, and is ex- 
 tracted in Mr. Carruther's extremely clever " Highland Note-Book : " — 
 
 " In 1574 Lord Lovat, mustering his men at Tomnaheurich near Inver- 
 ness, had eighty pretty fellows, whose mothers bore them immediately 
 
Ci)t mtitQto* of ilodji). 127 
 
 after their fathers were slain at the battle of Lochy in 1544. A singular 
 providence it was that by God's blessing these eighty widows, whose 
 husbands were killed in that bloody battle, should each safely bear a boy, 
 and that these same children should come to perfect age, surviving many 
 of their kindred, and all happily meet together at a muster thirty years 
 after with their chief." 
 
 The green hills that border Loch Lochy are very thinly wooded, 
 and as thinly peopled, the villages and farms lying in the glens that 
 stretch away into the interior. It is a quiet, solemn lake; the green 
 shadows of the mountains rest motionless on the water, and the stillness of 
 the scene is almost melancholy. 
 
 It is rather incongruous to see the steamer which plies between Inver- 
 ness and Fort William dashing with all the hurry, smoke, and noise of 
 its kind through the calm solitudes of the hills, nor can the passengers 
 easily reconcile the prosaic accompaniments of their boat with the dreamy 
 romance of the scenery through which it sweeps them. 
 
THE WIDOWS OF LOCHY. 
 
 On the banks of Loch Lochy, ere fight had begun, 
 Gay mustered the Frasers at rising of sun, 
 And proudly Lord Lovat led forward his clan, 
 His brave Duinhewassels fourscore in the van — 
 
€ty TOtlofosI of %od)v. 129 
 
 All banded like brothers, with claymore and targe, 
 But himself and those eighty fell dead in the charge ; 
 And eighty sad women were widowed in fight, 
 And never was shriek like the shriek of that night, 
 Like the cry of the Widows of Lochy. 
 
 For the right of the orphan the Frasers arose, 
 But Fortune forsook them to side with their foes ; 
 The lawful Clanranald a captive is slain, 
 The hands that befriended are stiff on the plain ; 
 And dark Eilan Tyrim, the sea-beaten rock, 
 To the victor usurping its gates must unlock; 
 The victor who shrank not, who cared not for wrong, 
 But a voice to the heavens went forth, and was strong, 
 'Twas the cry of the Widows of Lochy. 
 
 In sadness, the Frasers returned to their vale, 
 
 And loud was the chant of the coronach's wail ; 
 
 From stern Corryarrick the echoes were swept, 
 
 And Ness, the unfathomed, was stirred as he slept ; 
 
 Ben Nevis the hoary, the ancient of years, 
 
 From his snows in the sunshine was dropping with tears ; 
 
 And Foyers, the gloomy, roared deep in his linn, 
 
 And startled was Aird by the funeral din, 
 
 By the cry of the Widows of Lochy. 
 
130 %\)t TOftofo* of ftocjjjj. 
 
 On the banks of the Beauly there 's gladness at morn, 
 When eighty fair boys into daylight are born ; 
 Each boy hath the face of his father the dead, 
 Whose blood by the waters of Lochy was shed ; 
 Each boy to his mother recalleth her grief, — 
 The fall of her husband, the doom of her chief. 
 1 Oh, swift as the torrent to ocean that runs 
 Up grow ye for vengeance, ye fatherless sons ! ' 
 
 Was the cry of the Widows of Lochy. 
 
 Thrice ten flew the summerso'er mountain and shore, 
 When Lord Lovat assembled his Frasers once more ; 
 And lo ! Duinhewassals fourscore in array, 
 All banded like .brothers, all born in a day ; 
 Full armed for the combat those orphans were seen, 
 Undaunted in spirit, unflinching in mien ; 
 For nurtured to vengeance from boyhood they grew, 
 And Death passed by when his victims he slew, 
 By the sons of the Widows of Lochy. 
 
 Lead on, noble Lovat ! they shout to their Lord ; 
 Long, long for Clanranald we've whetted the sword ; 
 The blood of our fathers is red on his hands, 
 The fate of our fathers reprisal demands ; 
 
CJe Wftofc* of %oi%b. 131 
 
 And they shall be childless who orphaned our morn, 
 And they shall be orphans who yet are unborn ; 
 And the fire of their dwellings shall crimson the cloud, 
 And the wail of their women tenfold shall be loud 
 As the cry of the Widows of Lochy ! 
 
MAKY OF THE OAKENSHAWS. 
 
 It has been well said by Mrs. Grant, of Laggan, that the Second 
 Sight of the Highlanders differed from all heathen divinations in this 
 important respect, that it was entirely involuntary. It is described by 
 this elegant and imaginative essayist, as a " shuddering impulse, a mental 
 spasm, that comes unsought, and often departs without leaving a trace 
 behind by which it may be connected with any future event." 
 
 The Highland seer did not go about, like Balaam, to seek for en- 
 chantments ; his gift was a fatality, and was generally as unwelcome as 
 unlooked for. He was not consulted by those curious to pry into fu- 
 turity ; he made no trade of imposture ; no honours were attached to this 
 mysterious endowment ; the prophet was shunned rather than regarded 
 by the vulgar. Instead of possessing he was possessed by the spirit 
 within him, over the working of which he had no control. 
 
 The seers were almost always persons of weakly health, of solitary 
 tastes, of morbid and melancholy temperament. They were themselves 
 deceived, not deceivers of others; living much alone in the seclusion 
 of the mountains, indulging in gloomy reveries, till the dreams on 
 which their diseased fancy habitually fed grew at length distinct and 
 palpable. Hence it was no wonder, if predisposed to credulity by edu- 
 cation, they should imagine such appearances realised to their senses as 
 well as to their thoughts. 
 
liflaij) oi ti)t <©akwirt)afoa. 133 
 
 The seventh son of a seventh son was supposed, by the accident of 
 his birth, to be gifted with this unenvied power. The consciousness of 
 being so considered by those around him would of itself foster in the 
 mind of the unfortunate child a dreamy habit of reflection, an abstrac- 
 tion of manner, and a feeling of being unlike others, calculated, as he 
 grew to manhood, to isolate him more and more from his fellows, and 
 to teach him to people with apparitions the solitude of his soul. Such 
 a character is that attempted to be portrayed in the following ballad. 
 
 Duntroon Castle, the ancient seat of an influential family of the 
 Campbell clan, occupies a commanding site at the entrance of the Loch or 
 Bay of Crinan, where it communicates with a similar salt-water firth, the 
 Loch of Craignish. 
 
 Duntroon has had its days of military pride, when it stood sieges and 
 defied invaders by sea and land ; but it is now a peaceful dwelling-house. 
 
 The present proprietor has refitted and modernised the whole 
 building in the interior, and yet with excellent taste has contrived to 
 preserve something of its martial appearance, so that the voyager, as 
 he sweeps under its walls, may still imagine it a fortalice of the olden 
 time, hanging darkly from its wave-girt steep. 
 
 The coast-line of this part of Argyle is remarkably varied. The 
 shores, now precipitous and barren, now undulating and richly cul- 
 tivated, carry the visitor through a succession of beautiful prospects, 
 each differing from the last. The waters are studded with innumerable 
 islets, some wooded, and all grassy, which afford shelter to sea-fowl 
 of every description. The nests, hidden among the weeds, are rarely 
 disturbed by the hand of man ; the Argyle peasants being seldom re- 
 duced, like the inhabitants of some of the desolate Hebridean isles, to 
 live upon the birds of the sea. 
 
 The wild goose, the swan, the rare velvet duck, and many other sorts, 
 
134 $feD of tije (Bttimiffyatoi. 
 
 frequent these lochs, and form not the least beautiful objects in the scene, 
 with their white wings glancing across the waves. 
 
 The people are nearly amphibious, every man is a boatman ; yet, not- 
 withstanding the universal skill and experience, accidents are but too 
 common among the rapid tides and perilous eddies of this difficult naviga- 
 tion. The little daring boats are continually to be seen as they dart in 
 and out among the creeks and islands. The sociality of the people is so 
 great that the waves which intervene are no barrier to weekly or daily 
 intercourse. Parties on the opposite sides of a loch keep up as friendly 
 communication as the dwellers on the opposite sides of a street — nay, it 
 may be questioned if the wave-divided neighbours meet not more fre- 
 quently than those whom but a few steps of stone separate. It is a 
 delightful close to a long summer day of wandering with pleasant com- 
 panions through romantic scenery, to return home in the cool of the 
 evening by water, the clear moon playing brightly on the boat's track, 
 the fresh air making the little wavelets leap for joy, and the hilly coasts 
 fading into that dreamy blue of distance which, more than all, " lends 
 enchantment to the view." 
 
 The ballad referred to of Lord Reoch's daughter is an old and deserved 
 favourite with the Highland maidens, who have a natural aptitude for 
 song, and to whom the simple pathos of both the words and air of this 
 exquisite fragment possesses a touching interest. It concludes with the 
 following lament : — 
 
 " Ochone for fair Ellen, ochone ! 
 
 Ochone for the pride of Strathcoe ! 
 In the deep deep sea, in the salt salt bree, 
 Lord Reoch, thy Ellen lies low ! " 
 
MAKY OF THE OAKENSHAWS. 
 
 It was upon a summer night, 
 A tranquil night of June, 
 
 We rested on our idle oars 
 Beneath an amber moon 
 
 That mirrored upon Crinan's loch 
 Thy ruined walls, Duntroon. 
 
136 ^arj) of tty (©afem^alusi. 
 
 The sky was calm, the air was balm, 
 The night was clear as day, 
 
 Our eyes could trace each wooded isle 
 On Crinan's breast that lay, 
 
 And e'en the mist of Scarba's hills 
 Far out beyond the bay. 
 
 It was a night to meditate, 
 But full of speech were we, 
 
 As lark that singeth from the cloud, 
 Or mavis from the tree ; 
 
 There was Mary of the Oakenshaws, 
 With Willie Bhane and me. 
 
 Sweet Mary of the Oakenshaws ! 
 
 So thrillingly she sung ; 
 No burn above its mosses flowed 
 
 So smoothly as her tongue, 
 No bluebell e'er so beautiful 
 
 In cleft of granite hung. 
 
 I scarce had hoped to mate with her, 
 Yet she to me was vowed, 
 
 And blushed so full of happiness 
 That well I might be proud ; 
 
 For I had won her .manfully 
 From all the rival crowd. 
 
fflaxv of tije ^atajefyafos. 137 
 
 And Willie Bhane, no common youth 
 
 Was fashioned like to him, 
 Of lineament so feminine, 
 
 So delicate of limb, 
 With eyes where saddest sentiment 
 
 Welled ever o'er the brim. 
 
 A stranger to our mountain shores 
 
 In earliest youth came he, 
 His mother was a dark-eyed dame 
 
 From climes beyond the sea ; 
 There was a spirit in her mien 
 
 That spake of ancestry. 
 
 There was a lightning in her glance, 
 
 Although her tones were mild, 
 And there were sad and cloudy cares 
 
 Upon her forehead piled ; 
 She never gazed as mothers gaze 
 
 Upon an only child. 
 
 But silent in that fisher glen 
 
 She dwelt where first she came, 
 And if her homely neighbours asked 
 
 Of lineage or of name, 
 She said, " He is a seventh son, 
 
 His father was the same." 
 
138 Plan) of tl)t (MntSljafos. 
 
 She must have known that ominous word 
 Would work with evil spell, 
 
 She must have guessed the coward fear 
 That on the fishers fell, 
 
 Whene'er they met the lonely boy 
 Beside the fairies' well. 
 
 He mingled not with other lads, 
 
 He loved to stray alone, 
 To climb the loftiest rugged rocks 
 
 With slippery weeds o'ergrown, 
 To watch the sunset on the sea 
 
 From a spray-watered stone. 
 
 And unappalled in soul was he 
 (For all his cheek so pale) 
 
 As ever roughest fisherman 
 That braves the autumn gale 
 
 And oft when every mast was bare 
 He boldly carried sail. 
 
 For well the currents of Loch Fyne 
 And well the shoals he knew, 
 
 And 'mong the rocks in Crinan hid 
 He held a practised clue ; 
 
 No fisher-lad like Willie Bhane 
 For helmsman good and true ! 
 
Plarj) of tye (©akmsfyafoss. 139 
 
 But most his mood was pensiveness 
 
 When he would dreaming lie, 
 As if beneath the bubbling wave 
 
 Strange visions met his eye ; 
 And whoso next he looked upon 
 
 They said was soon to die. 
 
 Thus half we clung to him in love, 
 
 And half we shrank in dread, 
 Until he grew to be my friend, 
 
 And hers, that maiden dead ; 
 And words of angel sympathy 
 
 To him she pitying said. 
 
 Ah ! never deemed her guilelessness, 
 
 That strove his gloom to cheer, 
 How love is built on gratitude, 
 
 How smiles become too dear ; 
 And thus his fate was cast away 
 
 Ere either woke to fear. 
 
 But when she told him she was pledged, 
 
 And gladly pledged to me, 
 Without upbraiding or complaint 
 
 He left her hastily ; 
 And many a dreary day and night, 
 
 He drove upon the sea. 
 
140 piaii) of tfje <®afeen<rt)afo5\ 
 
 At length he stood by us again, 
 
 Still paler than of old, 
 His matted locks hung o'er his brows, 
 
 His wasted hand was cold, 
 His voice was tremulous with fear, 
 
 His, who had been so bold. 
 
 He said, " To-day it is your plan 
 
 Across the loch to row, 
 But as I am a living man 
 
 I charge you not to go ; 
 There is a fate against the deed 
 
 To work you death and woe ! " 
 
 I shuddered at his warning words, 
 But Mary playful smiled, — 
 
 " Talk not to me of omens now 
 Who am no more a child ; 
 
 The wind shall be our seer, Willie, 
 And that is soft and mild." 
 
 I yielded to her winning tones — 
 What else could lover do ? 
 
 He were not man who could resist 
 Her eyes beseeching blue ; 
 
 But alway to my dying hour 
 That weak consent I rue. 
 
4Harj> of tfje (©attend afos. 141 
 
 A woeful man was Willie Bhane — 
 
 " Self-slayers ! " was his cry, 
 " Oh, Mary of the Oakenshaws, 
 
 How gladly would I die, 
 If but your life might be redeemed 
 
 By such a wretch as I ! 
 
 If once your foot be on the loch 
 
 You are a doomed maid, 
 You shall not sleep beside the kirk 
 
 Where all your kin are laid, 
 But your corse shall sink within the deep, 
 
 Where the coral reefs are made." 
 
 But nighest doom is blithest bloom, 
 
 She mocked his warning drear, — 
 " Now went ye to the seas, Willie, 
 
 To learn my death is near ? 
 And came ye from the seas, Willie, 
 
 To bring such message here ? " 
 
 Lightly tripped she to the strand, 
 
 Lightly urged the boat, 
 And with her deft and ready hand 
 
 The skiff was soon afloat, 
 While Willie stood there speechlessly, 
 
 As if choking in his throat. 
 
142 Plarj) of tf)t (©aliwsfjafos. 
 
 But when he saw us push from land, 
 And raise the oars to ply, 
 
 He leaped beside us on the bench 
 With a loud and bitter cry, — 
 
 " Oh, Mary of the Oakenshaws, 
 I'll come with thee to die ! " 
 
 He grasped the helm nor further spake, 
 And o'er the loch we shot ; 
 
 The clouds were moveless overhead, 
 The air was still and hot, 
 
 And through the waves' transparency 
 Shewed coral reef and grot. 
 
 For many a mile we rowed along 
 
 To find an islet green, 
 Where seafowl brooding o'er their young 
 
 By Mary had been seen ; 
 And there with rushy diadem 
 
 I crowned my Island Queen. 
 
 Ah ! peaceful was that solitude 
 
 Upon the silent flood, 
 The shrubby knoll of birches black 
 
 Beneath whose shade we stood, 
 The distant hills, the winding shores, 
 
 The pasture and the wood. 
 
Plarg of tije (©afcen^afos. 143 
 
 Spent was the day when we returned, 
 
 And bared the starry lift, 
 And lazily across its shine 
 
 We saw the cloudlets drift : 
 E'en Willie Bhane in that repose 
 
 Forgot his fatal gift. 
 
 And thus it was we floated back 
 
 That balmy night of June, 
 And interchanged our sympathies 
 
 Beneath the amber moon, 
 Beside the shadow of thy walls, 
 
 Old Castle of Duntroon. 
 
 Then one by one we sank in thought, 
 
 And each began to muse ; 
 Our hearts absorbed the gentle calm, 
 
 As flowers the summer dews ; 
 When Mary's voice spontaneously 
 
 Its magic did infuse. 
 
 So sweet she sang, so soft she sang, 
 
 That mournful tale and true 
 Of all the father's agony 
 
 Lord Reoch's bosom knew, 
 When lovely Ellen's boat went down 
 
 Far, far from Allan Dhu. 
 
144 J&arp of tyz <®afcemtf)afog. 
 
 So sweet she sang, so soft she sang, 
 She wiled our hearts away ; 
 
 Forgetful of the helm and oar, 
 We drifted from the ray 
 
 Of moonlight to the darkest shades 
 And shallows of the bay. 
 
 So sweet she sang, so sad she sang, 
 Our tears she did unlock ; 
 
 When, all unsteered, the helpless boat 
 Drove rudely on a rock, 
 
 And by an eddying tide engulfed 
 Heeled over in the shock. 
 
 The music still was in our ears 
 Of that entrancing burst, 
 
 When we were struggling for our lives 
 In dullest waves immersed, 
 
 And madly grasping at the clothes 
 Of her who sank the first. 
 
 'Twas but a second, swimmers strong 
 We both the deep could brave, 
 
 And near us lay the sheltering land ; 
 But she was in the wave ; 
 
 And Willie Bhane sank hopelessly 
 With her he died to save. 
 
fflav$ of tyt (©afomtfjafos. 145 
 
 My senses fled in agony 
 
 Amid the water's roar ; 
 Nor knew I of the friendly bark 
 
 That hurried from the shore, 
 Nor felt the hands that rescued me 
 
 To live and suffer more. 
 
 They drew me quickly to the strand, 
 
 I wakened from my swoon 
 Beside the calmly glistening loch, 
 
 Beneath the amber moon, 
 And all thy shadowed battlements, 
 
 Old Ca3tle of Duntroon. 
 
 No furrow rippled on the deep, 
 
 No ruffle marred the sky. 
 Was it a dream of misery ? 
 
 Could I have seen them die, 
 And yet unchanged around me smile 
 
 The tranquil earth and sky ? 
 
 But hear the waters murmuring 
 
 That low and mournful tune 
 Of her who passed away in song 
 
 Beneath the amber moon, 
 Who sleeps o'ershadowed by thy walls, 
 
 Old Castle of Duntroon ! 
 
LORD MURRAY. 
 
 The very curious superstition on which this poem is grounded was 
 kindly communicated by a lady, who had heard it frequently referred to 
 by the Highland peasantry in the neighbourhood of Loch Long, and the 
 grand mountain scenery that lies inland through Argyle. 
 
 It is simply this, that women who die in childbed are carried straight 
 to heaven, whatever may have been their sins during life ; such a death 
 being an indemnity in full for all offences or omissions. 
 
 The only allusion to this superstition that the writer can find is, not 
 in any Gaelic tradition, but in one of the border ballads, that of Clerk 
 Saunders. It is given both by Scott and Motherwell, in their collections 
 of Border Minstrelsy, without any comment from either editor on the 
 verses in question. 
 
 Clerk Saunders having been slain by the brothers of his love, May 
 Margaret, his ghost comes by night to claim from the lady the resti- 
 tution of his plighted troth, without which he could not sleep quietly in 
 his grave. 
 
 May Margaret, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, and anxious 
 
£ort> f&wcvav. 147 
 
 to obtain some equivalent for the troth-plight she was required to give 
 up, offers the following very fair bargain : — 
 
 " Thy faith and troth thou sail never get, 
 And our true love sail never twin, 
 Until you tell what comes of women, 
 I wot, who die in strong travailling." 
 
 The ghost, though he has left the body but twenty- four hours, seems 
 to have made good use of his faculties in the interval, for he promptly 
 replies, — 
 
 " Their beds are made in the heavens so high, 
 Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, 
 Weel set about wi' gilly flowers, 
 I wot, sweet company for to see." 
 
 This information, if not very explicit, at least implies that sufferers 
 by that peculiar mode of dying were repaid by an honourable resting- 
 place in the heavenly mansions. It is probable this idea was derived 
 from the Roman Catholic religion, and that the Virgin was supposed to 
 have some influence in the exemption from earthly penalties bestowed on 
 the dead mother. The poem has, therefore, represented this as the 
 feeling which dictated a superstition too full of tenderness to excite the 
 sneer of the most sceptical despiser of the faith of old. 
 

 LORD MURRAY. 
 
 At break of day to hunt the deer 
 Lord Murray rides with hunting gear ; 
 Glen Tilt his boding step shall know, 
 The minished herd his prowess show ; 
 And savoury haunch and antlers tall 
 Shall grace to-morrow's banquet-hall. 
 
Eorfc ifflurraj). 149 
 
 Lord Murray leapeth on his horse, 
 A little hand arrests his course ; 
 Two loving eyes upon him burn, 
 And mutely plead for swift return, — 
 His lady stands to see him go, 
 Yet standing makes departure slow. 
 
 " Go back, my dame," Lord Murray said, 
 " The wind blows chilly on thy head ; 
 Go back into thy bower and rest, 
 Too sharp the morning for thy breast ; 
 Go tend thy health, I charge on thee, 
 For sake of him thou'st promised me." 
 
 Lord Murray gallops by the brae, 
 His huntsmen follow up the Tay, 
 Where Tummel, like a hoyden girl, 
 Leaps o'er the croy with giddy whirl, 
 Falls in Tay's arms a silenced wife, 
 And sinks her maiden name for life. 
 
 Lord Murray rides through Garry's den, 
 Where beetling hills the torrent pen ; 
 And as he lasheth bridge and rock 
 The caves reverberate the shock, 
 
150 Horto iKurraj). 
 
 Far as the cones of Ben-y-Glo, 
 
 That o'er Glen Tilt their shadows throw. 
 
 Great sport was his, and worthy gain, 
 The noblest of the herd were slain ; 
 Till, worn with chase, the hunter sank 
 At evening on a mossy bank ; 
 And as his strength revived with food 
 His spirit blessed the solitude. 
 
 A silvery mist the distance hid, 
 
 And up the valley gently slid ; 
 
 While, softened, through its curtain white 
 
 The lakes and rivers flashed their light, 
 
 And crimson mountains of the west 
 
 Cushioned the sun upon their breast. 
 
 Hushed was the twilight, birds were dumb, 
 The midges ceased their vexing hum, 
 And floated homewards in their sleep ; 
 All silent browsed the straggling sheep ; 
 E'en Tilt, sole tattler of the glen, 
 Ran voiceless in Lord Murray's ken. 
 
 An infant's cry ! such hails at birth 
 The first- pained feeble breath of earth ; 
 
EortJ iftltmraj). 151 
 
 Lord Murray starteth to explore, 
 But there is stillness as before ; 
 Nothing he sees but fading skies, 
 The cold blue peaks, the stars' dim eyes, 
 The heather nodding wearily, 
 The wind that riseth drearily : 
 It was a fancy, thinketh he, 
 But it hath broke his reverie. 
 
 In closing night he rideth back, 
 His heart is darker than his track ; 
 It is not conscience, dread, or shame, 
 His soul is stainless as his name, 
 But shapeless horrors vaguely crowd 
 Around him, black as thunder-cloud. 
 
 He spurs his horse until he reach 
 His castle's belt of aged beech ; 
 His lady sped him forth at morn, 
 But silence hails his late return ; 
 The little dog that on her waits, 
 Why runs he whining at the gates ? 
 
 Lord Murray wonders at the gloom, 
 His halls deserted as the tomb, 
 
152 Hottr JHut-vaj). 
 
 And all along the corridors 
 Against the windows swing the firs ; 
 Closed is his lady's door, — he stands, 
 Too weak to ope it with his hands, 
 Yet bursteth in he knows not how, 
 And looks upon his lady's brow. 
 
 She lay upon their bridal bed, 
 Her golden tresses round her shed, 
 Her eyelids dropped, her lips apart, 
 As if still sighing forth her heart, 
 But cold and white, as life looked never, 
 For life had left that face for ever. 
 
 On her bosom lay a child, 
 Flushed with sleep wherein it smiled, — 
 Sleep of birth and sleep of death, 
 Icy cheek and warm young breath, 
 Rosy babe and clay-white mother 
 Stilly laid by one another. 
 
 The nurse, a woman bowed with years, 
 Knelt by the bed with bursting tears, 
 And wailed o'er her whose early bloom 
 She thus had nurtured for the tomb ; 
 
fcor* jHurraj?. 153 
 
 A piteous sight it was in sooth, — 
 The living age, the perished youth. 
 
 " The way is long," at last she said, 
 " Oh, sorrowing Lord, the way is dread, 
 Through marsh and pitfall, to the rest 
 God keeps for those who serve Him best ; 
 And unto man it ne'er was given 
 To win with ease the joys of heaven. 
 
 But Mary, Queen beside her Son, 
 Such grace for woman's soul hath won 
 (Remembering the manger rude, 
 Her pangs of virgin motherhood), 
 That blessed most of mortals they 
 Whose life life-giving flows away. 
 
 No pains of purgatory knows 
 
 The sleeper in that deep repose, 
 
 No harsh delays in upper air 
 
 The mother, birth released, must bear ; 
 
 For angels near her waiting stand 
 
 And lift her straight to God's right hand. 
 
 No masses need ye for her soul, 
 Round whom the heavenly censers roll ; 
 
154 3Lov* Jflurraj). 
 
 Pure as the babe she bore this day, 
 Her sins in death were washed away ; 
 To win him life 'twas hers to die, 
 And she shall live in heaven for aye ; 
 Pale in our sight her body lies, 
 Her soul is bless'd in Paradise ! " 
 Lord Murray's voice took up the word, 
 " Her soul is blessed, praise the Lord !" 
 
THE SPINNING OF THE SHROUD. 
 
 " It was the practice among the Highland women for a newly-made 
 bride, immediately on her instalment in her new position, to set about 
 spinning the yarn for her shroud." — Logan's Scottish Gael, vol. ii. 
 page 363. 
 
 Captain Burt also mentions that this custom was general in his day, 
 adding that the husband would indeed be considered a profligate and 
 dead to all sense of shame who should sell or pledge his wife's " dead 
 claiths." 
 
 It must have been a strong impression of the fallacy of earthly hopes 
 whieh assigned such a task to such a season. 
 
 The associations of the tomb would chill with more than ordinary 
 severity the young heart which was beginning to expand in the warmth 
 of mutual affection, and in the pleasant prospects of a new mode of 
 existence. 
 
 Was it to sober her girlish levity that her first duty was to make 
 ready for the grave, that her first care on entering the home which 
 seemed to promise a long and happy life of domestic peace, was to prepare 
 the solemn garments of the tomb ? How eloquently this custom speaks 
 
J 56 CIjc Spuming of tl;t j^rmitr. 
 
 of the familiarity with which the Highlanders encouraged the idea of 
 another life beyond the present ! The remembrance of it entered into all 
 their joys and griefs. Their weddings were darkened by its shadow, their 
 burials brightened by its ray ; for the thought of death must ever be 
 chequered with sunshine and cloud. The spirit welcomes the bliss that is 
 to follow in the promised heaven ; the flesh shrinks from the revolting 
 corruption and cold oblivion of the grave. 
 
 The Highland maiden, on entering the wedded state, unbound from 
 her luxuriant locks the fillet or snood, which till then had formed their 
 only covering, and veiled them thenceforward in the modesty of a matron 
 toy or curch. This was a simple cap of linen or cotton cloth, bound 
 plainly across the forehead with a band of riband. 
 
 It could not have been so becoming as the natural adornment of flow- 
 ing hair, and doubtless was inconvenient to the inexperienced wearer, but 
 the honorary distinction it implied would soon reconcile the novice to its 
 disadvantages. 
 
 The frozen tarn alluded to is Loch Wain in Inverness-shire, lying 
 among lofty mountains about forty miles westward from Beauly. " It is 
 constantly, both in summer and winter, covered with ice ; but in the 
 middle of June, when the sun is most nearly vertical, a very little of the 
 ice in the centre of the lake is dissolved by day, but nightly frozen over 
 again as before." — Beauties of Scotland, vol. v., Inverness-shire. 
 
THE SPINNING OF THE SHROUD. 
 
 Where wind-swept Wyvis, cumbrous and o'ergrown, 
 His massive shoulder to the morn doth rear 
 
 In snowy splendour, like that great white throne 
 Whence heaven and earth shall flee away for fear, 
 
 As Holy Writings tell, there, sternly grand, 
 
 The traveller sees that hill o'ertop this mountain land. 
 
158 QPt}t Spinning of tf)e &$rj)iffl. 
 
 Beneath his shadow lovely valleys lie, 
 
 And lucid firths stretch winding to the main, 
 
 So hid, the sunbeams of the dawning sky 
 Must often seek their shady haunts in vain. 
 
 On a green bank of one most calm and still 
 
 A little cottage leaned against a hill. 
 
 Its slender walls of turfy clods were heaped, 
 
 Its lowly roof was thatched with heath and broom, 
 
 In curling wreaths of smoke for ever steeped 
 Lay the blue twilight of its single room ; 
 
 Hushed as a churchyard was the lonely hut, 
 
 As if from that fair glen all worldly cares were shut. 
 
 Some narrow strips of cultivated field 
 
 Chequered the braes with oats and clover green, 
 
 By careful hands that scanty glebe was tilled, 
 And on the highest peaks the flock was seen ; 
 
 While lower down, along the water's brink, 
 
 The thriving cattle browsed, or stooped to drink. 
 
 Upon a withered plane's dismembered stock 
 
 A woman sat, and as she span she sung, 
 While from her simple, antiquated rock, 
 
 Her nimble hands the ravelled threads unstrung ; 
 And her quick eyes now watched some truant cow, 
 Now sought her husband dear, who paced behind his plough. 
 
%\)t Spinning of fyz JHjrouto. 159 
 
 She was full fair, for she was young in years, 
 
 And gently nurtured as an only child ; 
 Less used to labour than her peasant peers, 
 
 Her bearing scarce beseemed those mountains wild ; 
 Her glossy locks, her cheeks untanned, unworn, 
 Told she had spent in ease her pleasant maiden morn. 
 
 Across those shining braids the matron toy 
 With inexperienced hands was loosely hung ; 
 
 For scarcely yet had merged the virgin coy 
 Into the wife sedate, she was so freshly young ; 
 
 And scarcely yet that playful brow was bent, 
 
 Though in its joy mixed care's new element. 
 
 And while her fingers, deft at household art, 
 
 Drew out the threads, she mixed her work with song, — 
 
 Pouring the thoughts of her untutored heart 
 In strains as guileless the wild hills along ; 
 
 And all the echoes o'er the waters wide 
 
 Gave answer deep and sad to that young peasant bride. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BRIDE. 
 
 Slowly ravel, threads of doom ; 
 
 Slowly lengthen, fatal yarn ; 
 Death's inexorable gloom 
 
 Stretches like the frozen tarn, 
 
160 dje Spinning of fyt J^rmtB. 
 
 Never thawed by sunbeams kind, 
 Ruffled ne'er by wave or wind. 
 Man beholds it, and is still, 
 Daunted by its mortal chill ; 
 Thither haste my helpless feet 
 While I spin my winding-sheet ! 
 
 Summer's breath, divinely warm, 
 
 Kindles every pulse to glee ; 
 Fled are traces of the storm, 
 
 Wintry frost and leafless tree : 
 Shakes the birch its foliage light, 
 In the sun the mists are bright; 
 Heaven and earth their hues confound. 
 Scattering rainbows on the ground ; 
 Life with rapture is replete 
 While I spin my winding-sheet ! 
 
 Summer's voice is loud and clear, 
 
 Lowing kine and rippling swell ; 
 Yet, beneath it all I hear 
 
 Something of a funeral knell. 
 Sings the linnet on the bough, 
 Sings my bridegroom at the plough, 
 Whirrs the grouse along the brake, 
 Plash the trout within the lake, 
 
€i)t Spinning of tf)t g>f)rmio\ 161 
 
 Soft the merry lambkins bleat 
 While I spin my winding-sheet ! 
 
 Thatched with mosses green and red, 
 
 Blooming as a fairy hill, 
 Lifts my home its cheerful head 
 
 By the ever-leaping rill. 
 Lo ! its future inmates rise, 
 Gathering round with loving eyes ; 
 Some my Dugald's features wear, 
 Some have mine, but far more fair ; 
 Prattling lips my name repeat 
 While I spin my winding-sheet? 
 
 Youth is bright above my track, 
 
 Health is strong within my breast ; 
 Wherefore must this shadow black 
 
 On my bridal gladness rest ? 
 On my happy solitude 
 Must the vision still intrude ? 
 Must the icy touch of Death 
 Freeze my song's impassioned breath 1 
 I am young, and youth is sweet, 
 Why then spin my winding-sheet ? 
 
162 Cije spinning of ti)e i^routt. 
 
 Hark ! the solemn winds reply, 
 
 " Woman, thou art born to woe ; 
 Long ere 'tis thine hour to die 
 
 Thou shalt be well pleased to go. 
 Though the sunshine of to-day 
 Blind thine eyeballs with its ray, 
 Grief shall swathe thee in its pall, 
 Life's beloved before thee fall. 
 Bride, the grave hath comfort meet, 
 Thankful spin thy winding-sheet ! " 
 
THE VIGIL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 The Highlanders believed that when a burial took place in their 
 mountain churchyard the spirit of the deceased was compelled by some 
 mysterious law to keep watch there by night until relieved by another 
 interment, when the ghost of the newly-arrived corpse assumed his un- 
 welcome duties, and the weary wraith passed to its ultimate destination 
 whether of happiness or woe. 
 
 It must have been an irksome duty to be thus excluded from earth's 
 interests without being admitted to participate in the joys of heaven. 
 
 The successor was obliged in his turn to await another interment, and 
 the advent of another ghost to give him liberty. 
 
 If we -can fancy this bodiless watcher to preserve any consciousness of 
 the doings on that earthly scene, in which he could no longer take an 
 active part, we may picture the irritation and eagerness which would 
 impel him to wish that all sickness among his old companions might end 
 in death, that all accidents among the dangerous crags and morasses might 
 prove fatal to life as well as limb. 
 
 Far from an improving preparation for the holinesss of heaven was 
 this detention below, when the unhappy ghost, shivering in the frosty 
 
164 CI;r ®tgtl of tljf 23rafc. 
 
 moonlight, counted over the chances of mortality among his former 
 friends, no doubt complaining fretfully of a delay which retarded his own 
 release and prolonged his own discomfort. 
 
 Yet to those who felt themselves by the verdict of their consciences to 
 be destined for eternal retribution, how awful must have been this breath- 
 ing-time between the sins and the avengement ! How dreadful the retro- 
 spect ! how far, far more dreadful the anticipation ! In the awful solitude 
 of the desolate graveyard how active would memory be, how mighty 
 remorse ! The mind turns shuddering from an idea of so much horror. 
 
 The " Dreeng," or meteor, on which the souls of the blessed arose to 
 heaven, was a remnant of the ancient Druidical faith. 
 
 It was probably derived from the aurora borealis, seen most resplend- 
 ently in the clear nights of a Highland autumn or winter. 
 
 Its dazzling coruscations and rapidly changing evolutions, wheeling 
 and darting among the thickly-sown stars of the northern firmament, 
 might readily suggest to the imaginative the ecstatic raptures of the freed 
 spirits of the redeemed. 
 
THE VIGIL OF THE DEAD. 
 
 When the night-mist is swathing the mountain's gray head, 
 
 When the night-dews are bathing the graves of the dead, 
 
 When the soft breath of slumber ascendeth from men, 
 
 And the torch of the watcher burns low in the glen, 
 
 When the peace of forgetting, sole peace of this life, 
 
 Hath deadened each sorrow and silenced each strife, 
 
 A bodiless spirit out-thrust from my corse, 
 
 Excluded from heaven and dogged by remorse, 
 
 I stand here and shiver, so bloodless and thin, 
 
 Recalling past pleasure, bewailing past sin ; 
 
 By the cold dyke that circles the mounds of the dead, 
 
 I wait for another to watch in my stead. 
 
 But clear is the winter and healthful the frost ; 
 
 Since the last night of summer no life has been lost : 
 
166 Cf)? SFtgtl of tfje JBeatr. 
 
 That last night of summer ! long, long shall they tell 
 How Allan, the herdsman, was killed on the fell. 
 'Twixt the hill and the precipice scant was the road, 
 The eagles flew near him as heedless he trode ; 
 He slipped on the wet moss, the rock-face was bare, 
 The heather-roots crumbled — he clutched in despair; 
 And at morn when the shepherds went by with the flock 
 Dead Allan lay crushed at the foot of the rock ! 
 'Twas the last night of summer, now Yule is at hand, 
 Yet still by the grave-stones alone I must stand 
 And watch the blue doors of the adamant sky 
 That ope not to shelter when humbly I cry ; 
 'Tis my doom to keep sentinel over the dead 
 Till the soul of another shall come in my stead, 
 Till the corse of another be laid in the sod, 
 And I float on the meteor to heaven and God. 
 
 But hale are the clansmen ; the patriarch of all, 
 No staff doth support him, so sturdy and tall ; 
 Each Sabbath I've marked him stride under the trees, 
 His white hairs flow freely to welcome the breeze ; 
 His children attend him with reverence and pride, 
 And the wife of his youth moveth slow at his side : 
 Yes, long have I marked him my soul to release, 
 But long shall he linger when I am at peace. 
 
€*)* Wi&il oi ti)t mtati. 167 
 
 It is not the oldest who first are laid low, 
 
 It is not the ripest who drop from the bough ; 
 
 For Death will be dainty when choosing his prey, 
 
 And the best and the choicest he sweepeth away ; 
 
 A younger, and dearer, and lovelier sprite 
 
 Shall replace in this churchyard my watching by night. 
 
 Oh fair was the maiden I wedded in spring, 
 
 And fondly my Morag around me would cling ; 
 
 The balm of her kisses, the warmth of her breath, — 
 
 Dear wife of my bosom ! — they cheer me in death. 
 
 Now widowed is Morag, in sadness she sits 
 
 While the wind through her hovel goes howling by fits, 
 
 Till the babe in his cradle is wakened to hear. 
 
 To her bosom she strains him, all sobbing with fear ; 
 
 His forehead is burning, and red with disease, 
 
 His breathing comes broken in gusts like the breeze. 
 
 Ah ! hush him to slumber, ah ! soothe him with song ; 
 
 Ah ! call him thine Allan, not thine is he long, 
 
 For there 's death in his gasping, there 's death in his eye ; 
 
 Pale widow, pale mother, too soon shall he die ! 
 
 The fatherless infant is drooping his head, 
 
 To lie in the churchyard, to watch in my stead : 
 
 Unborn at my dying, his death sets me free, 
 
 And his soul in departing opes heaven for me ! 
 
168 €f)t m&il of tf)e JBeatr. 
 
 The meteor approacheth, it burns on my sight, 
 It quickens the dawn with its tremulous light ; 
 The dawn that revealeth the baby's damp cheek, 
 Which the dark hues of dying so fearfully streak. 
 Sore weepeth my Morag, she thinks not of me, 
 As she bends o'er that fast changing face on her knee ; 
 Her heart with her nursling goes down to the tomb, 
 While the sire he hath ransomed is freed from his doom. 
 
 That fair little stranger ! they'll bring him at morn, 
 By the dust will they lay him from which he was born- 
 His face white and tranquil close nestled beside, 
 With the smile still upon it he smiled as he died. 
 And his spirit at evening shall come to our grave 
 As the dews are thick falling, and loud the winds rave. 
 When the meteor down-shooting shall bear me on high, 
 Shall the baby-soul speed me with farewell and sigh ; 
 For then shall he know me, and then will he love, 
 As I float on that flickering radiance above. 
 Haste, Death ! take another, nor long leave the child 
 To watch by the graves in the midnight so wild ; 
 No evil hath stained him such penance to need, 
 For the soul of the infant hath love for its creed ; 
 Give his charge to another, and lift him with me, 
 That the babe and the father in bliss may be free. 
 
THE MIRY LAMENT. 
 
 It is long since the " Daoine Shi," or fairies, disappeared from the 
 society of mortals. The Gael clung to them for many years after all 
 other nations had abandoned them as fictitious delusions. He had in- 
 vested them with all the accompaniments of his own rude habits, so that 
 the Highland fairy was as truly national as the Highlander himself. He 
 believed them to be the veritable angels who rebelled and were cast from 
 heaven. Unlike the elves of " merrie England," they had no sovereign, 
 and disdained to owe fealty to any power inferior to that of the arch- 
 fiend himself. We hear of a fairy queen on the borders, but she does not 
 appear to have crossed the Grampians. 
 
 On their expulsion from the celestial regions the " Daoine Shi " were 
 condemned to dwell on the earth, and they fixed their abodes under its 
 sod and under its seas. The inhabitants of the sea-shore believed them 
 to be disguised in the shape of seals, animals which are common on all the 
 northern coasts. 
 
 In the interior of the country they were supposed to live in conical 
 mounds, which often occur among the inequalities of a hilly district, and 
 are in Celtic language called " Tomhauns." 
 
 z 
 
170 €i)e dfatrj) lament. 
 
 Mrs. Grant of Laggan, to whose invaluable descriptions we cannot too 
 frequently return, paints with vivid touch a lovely scene in Strathspey, 
 which is famous for its enchanted hillocks. They rise in a narrow pass, 
 at the mouth of a small lake called Lochan Uvie, close under the tall 
 perpendicular cliff of Craig Our, on whose summit the last gosshawk 
 known in Scotland built its unapproachable nest. The mounds are 
 thickly overgrown with birchwood, whose light waving boughs have a 
 fantastic effect in the moonlight, when, according to rumour, unearthly 
 figures are to be seen flitting underneath them. 
 
 The Celtic fairies seem to have been a morose and malicious race, not 
 unlike the German gnomes or earth spirits. Their supposed origin ac- 
 counted for this, and their chance of salvation being very remote, they 
 hated with unremitting jealousy the human beings in whose eternal weal 
 the Almighty had deigned to take an interest. Their power over mankind 
 was limited, and depended not a little on human faith and obedience. 
 Transgression of duty, presumption, or neglect of the prescribed ordi- 
 nances of religion, threw mortals within reach of their malignity. 
 
 As they were unhappy so they were capricious, and variable. Some- 
 times they would benefit men, sometimes they would injure ; and the 
 uncertainty of their dispositions rendered the Highlanders cautious in 
 adverting to them. 
 
 They were called men of peace, though notoriously quarrelsome, and 
 " the gude friends," though too frequently they proved themselves ene- 
 mies. 
 
 Their inveterate habit of kidnapping children might be excused on the 
 plea that they were yearly obliged to pay teinds or tithes to hell, and 
 therefore preferred to substitute mortal infants in the place of their own 
 offspring. See the curious confession of Isabel Gowdie in Pitcairn's 
 " Criminal Trials." 
 
%\)t dfat'vj) Unment. 171 
 
 There was marrying and giving in marriage among the Highland 
 elves, in which respect they had lapsed from the spirituality of their 
 angelic nature. Agreeably to the changeful humours which swayed them, 
 the object of their choice was now one of their own race, now a mortal 
 woman, forcibly abducted from her earthly kindred. The mother, after her 
 delivery, was in a perilous state of exposure to their devices. Till both 
 she and her infant had been formally admitted into the visible church, 
 the first by public thanksgiving, the latter by baptism, they were not con- 
 sidered in safety by their relatives. It was thus imperative on those 
 around the invalid to watch with unremitting assiduity, more especially 
 by night. A moment's forgetfulness might ruin all ; but if the attend- 
 ants were on their guard no ill could happen, as the fairies never came 
 unseen, and a single adjuration in the Holy Name was sufficient to disap- 
 point their malice. 
 
 The stratagems they had recourse to were endless. Either a 
 charmed sleep weighed down the vainly resisting eyelids of the watchers, 
 or a false alarm from without summoned the household from the sick 
 room, and, on their hasty return, they would find the bed empty, and a 
 green bough left in the place of the stolen female. Such a misfortune 
 happened very lately to a peasant of Argyle, who assured a friend of 
 ours that his wife had been carried off by the elves and a green billet of 
 wood left in her stead ! 
 
 Remedies there were for these troubles, spells to bring back the lost 
 and loved ; but at best they were of doubtful efficacy, and, when they 
 failed, drew the bonds of thraldom more tightly than ever round the elfin 
 captive. 
 
 Infants were more easily recovered, probably because their sinless 
 purity gave them somewhat of an advantage over the fallen spirits who 
 had seized them. 
 
172 €i)e ^atrn lament. 
 
 It was a popular belief that the elves, having chosen green for their 
 own especial use, were highly offended at any one who presumed to wear 
 that colour — an indignity which was sure to fix their malicious observation 
 on the unlucky transgressor, and the first opportunity was embraced to 
 avenge themselves for the insult. 
 
 One cannot but remark the difference in temperament between the 
 Highland and English elves. Shakspeare's fairies are gay, airy, harm- 
 less creatures, sporting in the moonbeams, and as ethereal and innocuous 
 as the rays which lit their gambols. They had little power, and that 
 little they exercised oftener to assist than to annoy. 
 
 But the Celtic fairy was a being of more strength, more energy of 
 purpose and depth of feeling. It could hate, and envy, and oppress with 
 all the malignity of the worst of Cain's descendants. Shakspeare imbued 
 his Mab and Titania with the graceful playfulness of his own fancy ; the 
 Gael clothed his " Daoine Shi " in all the savage ruggedness of a wilder 
 nature. 
 
iMmii * 
 
 THE EAIKY LAMENT. 
 
 Hear ye not the infant's cries ? 
 Faint they fall, and feebly rise ; 
 Pale the mother's youthful head 
 Sinks beside him on the bed : 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green, 
 
174 €i)t tfaivy Hammt. 
 
 Feebly wails the newly bora, 
 Pierced with being's entrance-thorn ; 
 Soundly sleeps the mother mild, 
 One arm pressed beneath her child : 
 Fonder lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Still in peril must they lie, 
 Evil sprites are hovering nigh, 
 Till by holy rite they stand 
 In the fold's protected band : 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Husband ! nurses ! watch and pray, 
 Let not night your charge betray ; 
 They have will who now have power, 
 Heed ye 'gainst the careless hour : 
 
 Worthier lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Keep the portals of your eyes 
 From an elfin foe's surprise ; 
 Crying but the sacred Name, 
 He must flee in awe and shame : 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Night is long and night is dreary, 
 Watching makes the eyelids weary ; 
 
%\)t dfatrj) Hament. 175 
 
 All at last, forgetful found, 
 
 See not sight and hear not sound : 
 
 Lonelier lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Hark ! the crowing of the cock ! 
 Hark ! the striking of the clock ! 
 Hark ! the babe that cries for food ! 
 Up they started — up they stood ! 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 " Heard ye aught ? 'tis morning light ; 
 Heard ye whispers through the night?" 
 " They have come, and she is gone ; 
 Lies the babe in bed alone :" 
 
 Sweeter lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 " Lo we slumbered, and they passed ; 
 In her place a bough is cast, 
 Green with leaves and wet with dew, 
 Freshly cut — her flight is new :" 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Motherless her babe she leaves, 
 Husband of all hope bereaves ; 
 
176 €!)* dFatrj) lament. 
 
 Vain their searching, vain their tears,— 
 She is lost for life-long years : 
 
 Dearer lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Now the fay's unwilling thrall 
 Bound in subterranean hall ; 
 Now an elfin chieftain's bride 
 Through the wood with him must ride 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Time can heal the gaping cleft, 
 Hope in every heart is left ; 
 INewly wived the husband smiles, 
 Youthful sport the boy beguiles : 
 
 Sadder lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Home once lighted by her face 
 Bears of her no tender trace ; 
 Constant as of old is she 
 In her forced captivity : 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 She is decked with magic gem, 
 Moonshine's dewy diadem, 
 
€!)c dfatrj) Hammt. 177 
 
 Yet she keeps her earthly vows, 
 Shrinketh from her elfin spouse : 
 
 Truer lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Nought her human kinsmen know 
 Of that lost one's weal or woe ; 
 O'er her fate mysterious spread 
 Darkness such as veils the dead : 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 But to her, in fairy land, 
 Comes the power to understand 
 All they feel and all they do, 
 Barbing every grief anew : 
 
 Sadder lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Where the enchanted Tomhaun heaves 
 Underneath the birchen leaves, 
 In a grass-green robe she stands, 
 Seems to moan, and wrings her hands : 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 All the fay's ethereal gleaming 
 Blends she with a woman's seeming ; 
 
 A A 
 
178 Ci;e dfatq) Hameut. 
 
 Every eye is sad to view, 
 Every heart the sight must rue : 
 
 Lovelier lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 Where the shades of tall Craig Our 
 Dark on Lochan Uvie lower, 
 Spelled from home to stand aloof, 
 Points she to her husband's roof: 
 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Never speaks she, — 'tis forbidden, 
 Only weepeth sore when chidden ; 
 Yearneth on her child to look, — 
 Absence ill can mother brook : 
 
 Tenderer lady ne'er was seen. 
 
 She must mourn, and stand afar, 
 Flickering like a falling star, 
 Till the latter days befall 
 Which shall burst each elfin thrall : 
 'Ware ye of the fairy green. 
 
 Till each soul redeemed of man 
 Drops the elves' accursed ban ; 
 Loosed by Mercy's priceless pardon, 
 Then shall she receive her guerdon : 
 Holier lady ne'er was seen. 
 
THE SPIRIT TRYST. 
 
 It followed, from the respectful credence given by the Highlanders to 
 tales of ghostly appearances, that in the minds of their children these 
 fancies became impressed with all the exaggerations to which the 
 youthful imagination is prone. Knowing from our own recollection 
 the almost perilous interest which the marvellous excites in childhood, 
 we are not surprised to learn that the young Highlanders were often 
 possessed by the belief that to them also had come visitors from the 
 unknown world. 
 
 Many anecdotes are told of the seeds sown by superstition in so 
 fruitful a soil. One in particular, from which the poem is partly 
 imitated, is not unworthy of narration, though it must be much abridged 
 from the details given by Mrs. Grant of Laggan : — 
 
 A little girl declared to her friends that she had seen her dead father 
 the preceding night, while tending the sheep on the hill, and that he had 
 appointed another meeting on the ensuing evening. The friends, dis- 
 turbed by her restless and agitated appearance, had her watched by two 
 young women, who sat up with her, and used every effort to divert her 
 
180 €!)* spirit %x»$t. 
 
 attention. At the hour she had named she disappeared, by what means 
 the two watchers could not tell. They pursued, and brought her back, 
 before she had reached her destination ; and she appeared in great agony 
 of mind at the non-fulfilment of her purpose. The next night, at the 
 same hour, she again escaped ; and the effect on her spirits made it ne- 
 cessary to remove her entirely from the neighbourhood. 
 
 These spiritual interviews were not considered to be inevitably pro- 
 ductive of fatal consequences ; but the mind of the self-deluded ghost- 
 seer being previously unhinged, the shock to the nerves, and mental ex- 
 citement caused by the supposed meeting, were too often the forerunners 
 of illness and death, — a consummation which threw a deeper gloom over 
 similarly affected visionaries, and multiplied the victims of their own 
 disordered senses. 
 
 The influence of spiritual contact with mortal flesh is noticed by more 
 than one writer. Walter Scott, in his powerful ballad, " The Eve of St. 
 John," makes the apparition of Sir Richard of Coldinghame grasp the 
 guilty Lady of Smaylholme by the wrist, on which the impression of his 
 fingers remained burned for ever. 
 
 In another of Mrs. Grant's anecdotes, the lady's wrist being clasped, 
 though in all affection, by the spectre of her husband, becomes blue and 
 mortified in appearance, and she herself survives the fatal touch but a 
 few days. 
 
 Previously to a death, a light, like the flame of a taper, was seen 
 moving in the direction of the churchyard, indicating by its course the 
 exact path which should afterwards be trodden by the funeral train. 
 
 If, as frequently happened, the dying person had a relative buried 
 in that place, a light would rise out of the grave, and proceeding to the 
 house of the expiring sufferer, be there joined by a similar flame ; both 
 would then move to the churchyard and disappear at the mound where 
 
dje Spirit €vM. 181 
 
 the dead relative already lay, and where the dying would soon be stretched 
 beside. 
 
 These lights were the corpse-candles carried by the invisible spirits, 
 and the flame waxed dim and brightened alternately, as the breath went 
 and came in the body of the departing. The flame that represented a 
 person already dead was fixed and steady. 
 
 The water- wraith, so beautifully introduced by Campbell in " Lord 
 Ullin's Daughter," is even now believed in by many of the Highlanders, 
 and a sullen roar or scream of the river is supposed to portend a storm. 
 
 The ancient Highlanders worshipped a water-god, w T ho was especially 
 regarded by the Lewis islanders. In Strathspey there is a haunted lake 
 called Loch nan Spiridan, " the Lake of Spirits," from the water- wraiths 
 who frequented it. And the Gael had also his God of Thunder and his 
 Rider of the Storm. But these belong to a much earlier period than that 
 of the poem, by which time the august and terrible deities had all died 
 away, and left their diminished kingdom to the more insignificant water- 
 wraith. 
 
THE SPIRIT TRYST, 
 
 " Haud off, haud off your hands, Jeanie, 
 
 I carina bide at hame ; 
 And wha wad miss me frae the warld — 
 
 The last o' Tulloch's name ? 
 
 I haena kith nor friend, Jeanie, 
 
 Except it be yoursel' ; 
 I canna win the bread I eat, 
 
 I am sae sma' and frail. 
 
 My hand is weak to shear, Jeanie, 
 
 My foot is weak to fauld, 
 A sickly bairn, and motherless, 
 
 And barely twelve year auld. 
 
 Ye maunna haud me back, Jeanie, 
 
 Frae ganging out the nicht, 
 Ye dinna ken wha cam' to me 
 
 Yestreen at gloamin' licht. 
 
€i)t Spirit Cvjrtt. 183 
 
 A wee bit lamb had fa'an, Jeanie, 
 
 And slippit i' the burn, 
 Sae in my breast I carried it, 
 
 A' shiverin' through Glen Dearn; 
 
 When by the Drumlie Linn, Jeanie, 
 
 My mother stopp'd my way, 
 I dropp'd the lammie to my feet, 
 
 I clean forgot to pray. 
 
 Wi' grand and solemn look, Jeanie, 
 
 She waved her arm to me, 
 I kenned it was my mother's sel' 
 
 By the love was in her e'e. 
 
 She waved her arm to me, Jeanie, 
 
 Syne faded into air ; 
 Gin ye suld chain me to the hearth, 
 
 I must and shall be there. 
 
 Then dinna haud me back, Jeanie, 
 Ye canna thwart my fate, 
 
 The spirit that appoints wi' man 
 Will find him sune or late." 
 
184 £j)e g>pmt €vv4t. 
 
 Young Jeairie sighed to hear her speak, 
 But sought her mood to turn, 
 
 And aye she daffed and dawted her 
 To keep her frae Glen Dearn ; 
 
 And aye she tauld her blythest tale 
 And sang her blythest sang, 
 
 To wile awa' the midnicht hours — 
 The midnicht hours sae lang. 
 
 But she has closed her weary e'e, 
 
 For fast the lassie's fled, 
 Her coats up-kilted to her knee, 
 
 Her plaid about her head. 
 
 And fast did Jeanie follow her, 
 
 But a' pursuit was vain ; 
 The lassie to the spirit tryst 
 
 Alang the burn has gane. 
 
 Sair feared was Jeanie for the tryst, 
 Sair feared was she to turn. 
 
 She waited on a lichtsome field, 
 Abune the dark Glen Dearn. 
 
€ty g>pmt Cvusit. 185 
 
 A lichtsome field of fragrant hay, 
 
 Fresh heaped beneath the moon, 
 Where she had lilted a' the day, 
 
 The lang, bricht day o' June. 
 
 The burnie, like a petted bairn, 
 
 Lay whimperin' in its bed ; 
 A' hapt about wi' sloes and fern, 
 
 Wi' rowans arched o'erhead. 
 
 It was an eerie place by day, 
 
 An eerier place by nicht ; 
 The Drumlie Linn, sae chilly gray, 
 
 Had never glint o' licht. 
 
 Now while she look'd, and while she list, 
 
 On yon hayfleld abune, 
 A cauld wind took her ere she wist, 
 
 A cloud o'erlap the moon. 
 
 And frae the burn a sound arose, 
 
 0' waefu' water wraith, 
 Like widow mournin' in her woes, 
 
 Or captive in his death. 
 
 B B 
 
186 €i)t Spirit Cn>St. 
 
 Puir Jeanie signed the holy cross, 
 That waefu' sound to hear ; 
 
 And a' the trees began to toss 
 Their shiverin' arms for fear. 
 
 Then moving in the black ravine, 
 Appear'd twa yellow lichts, 
 
 Sic as on marshes cheat the een, 
 And scare the herd o' nichts. 
 
 The yellow lichts gaed ower the burn, 
 
 And up the rowan brae, 
 They didna miss a single turn 
 
 Of a' the trodden way. 
 
 By mony a siller-footed birk, 
 O'er tufts o' heather sward, 
 
 They flitted past the solemn kirk, 
 Intill the green kirkyard. 
 
 They stopped beside a mossy mound 
 That heaved o'er Una's mother, 
 
 And then within the damp cold ground 
 They vanished, one and other. 
 
QLty £>pmt ErpSt. 187 
 
 And loudly did the burnie shriek, 
 
 And loudly roared the blast ; 
 And upon Jeanie's pallid cheek 
 
 The blinding- rain fell fast. 
 
 Oh, fearfullie she turned her hame, 
 
 Sae drookit, cauld, and wae, 
 Nor sleep upon her eyelids came 
 
 Until the break o' day ! 
 
 Nor lang she slept when by her bed 
 
 A voice o' sadness cried ; 
 And wben she raised her aching head, 
 
 Pale Una stood beside. 
 
 " I hae kept the spirit tryst, Jeanie, 
 
 I hae seen my mother's face ; 
 She met me at the haunted hour, 
 
 And at the haunted place. 
 
 I wasna feared to look, Jeanie, 
 
 She seemed sae new frae heaven ; 
 Her words o' mournm' tenderness, 
 
 For ill were never given. 
 
188 Cf)t ^ptnt CvjMJt. 
 
 She said, ' This life is vain, Una, 
 And griefs await my child ; 
 
 And gin ye were as snow is pure, 
 As snow ye'd be defiled. 
 
 Oh, sleep wi' me at rest, Una ! ' — 
 Wi' that she took my hand ; — 
 
 ' Ye shanna see the levin-cloud 
 Shoot death upon the land. 
 
 Ye shanna see the tears, Una, 
 And bluid fa' doon thegither ; 
 
 Ye shanna hear the coronach 
 Upon the blasted heather.' 
 
 Wi' that she let me gae, Jeanie, 
 I fell in deepest swound, 
 
 And when I waked the sun was high, 
 And weet wi' rain the ground. 
 
 The wrist she held is black, Jeanie, 
 
 As wi' an iron grasp ; 
 I didna feel she hurted me, 
 
 It was a mother's clasp. 
 
%\)t Spirit CvpSt. 189 
 
 Ye see she ca's me hame, Jeanie, 
 
 I am content to gang ; 
 A thing sae feckless i' the warld, 
 
 Was never sent for lang. 
 
 I hae na walth o' gear, Jeanie, 
 
 To will for love o' thee, 
 I hae na but my mother's cross, 
 
 O' carved ebonie. 
 
 Oh, wear that carved cross, Jeanie ! 
 
 Ill spirits aye 't will chase, 
 'Twill join your kindly thochts o' me 
 
 To thochts o' heavenlie grace. 
 
 And cover me in the mools, Jeanie, 
 Frae the cauld, and frae the care." 
 
 The lassie sighed, and laid her doon, 
 " And word spake never mair." 
 
 The bonnie bairn sae early ta'en, 
 
 Was dear to a' the lave ; 
 There never went a sadder train, 
 
 Than bore her to her grave. 
 
190 €f)e Spirit CrpSt. 
 
 Slow, slow they went across the burn, 
 And up the rowan brae, 
 
 They didna miss a single turn 
 Of a' the trodden way. 
 
 By mony a sillerfooted birk, 
 O'er tufts of heather sward, 
 
 They bore her past the solemn kirk, 
 Infill the green kirkyard. 
 
 They stopped beside a mossy mound 
 That heaved o'er Una's mother, 
 
 They laid the lassie in the ground, 
 To sleep, the one wi' other. 
 
 But Jeanie lived to see the strife 
 Of the Stewart's dying blow, 
 
 A childless and a widowed wife 
 To weep Culloden's woe. 
 
THE SPELL OF CASTLE CADBOLL. 
 
 " The parish of Fearn" (in Cromarty) "boasts several antiquities of 
 very distant date. The Abbey of Loch Lin, said to have been first 
 built of mud ; the castle of the same name situated at some distance on 
 the Loch of Eye, which is supposed to have remained standing five 
 hundred years ; and, lastly, Castle Cadboll, equally old, if not more so 
 than either of the former, but now in almost undistinguishable ruins. 
 These shattered relics deserve notice on account of a singular tradition 
 once implicitly credited by the vulgar, namely, that, although inhabited 
 for ages, no person ever died in this castle. Its magical quality did not, 
 however, prevent its dwellers from the sufferings of disease, or the still 
 more grievous evils attending debility and old age. Hence maDy of the 
 denizens of this castle became weary of life, particularly a Lady May, 
 who lived here about two centuries ago, and who, being long sick, and 
 longing for death, requested to be carried out of the building. 
 
 " Her importunity at length prevailed ; and, according to the tra- 
 dition, no sooner did she leave it than she expired." — Beauties of Scotland, 
 Ross-shire. 
 
 Castle Cadboll is situated on the sea-shore, looking over the broad 
 ocean towards Norway. From that country, in the early ages of Scot- 
 
192 €i)t ^pell of Cattle Caoboll. 
 
 tish history, came many a powerful Jarl, or daring Vikinger, to the 
 coasts, which in comparison with their own land would seem fertile and 
 wealthy. There is a tradition of a Highland clan having sprung from 
 one of those adventurers. He and his brother had agreed, that whoever 
 should first reach the land should claim it by right. The first was the 
 ultimate ancestor of the tribe ; his boat was almost on shore, when the 
 other, by a vigorous stroke, shot a-head of him ; but, ere he could dis- 
 embark, the disappointed individual, with an exclamation of rage, cut off 
 his left hand with his hatchet, and, flinging the bloody trophy on the 
 rocks, became, by thus " first touching the Scottish ground," the owner 
 of the country and founder of a clan. As this story is detailed from oral 
 narrative, its perfect accuracy cannot be vouched for ; but it is an unde- 
 niable fact, that the clan of Mac Leod have successfully traced their origin 
 to a Norwegian source. 
 
 The present possessor of Castle Cadboll is a Mac Leod ; but to what 
 race the Lady May of the legend belonged it would be difficult to decide, 
 so many changes having occurred among Highland proprietors in the 
 last two hundred years. 
 
 The cliffs of this part of Koss-shire are wild and precipitous, sinking 
 with a sheer descent of two hundred feet to the ocean. The scenery is 
 more rugged than beautiful, — little verdure, and less foliage. Trees are 
 stunted by the bitter eastern blast, and the soil is poor and badly culti- 
 vated. Alders are, however, plentiful, and from them the parish has de- 
 rived its name of Fearn. There are a number of caves in the cliffs along 
 the shore towards Tarbat, where the promontory is bold, and crowned 
 with a lighthouse, whose flickering rays are now the only substitute for 
 the wonderful gem which was said of yore to sparkle on the brow of one 
 of these eastern cliffs, — a bountiful provision of nature for the succour 
 of the wave-tossed mariner. 
 
THE SPELL OE CASTLE CADBOLL. 
 
 On Cadboll's wreck the brackens grow, 
 On Cadboll's site the rabbits sport, 
 
 And thickly drifts the winter snow 
 
 Through broken vault and roofless court. 
 
 In shrilly murmurs ocean's blast 
 
 Sweeps o'er the heights by Cadboll crowned, 
 Yet stirs no image of the past, 
 
 Yet wakes no lingering echo's sound. 
 
 c c 
 
194 Cfjc §pc\l of Cattle Cattooll. 
 
 Their name is lost, each former lord 
 Of treeless muir and cloudy hill ; 
 
 Rusted the vassal's ready sword, 
 Silent the chief's resistless will. 
 
 The branching stagmoss clasps the wall 
 Where arras hung and sconces gleamed : 
 
 The mole is burrowing in the hall 
 
 Where the red cup of banquet streamed. 
 
 Yet, stranger, who on shapeless stone 
 By twining creepers chained to earth, 
 
 Art seated, musing thus alone 
 
 O'er buried pride and mouldered mirth ,- 
 
 Not such his theme, the last who sung 
 Of magic spells in Cadboll gray, 
 
 Ere prophet's eye and poet's tongue 
 From Albyn's children passed away ; 
 
 Not such his song whose strain recalls 
 The frowning gates, the ramparts high, 
 
 The proud dominion of those halls 
 
 Where many flourished, none could die ! 
 
€f)t g>pcll of Cattle CatJboll. 195 
 
 THE HARPER'S LEGEND. 
 
 Castle Cadboll standeth free, 
 Looking o'er the eastern sea ; 
 At its feet the breakers roar 
 Beaten back along the shore, 
 Where the precipices fall 
 Sheer beneath the bastion wall ; 
 From its brow the banner flies 
 Soaring in the murky skies ; 
 Through its gates the vassals crowd. 
 Shouting, " Honour to Mac Leod !" 
 Aged are thy towers, Loch Lin ! 
 Deafened by the ocean's din ; 
 Lithgow ! proud thy palace swelled 
 Where the kings of Scotland dwelled 
 Older, prouder than ye twain, 
 Cadboll frowns upon the main. 
 
 Here have ruled in lordship brief 
 Norway's jarl and Albyn's chief; 
 Thane, and knight, and mitred priest 
 Here have met in friendly feast ; 
 Rovers of the northern sea 
 Here to safe retreat would flee ; 
 
196 %\)t dptll of Casrtl* Catofwrfl. 
 
 Many a plan of vengeful raid 
 In these walls securely laid, 
 Whence to battle sallied forth 
 Mightiest champions of the north ; 
 Of the scenes that there befell 
 Wondrous tales could Cad boll tell. 
 
 Care and grief have had their sway 
 O'er the lords of Cadboll gray ; 
 Sickness on its couch hath flung 
 Weak and sturdy, old and young ; 
 Hearts have felt thy gnawing sore, 
 Disappointment, at their core ; 
 Trust hath been by treachery fooled, 
 War hath wounded, friends have cooled 
 Every suffering, every woe 
 Which this mournful life can shew, 
 Here have raged in rabble rout ; 
 Death alone was barred without ; 
 Scared beyond these portals grim, 
 Too appalling e'en for him. 
 
 Death, the rider of the breeze, 
 Death, the swimmer of the seas, 
 At whose touch the fragile flower 
 Gives the poison -cnp its power, 
 
€fy dptll of Cattle CaMurfl. 197 
 
 By whose 'hest the downy bed 
 Turns to coffin for the dead, 
 And the firmest human vow 
 Snappeth like a charred bough : 
 He, the king of earth and air, 
 Found his reign disputed there ; 
 So from CadbolPs gate he fled, 
 Powerless and discomfited. 
 
 Dwellers in that castle high, 
 All might suffer, none might die ; 
 Through its windows ne'er by night 
 Flew the disembodied sprite ; 
 Witnessed ne'er its chambers vast 
 That dread scene of life, the last ; 
 Never wake beside the corse, 
 Midnight roused with murmurs hoarse ; 
 Funeral never passed its gate, 
 Awful with sepulchral state ; 
 All that unto death pertains, 
 Banished from those proud domains. 
 
 Soft ! I hear youth's voice of glee, 
 Saying, " Oh, that such might be ! 
 Happy Cadboll's race to brave 
 The dark terrors of the grave ! 
 
198 Clje &pelt of Cattle Cafcboll. 
 
 Happy with the loved to dwell, 
 Whom no sudden doom befell ! 
 Beautiful life shines o'erhead, 
 But the flowery path we tread 
 Soundeth, as we onward go, 
 Hollow from the tombs below. 
 Dearest faces by our side 
 Down unseen abysses slide ; 
 Sweetest voices die away, 
 Closest ties of love decay ; 
 Death is man's remorseless foe. 
 Ah ! to Cadboll might we go, 
 Dwelling there in bliss secure, 
 Knowing life must still endure, 
 Meeting each beloved eye 
 With the thought, ' They cannot die ! ' 
 Happy Cadboll's race to brave 
 All the terrors of the grave !" 
 
 " Dreamer ! who, as yet untried, 
 Loit'rest by the river side, 
 By the singing waters lulled, 
 Lapped by flowerets yet unculled, 
 Tempting fruitage yet untasted, 
 Eddying currents yet unbreasted, 
 
€f)t &pdl of Cattle Cattboll. 199 
 
 Hope's illusive show before thee, 
 Cloudless sunshine spreading o'er thee, 
 List the moral of my lay, 
 Speaking through the Lady May." 
 
 In the castle of Mac Leod 
 Music rose and mirth was loud ; 
 'Twas a hundred years ago 
 When a chieftain of Munro, 
 From the dark Ben Wyvis side 
 Hither came to seek a bride. 
 Here he saw the Lady May 
 Bending o'er her harp to play 
 With a simple maiden mien, 
 Charming him as soon as seen. 
 Nor the less he thought her fair, 
 Castle Cadboll's only heir ; 
 Fitted for a chieftain proud 
 Was the dowry of Mac Leod. 
 
 Wooing brief was needed then, 
 Life had sterner work for men. 
 Plighted were those lovers twain, 
 Joy was in that wide domain, 
 When the suitor homeward hied 
 To make ready for his bride. 
 
200 Cfje &ptlt of Catth CaUboTI. 
 
 As he rode there crossed his way 
 
 A wild son of wild Mac Crae ; 
 
 One who loved his lady bright, 
 
 But, rejected, burned with spite. 
 
 Evil was the hour they met, 
 
 For on thoughts of vengeance set, 
 
 In the daring young Munro 
 
 Soon the rival saw a foe. 
 
 Rash the boy, and stern the man, 
 
 Soon a desperate fight began. 
 
 Soon 'twas o'er — the bridegroom dead 
 
 To the hills the murderer fled. 
 
 Then the vassals, full of grief, 
 
 Took the body of their chief, 
 
 Laid it in his fathers' tomb, 
 
 Spread abroad the tale of doom. 
 
 And the lovely Lady May 
 
 Pined and sickened from that day. 
 
 Fifty years have passed away, 
 
 Old and bent is Lady May, 
 
 Living in her feudal tower 
 
 Like the everlasting flower, 
 
 Which, though sapless, hard, and dry, 
 
 Liveth on — it cannot die. 
 
CJje £pell of Cattle Cattfcoll. 201 
 
 By the lattice she reclines, 
 
 While the sunset redly shines, 
 
 Clothing shore and boundless sea 
 
 With a gorgeous blazonry ; 
 
 Brighter scene ne'er cheered the eye, — 
 
 Wherefore doth the lady sigh ? 
 
 Wherefore to her handmaids call, 
 
 Spinning near within the hall ? 
 
 " Maidens, lay the distaff by, 
 
 Lift me forth that I may die ! 
 
 Weary is my endless fate, 
 
 Lift me past the warder's gate ; 
 
 Bear me to the cliffs that sink 
 
 Rugged to the water's brink ; 
 
 Leave me on that narrow ledge 
 
 At the precipice's edge, 
 
 Where the spell shall lose its force, 
 
 Where the soul may take its course — 
 
 Springing from the body worn, 
 
 As a lark ascends at morn." 
 
 But her maidens answered none, 
 
 Looked askance and silent spun ; 
 
 Or in whisper low did say, 
 
 " Hark ! she raveth— Lady May." 
 
 D D 
 
202 €i)t dptll of Cattle CaMwrfl. 
 
 " Glorious sun ! " the lady said, 
 " Sinking to thine ocean bed, 
 Thou, like me, each day must climb 
 Painfully the arch of Time, 
 Treading in thy old routine, 
 Each the same as it hath been, 
 Falling back at close of night 
 From that slowly mounted height, 
 Ceaselessly at morning blue, 
 Once again to climb anew. 
 So my life goes circling round, 
 Like a timepiece in its bound ; 
 Every hour familiar grown, 
 Every minute's beating known ! 
 Lift me forth, my maidens dear, 
 I am tired of lingering here ; 
 If my soul can ever rise 
 To the fair inviting skies, 
 Such a wind as curls the sea 
 Now would give me liberty : 
 Haste ye, maidens, as I bid ! " 
 But in vain she urged and chid ; 
 For the maidens answered none, 
 Spinning silent in the sun, 
 
€ty g>pelt of Castle CaTtooH. 203 
 
 Only, trembling, low did say, 
 " Raving is the Lady May." 
 
 " Ocean calm and golden-eyed," 
 Once again the lady sighed, 
 " I had plunged beneath thy wave, 
 Certain there to find a grave, 
 Had not limbs been stiff and dead, 
 Palsied on my helpless bed ; 
 Had they worked my soul's intent, 
 Cadboll's charm had long been spent. 
 Oh, for dagger or for brand, 
 Naked in mine eager hand ! 
 Yet 'twere vain, the sharpest steel 
 In this hall I could not feel ; 
 Death, abhorring Cadboll's gate, 
 Leaves me here, forgot by fate. 
 Maidens dear, again I call, 
 Loves me none among you all ? 
 Rich the spoil I leave behind, 
 Yours it is, my maidens kind, 
 If to me ye now are true, 
 This last grace of love to do ; 
 Take me from this magic roof!" 
 But the maidens stood aloof: 
 
204 Clje &ptll of Cattle Catffcolt. 
 
 " Hark ! she doth delirious grow, 
 She is crazed by pain and woe ; 
 Heed not what the doting say, 
 She is mad — the Lady May !" 
 
 " Come, Munro," the lady said, 
 " Come, my husband, though unwed ; 
 Mortal strength avails me none, 
 Come, thou grave-corrupted one ! 
 Spirit, from thy cloudy home, 
 Borne across the wild sea foam, 
 Haste to help me from this life ; 
 Thou wilt listen to thy wife. 
 Wert thou here beside my bed, 
 Living, I would ne'er be dead ; 
 Age and palsy eath to bear, 
 If with thee I life might share. 
 Take me from this solitude, 
 Bridegroom of my womanhood ! " 
 
 Shuddering terrors quickly ran 
 Through the maidens as they span ; 
 Close they huddled in their dread, — 
 " She is talking with the dead ! 
 Is her bridegroom's ghost in hall? — 
 Let us hearken to her call ; 
 
€f)e &P'tt of Cattle Catfboll. 205 
 
 For the sun is well-nigh set, 
 Faintly twilight lingers yet. 
 Better stand on open coast 
 Than with maniac and with ghost 
 Linger in this haunted tower 
 At the evening's fateful hour." 
 
 So together linked they went, 
 Trembling at their bold intent, 
 And bespake them willing there 
 Her beyond the gate to bear. 
 " Maidens true, I bless the deed, 
 God will help you in your need, 
 Hearing you in dying day, 
 As ye heard the Lady May." 
 
 Forth they move, a fearful band, 
 On the threshold now they stand ; 
 O'er the moated bridge they go 
 With their burden, sad and slow. 
 Upward to the darkening sky 
 Turns the sufferer's patient eye ; 
 Hope upon her pale, meek face, 
 Brightens as they mend their pace ; 
 From her lips a grateful word 
 Faint at intervals is heard ; 
 
206 C|}« dptll of Cattle Catftoll. 
 
 On her long bewildered soul 
 Heaven's unnumbered glories roll. 
 
 Now the maidens pass the gate, 
 Heavier grows their feeble weight ; 
 Broken sounds she utters still 
 As they wind along the hill. 
 When the ocean's broad expanse 
 Burst upon the lady's glance, 
 O'er her face a rapture flashed, 
 Into sudden darkness dashed ; 
 From her mouth a joyous cry 
 Left her hushed eternally ; 
 In the maidens' trembling hold 
 Lay a corse serene and cold. 
 Cadboll's spell had passed away, — 
 She was dead — the Lady May ! 
 
THE HUT ON LOCH FYNE. 
 
 "At Stronchullin, on the coast of Loch Fyne, not far from the church 
 of Inverneill, there is a thatched cottage still standing, and in perfect pre- 
 servation, which is at least two hundred years old. The walls are thick 
 and substantial ; the cupples are of oak, very massive, and still perfectly 
 sound. 
 
 " It is said, that when Alastar Macdonald, son of Coll Ciotach (or the 
 left-handed Coll), was ravaging Argyleshire, in 1643, on his way to 
 Kintyre, he came to this house, faint with hunger; and that, wearied 
 with his journey, he demanded something to eat, when the poor woman 
 of the house gave him a drink of milk, the only thing which she could 
 afford. Alastar received the draught very thankfully, and, in token of 
 his gratitude, ordered his men to spare the house where he had been so 
 kindly entertained." — Statistical Account of Scotland, County of Argyle. 
 
 Alastar Macdonald was major-general of Montrose's army, and gained 
 from that renowned leader the honour of knighthood. A year after the 
 incident narrated above his prowess greatly contributed to gain for Mon- 
 trose the victory of Inverlochy. Sir W. Scott, in describing that battle, 
 confounds Alastar with his father, Coll Macdonald, whose designation of 
 
208 Ci)e Hut on 3Urf) tfmu. 
 
 Coll Ciotach has been corrupted into Colkitto, and applied indiscriminately 
 to father and son. Coll Macdonald was said by some to be an illegitimate 
 son of the Earl of Antrim. Be that as it may, the Irish noble liberally 
 furnished him with troops to prosecute his invasion of Argyle, ostensibly 
 in aid of the royal cause, but secretly from a bitter quarrel with the Earl 
 of Argyle. With this force Macdonald, aided by his son, ravaged Kintyre, 
 and then proceeding northwards, spread ruin around him as far as Loch- 
 awe. To complete the misfortunes which overwhelmed Kintyre, a fearful 
 pestilence broke out not many months after, to which almost the whole 
 of the remaining inhabitants fell victims. The preservation of this little 
 thatched cottage appears thus still more extraordinary. 
 
 Coll Ciotach was taken prisoner at the siege of his own castle of 
 Dunniveg in Islay, and was hanged at Dunstaffnage. His son, Sir 
 Alexander, met a fate more worthy of a warrior. Having joined the 
 royal forces in Ireland, he was slain in a battle fought against the 
 Earl of Carlingford. Neither father nor son left any descendants, and 
 Argyle was no longer kept in terror of the turbulent invasions of the 
 Macdonalds of Islay. 
 
 The hill of Lliabh Gaoil extends from Inverneill to Barnellan, a dis- 
 tance of twelve miles. The view from its summit is varied and striking, 
 commanding, on one side, Loch Fyne, the mouth of the Clyde, Bute, 
 Arran, and the whole peninsula of Kintyre ; on the other, Jura, Isla, 
 Scarba, Ireland, with the isle of Rathlin, Mull, and many objects of inferior 
 grandeur and interest. 
 
'a*.-, ._ — 
 
 THE HUT ON LOCH FYNE. 
 
 There is a thatched and lowly roof 
 On Fyne's umbrageous shore ; 
 
 'Gainst man and time it hath been proof 
 Two hundred years and more. 
 
 Two hundred years it hath heard the brawl 
 
 Of winds and billows' din, 
 And yet no rent in its unhewn wall 
 
 Hath let the spoiler in. 
 
 E E 
 
210 Cfjc f|ut on %od) J^ne. 
 
 The oaken cupples are full as strong 
 As when first in copse they grew, 
 
 The lintie singing their boughs among, 
 And the daylight peeping through. 
 
 Where the whitewashed kirk of Inverneill 
 
 Juts out into the brine, 
 Weekly sounding its Sabbath peal 
 
 Across the broad Loch Fyne, 
 
 On wild Stronchullin's pebbled shore, 
 
 At the foot of Lliabh Gaoil, 
 Have dwelt, two hundred years and more, 
 
 The sons of want and toil. 
 
 The chieftain proud might scorn their lot, 
 Might scorn their humble shed, 
 
 Rearing in this secluded spot 
 Its undefended head; 
 
 Yet buttressed tower and vaulted dome 
 Are cropped like weeds by time, 
 
 While the broomy thatch of the peasant's home 
 Hath still renewed its prime. 
 
€I;e $mt on Hoc!) dTj?ne. 211 
 
 In bygone day at the bothy small 
 
 A widow milked her cow, 
 When a weary man at evening's fall 
 
 Approached with drooping brow. 
 
 " Woman, dear woman ! your looks are mild, 
 
 I see your heart is good ; 
 If ever you had a wandering child, 
 
 Oh give me rest and food ! 
 
 If ever you loved a distant son 
 
 As only a mother can, 
 For his dear sake this grace be done 
 
 To succour a fainting man I" 
 
 " My son is gone with Mac Callin More 
 
 Against the fierce Montrose ; 
 He little dreamed that our quiet shore 
 
 Would ring with armed foes. 
 
 My son is gone 'gainst the rebel host 
 
 A weary way and long ; 
 We never feared that to Knapdale's coast 
 
 The Irish kerne would throng. 
 
212 Ci;t ?|ut on Eoclj dfj>iu. 
 
 My daughter and I are left alone 
 To brave the threatened raid ; 
 
 There's none would hearken our dying moan, 
 There's none would bring us aid. 
 
 And scant is our fare for strangers' use, 
 
 The milk that froths the can 
 Must last us long as the widow's cruse, 
 
 Yet drink, thou fainting man ; 
 
 For if there's little when day is done, 
 
 Still less there '11 be at morn, 
 When Alastar comes, Coll Ciotach's son, 
 
 To ravage the glens of Lorn !" 
 
 The sun was setting o'er Lliabh Gaoil 
 When the famished stranger drank, 
 
 But he checked his draught to list awhile, 
 With his ear against a bank. 
 
 He dashed the bicker upon the ground, — 
 
 Oh, but his face was stern ; 
 " They are coming fast — I know the sound 
 
 Of my hasty Irish kerne ! " 
 
Ci)e Slut on Hod; dfjme. 213 
 
 Loud the widow began to scream 
 
 For her home and for her child, 
 " Alastar's self ye surely seem, 
 
 With brows so fierce and wild ?" 
 
 " Alastar's self in truth am I, 
 
 And yonder I hear my men, 
 And Inverneill shall light the sky, 
 
 And ruin shall strew the s:len. 
 
 Yet fear not thou ! Against Montrose 
 
 Although thy son may fight, 
 Although we had been deadliest foes 
 
 Had he been here to-night, 
 
 The draught of milk thy bounty spared 
 
 Shall hold thee free from blame, 
 The roof whose shelter Macdonald shared 
 
 Must never burst in flame ! " 
 
 So forth he strode along the beach, 
 
 And waved his arm on high, 
 While still they were too far for speech, 
 
 Yet for her fear too nigh. 
 
214 Wt>* fcut on £otf) Jfyvu. 
 
 The widow clasped her child in dread, 
 
 And watched that noisy band, 
 She saw their faces with passion red, 
 
 And the bended bow and brand. 
 
 And the pine-tree torches glaring bright, — 
 
 Was e'er such glad release, 
 When the foremost turned to climb the height, 
 
 And her hut was left in peace ? 
 
 Her hut was spared, while far and near 
 
 The smoke of burning rose, 
 And shrieks of sufferers they could hear, 
 
 And the clamour of angry foes. 
 
 For Alastar's foot-prints streamed with lire, 
 
 And heavily fell his hand. 
 And ruin it was to rouse the ire 
 
 Of his rude, tumultuous band. 
 
 Sad was the havoc on fair Loch Fyne 
 
 When morning light arose, 
 Of each hundred Campbells ninety-nine 
 
 Might curse thy name, Montrose ! 
 
%\)t $?ttt on Hoc!) dfjmr. 215 
 
 Castle, and kirk, and fertile farm, 
 
 Desolate all they lay, 
 But the widow's hut had found no harm 
 
 In lone Stronchullin's bay. 
 
 Two hundred years since then have swept 
 
 Thy banks, capricious Fyne, 
 And still that roof its place hath kept 
 
 Beside the surging brine. 
 
 And still the gudewife turns her wheel, 
 
 And the hardy fishers toil, 
 By the white-washed kirk of Inverneill, 
 
 At the foot of Lliabh Gaoil. 
 
LOCHAN A CORP. 
 
 On a western shoulder of Ben Ledi, where the mountain ascends from 
 Glenfinlas, there is a small loch called Lochan a Corp, or the loch of 
 dead bodies, from the following melancholy occurrence : — 
 
 A funeral party, crossing over from Glenfinlas to the chapel of St. 
 Bride, in Strath Ire, at the head of Loch Lubnaig, were misled by a 
 slight crust of ice on which snow had fallen ; they thus mistook the 
 surface of the water for the snow-covered muir which they were 
 traversing, and the thin coating of ice cracking beneath their weight, 
 the whole train were buried in the deep lake, to the number of two 
 hundred. 
 
 Loch Lubnaig and St. Bride owe to Scott a general fame of which 
 their romantic scenery would alone make them worthy. 
 
 Ben Ledi, the Hill of God, was of old sacred to Baal, the Assyrian 
 deity, who was worshipped by the ancient Caledonians under that name, 
 as well as his Gallic designation of Grannus. From him May-day re- 
 ceived its title of Bel-tane, or Beltein, a day kept with sanguinary cere- 
 monies. 
 
 The Druids on that morning extinguished all fires, which were 
 
£od)an a Corp. 217 
 
 relighted a few hours after at the sacred flame kept burning unceasingly 
 by appointed attendants. 
 
 A large cake was then prepared, a portion of which was dipped in the 
 blood of a goat. Being fired, and ready for eating, it was broken in 
 pieces, and distributed among the multitude. He to whose lot fell the 
 blood-stained fragment was accounted the fate-assigned victim. He was 
 made to pass through a huge fire, and, having undergone this ordeal, was 
 allowed to flee for his life, closely pursued by the infatuated crowd. As 
 the Beltane fire was heaped on the very summit of Ben Ledi, the un- 
 happy creature on whom flames had refused to do their office, rushed 
 naturally to the side of the mountain which promised the nearest shelter 
 from his enemies. There the precipices sink with dreadful abruptness 
 towards Loch Lubnaig. So dark and confused are the crags, piled on 
 each other, that it was a common event that the flying and the pur- 
 suers alike mistook their way, and fell headlong to the gullies and 
 ravines below. Baal was fully satiated in his Beltane feast. His victims 
 were often numerous, for the mists of a Highland spring were fearful 
 deceivers in a chase of such appalling danger. 
 
 In more modern days Baal has been obliged to content himself with 
 a less deadly commemoration of his festival, and his ceremonies have 
 sunk nearly to a level with the chimney-sweepers' frolics on a London 
 May-day. However, " if a' tales be true," he will be avenged at the last, 
 when, according to veracious Highland chronicle, the world is to be 
 burned to ashes by a spark from a Beltane fire. 
 
 The Lyke wake was the vigil held beside the corse from the night of 
 death till that of interment. It was a horrible mixture of sorrow and 
 festivity. The silence of night, the hush of death's petrifying atmosphere, 
 were rudely broken by cries, songs, dances, and lamentations. In the 
 poorer cabins, where there was but one room, all were confused together 
 
 F F 
 
218 %atfym a Corp. 
 
 in an unseemly medley. The women, with heads covered and hands 
 clasped, moaned and wailed over the body, while the bard chanted with 
 monotonous intonation the valour of the deceased and the glory of his 
 ancestors. And, strangest sight of all, the chief mourner, with stately 
 step, contradicting the anguish of his swollen eye, led off the mournful 
 dance in the very presence of the dead. The grave-minded Highlanders 
 viewed death in a very different light from that in which it is regarded by 
 the more mercurial natives of the south. To them it was more the so- 
 lemn end to which every one's thoughts habitually turned, than a rude 
 and sudden severance of human affections and enjoyments. They loved 
 to speak of the departed as if still among them, they loaded the dying 
 with messages to those dear ones who had gone before, and it was con- 
 sidered a polite compliment to drink the toast of " a happy and becoming 
 death " to any member of a social company. 
 
 It was not till frequent intercourse with the Lowlanders had cooled 
 the fervour of the Gael's heart and lowered the dignity of his self-reliance, 
 that he sought the intoxicating pleasures of excess. Then, indeed, the 
 funeral meetings degenerated into disgraceful orgies, the sight of the pale 
 remains no longer awed the gazer into propriety, and the riot and 
 inebriety which ensued made the Highlander a byword among his Saxon 
 countrymen. 
 
 He, like the American Indian, gained for a long time no benefit from 
 collision with more civilised nations. So true it is that the vices of a high 
 state of luxury and refinement are far more contagious than its virtues. 
 
LOCHAN A COUP. 
 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 
 My love is dead and lost to me ! 
 
 As soon the northern lights on high, 
 
 That flare and flicker through the sky, 
 
 Shall kindle in this lowly room 
 
 A steadfast lamp for winter's gloom — 
 
220 Hocfjan a Corp. 
 
 As soon the snow on moorland dun 
 Retain its shape beneath the sun — 
 As soon the vague and hazy wreaths 
 That curl along the twilight heaths 
 Shall take my Hector's manly form, 
 And clasp me with embraces warm, 
 As he return whose body lies 
 Under the Lochan's sheeted ice. 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 My love is lost for aye to me ! 
 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 Brother and love are lost to me ! 
 Son of my sire, his spirit fled 
 While kinsmen gathered round his bed, 
 With solemn dance, with chan tings drear, 
 We kept the Lyke wake by his bier ; 
 No clamorous grief might Colin claim 
 Who left such glory with his name ; 
 His cup was full, his race was run, 
 Glenfinlas had no worthier son, 
 No bolder front for battle fray, 
 No franker cheer for festal day ; 
 No son more pious, husband true, 
 Than thou, my brother, Colin Dim ! 
 
Hodjan a Corp. 221 
 
 So fair a life, so calm an end, 
 Doth Heaven to favourite children send. 
 With woe resigned each mourner's heart 
 Beheld thy funeral train depart ; 
 But now Glenfinlas pours her wail 
 In swollen torrents down the gale ; 
 Now every bosom heaveth sighs, 
 Now every hearth re-echoes cries. 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 Glenfinlas joins its tears with me ! 
 
 In pent Strath Ire, when morning dawned 
 An open grave impatient yawned ; 
 In lone St. Bridget's hallowed cell 
 All doleful pealed the passing bell ; 
 And long the priest, with book in hand 
 Awaited Colin 's funeral band ; 
 But longer did he strain his sight 
 Across Loch Lubnaig's bosom white ; 
 For never was the ritual read, 
 And never grave received the dead. 
 A wider couch Black Colin found 
 Than chapel's consecrated mound : 
 For dirge of monk in far St. Bride, 
 The winds that lash Ben Ledi's side ; 
 
222 Hod) an a Corp. 
 
 For thymy ridge to mark his rest, 
 The wild duck on the billow's crest : 
 So unto death he went in state, 
 And swept his kindred in his fate. 
 
 Along Ben Ledi's rocky side 
 
 The drifting snows were scattered wide ; 
 
 Moorland and Lochan heaped so high, 
 
 Nought was discerned but snow and sky. 
 
 Well might December's twilight day 
 
 To erring track their steps betray ; 
 
 And well might sorrow's eye confound 
 
 The whitened loch and whitened ground, 
 
 Till wandering on the hidden ice 
 
 They fell, stern winter's sacrifice ! 
 
 And never yet St. Bridget's fane 
 
 Received that long-lost burial train, 
 
 And never home their steps returned 
 
 Where the bright fires expectant burned, — 
 
 Where the fond friends were gathering round, 
 
 Hearing their steps in every sound. 
 
 Alas for parent, child, and maid ! 
 
 No tidings broke death's awful shade ; 
 
 No sad-eyed seer their fate foretold 
 
 Who perished in those waters cold ; 
 
%ocl)Mi a Corp. 223 
 
 So long as stars above us sweep, 
 Lochan a Corp its dead shall keep. 
 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 
 None have been left so sad as me ! 
 
 My brother had a tender wife, 
 
 But Hector loved me more than life. 
 
 My brother leaves a fair young boy, 
 
 But I was Hector's only joy. 
 
 My brother's shrift was duly told, 
 
 But Hector's sins can none unfold ; 
 
 Whate'er he held to stain his breast, 
 
 The death-swoop found him unconfessed. 
 
 My brother's course was nearly run, 
 
 But Hector's youth had scarce begun ; 
 
 Quenched in his death his hearthstone's fire, 
 
 No gallant boy shall call him sire, 
 
 No duteous girl shall tend his age, — 
 
 A stranger hath his heritage. 
 
 Last of his line and last of name, 
 
 Glenfinlas will forget his fame ; 
 
 His favourite hound, his plighted wife, 
 
 Alone shall mourn that perished life. 
 
 Ohone, oh rie ! ohone, oh rie ! 
 
 My love is lost to fame and me ! 
 
224 Hod) an a Corp. 
 
 From lone St. Bride the swelling choir 
 Rolls solemn anthems through Strath Ire, 
 Across Loch Lubnaig's waters stern, 
 And grim Ben Ledi's braes of fern, — 
 Ben Ledi grim, whose forehead high 
 With Beltane torches fired the sky, 
 When yearly in the genial May 
 A human life was flung away, 
 And reeked the threshold of the spring 
 With blood's unhallowed offering ; 
 Ben Ledi grim, whose coverts rude 
 Perplexed pursuer and pursued, 
 When, flying from his flaming tomb, 
 The victim found a speedier doom, 
 And tumbling headlong to the plain, 
 Oft with his hasty foes was slain, 
 While flocked the eagles with their brood, 
 Rejoicing at the Beltane food ! 
 Hill of the demon ! on thy brow 
 No yearly blaze ascendeth now, — 
 Such as 't was said, in vengeance hurled, 
 With thy red brands should fire the world ! 
 Coldly thou leanest from thy throne, 
 High among clouds and mists alone, 
 
Eodjan a Corp. 225 
 
 Stooping thy shadow o'er their sleep 
 Who lie among those waters deep ; 
 As chiding thus our hopeless woe, — 
 " No hitman eye their place shall know, 
 No hand shall lift the frozen drowned, 
 To stretch in green and hallowed ground ; 
 Slow parting at the fisher's oar, 
 The waves shall close their bed once more, 
 Nor drouth, nor flood, nor blast reveal 
 The secret which those waves conceal ; 
 While sun and stars sweep overhead, 
 Lochan a Corp shall hold its dead/' 
 
 G G 
 
THE HERDSMAN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 The county of Angus, or Forfar, bordered on one side by the Gram- 
 pians and on the other by the ocean, and inhabited by feudal barons and 
 their vassals, combined many of the peculiarities of the Lowlands and the 
 Highlands. The marches or boundaries might be distinctly laid down 
 between the land of the Saxon and the Gael, running, as the lines did, 
 along the ridges of the hills ; but they were continually transgressed 
 by the Highland caterans in their creaghs on the fertile valleys di- 
 verging from Strathmore, and by the Lowland leaders in their forays of 
 retaliation. 
 
 The two principal tribes in Forfarshire were the Lyndsays and the 
 Ogilvies, between whom in 1445 there arose a bitter feud. We read 
 of the battle of Arbroath, in which the Ogilvies, under the leadership 
 of Ogilvy of Inverquharity, were entirely routed, with the loss of five 
 hundred men of the name, including many nobles and barons, and of the 
 assault and burning of the ancient castle of Inverquharity by the 
 victorious Lyndsays. 
 
 But such exhausting feuds must have had intervals of repose, and 
 the ballad therefore represents an heir of Lyndsay in the act of wooing a 
 
€f)c Hn-taman'a 23aug!)ter. 227 
 
 daughter of the noble house of Airlie. As his father's castle of Finhaven 
 was situated in the very centre of the county, and the Ogilvy fortresses of 
 Cortachy and Airlie lay much nearer the Highland hills, it would follow 
 that it was on his visits thither to court his lady-love that Lyndsay first 
 saw the shealing and the herdsman's daughter. The story, though 
 wholly imaginary, illustrates the dislike and contempt entertained by the 
 Gael for his Lowland neighbours, as evidenced by the very kerne re- 
 fusing even the proud alliance of the high-born Saxon. It also illustrates, 
 in the conduct of the damsel, the inviolate respect paid by the moun- 
 taineers to that first of earthly duties — filial obedience. The young 
 were reared in the most devoted love and reverential homage for their 
 parents. Very rare were the instances where paternal authority was 
 infringed ; the mere wish of a parent was sacredly observed, and his 
 dying injunctions fulfilled by his children often at the cost of their own 
 lives. 
 
 Even in the hardened breast of that last Lord of Lovat, on whose 
 infamous character we have previously dwelt, by whom conscience and 
 principle were held at nought, the ties of filial duty never lost their 
 grasp. He was a barbarous husband, a heartless father; and yet, 
 strange was it to see, he was an exemplary son. His affectionate at- 
 tentions to his father, Lord Thomas Fraser, never relaxed till death 
 removed him from his solicitude. If, then, the worst characters among 
 the Highlanders could not quench this last spark of a better spirit than 
 the world's, how brightly must it have shone in those of a more generous 
 and noble temperament, and particularly in the transparent and im- 
 pressible heart of woman ! 
 
THE HEBDSMAN'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 Oh, but the sun is bonny, 
 Shining abune the cluds ! 
 
 Oh, but the hyacinth 's bonny, 
 Blooming amang the wuds ! 
 
 Sae was the heir o' Lyndsay, 
 First o' his haughtie kin ; 
 
 Sae was the herdsman's daughter, 
 Lowly, and pure frae sin. 
 
 He saw her ae summer morning 
 Doon by her father's door ; 
 
 He went to the Ladye Alice 
 And the proud old Earl no more 
 
QLl)t ^ataman's 23augl)tn\ 229 
 
 He followed her last at sunset, 
 
 First when the lark is heard ; 
 And aye the answer she gied him 
 
 Was, " Spier for my father's word !" 
 
 The Earl is a proud old noble, 
 
 The herdsman is proud as he ; 
 He hath said that his winsome Jessie 
 
 Shall wed in her ain degree. 
 
 The Earl hath baronies chartered, 
 
 The carle has a wheen puir kye ; 
 But or ever he'll sell his daughter 
 
 He'll see her lie doon and die ! 
 
 The Lyndsay he raged and threatened, 
 The herdsman he vowed and swore, 
 
 " Gae back to your Ladye Alice 
 And sorrow my bairn no more." 
 
 Wroth was the heir o' Lyndsay, 
 
 Sad was the bonny May ; 
 Her cheek it grew white as cannach, 
 
 That waves on the mountain brae. 
 
230 Clje lifeftgnutii'd JBaugJtci*. 
 
 She didna greet at the milking, 
 She didna girn at the fauld ; 
 
 But she withered awa' wi' sorrow 
 
 Till she looked baith bleared and auld 
 
 The nicht it is mirk and misty, 
 The moor it is wild and lone ; 
 
 He stood by the herdsman's shealing, 
 She span by the ingle stone. 
 
 " Open to me, my Jessie, 
 
 Mickle have I to say ; 
 The herdsman is out on the mountain, 
 
 And canna be hame till day. 
 
 Open to me, my Jessie, 
 
 Your shadow I see on the wall ; 
 Dearer I lo'e that shadow 
 
 Than the fairest lady in hall." 
 
 " I daurna see you, Lord Lyndsay, 
 
 And I daurna let you in ; 
 By Mary Mother I promised, 
 
 And I daurna do this sin." 
 
€\)t imtrsman's Daughter. 231 
 
 " Ye canna then lo'e me, Jessie, 
 
 If siccan an oath ye sware ; 
 Your heart it has found anither, — 
 
 Your love it is light as air." 
 
 " Oh, bitter your words, Lord Lyndsay ! 
 
 Oh, canna ye judge me richt ? 
 I had rather been dead at morning 
 
 Than angered ye thus at nicht. 
 
 Spent is my life wi' sorrow ; 
 
 I bend to my father's law : 
 I daurna see ye, Lord Lyndsay, 
 
 Though I lo'e ye best of a' !" 
 
 " Then fare ye weel, bonny Jessie, 
 
 Ye kenna true love nor me ; 
 I '11 back to my Ladye Alice, 
 
 And wed in mine ain degree !" 
 
 Light he laughed as he left her, 
 
 Swift he sprang o'er the moor, 
 He sawna her tears doon drapping., 
 
 He sawna she opened the door. 
 
232 %\)t Untoman'ss 29attflf)tn\ 
 
 But the waefu' sugh frae the mountain. 
 
 The sparkles o' frost on the ground, 
 Was a' the voice that she hearkened, 
 
 Was a' the sicht that she found. 
 
 Proud is the moon at midnicht, 
 Winding her siller horn, 
 
 Sae was the Ladye Alice 
 Lovely and lofty born. 
 
 Crossing or care she knew not 
 
 Till that her lover gay 
 Was wooed to the herdsman's shealing 
 
 By the smiles of the bonny May. 
 
 Scorned for a herdsman's daughter! 
 
 Oh ! but her heart was sore, 
 Till that the heir o' Lyndsay 
 
 Knelt at her feet once more. 
 
 Saft were the fair excuses, 
 
 Bricht were the gems he brocht, 
 
 But aye as he praised her beauty 
 Jessie cam' ower his thocht. 
 
€\)t fm-temau'S 39auflf)tn\ 233 
 
 But the word of a lord is given, 
 
 The word of a lady ta'en, — 
 He that wooeth in anger 
 
 Shall rue it for life in vain. 
 
 Dressed was the Ladye Alice 
 
 Wi' laces and pearlins rare, 
 And a score of the vassals' daughters 
 
 The train of her mantle bare. 
 
 Guests were gleg at the wedding, 
 
 Minstrels harped at the board, 
 And the Lyndsay clan were feasted 
 
 By the bounty of their lord. 
 
 And did nane remember Jessie, 
 
 And her love sae sorely tried ? 
 Yes! — ane remembered Jessie, 
 
 As he stood beside the bride. 
 
 Tho' he held her dainty fingers 
 
 Wi' the jewelled rings sae braw, 
 One kindly clasp o' Jessie 
 
 Had weel been worth them a'. 
 
 H H 
 
234 %\)t ffmteman'3 2Battgi)ter. 
 
 Syne on the lip he kissed her, 
 Cauld was the kiss as clay, 
 
 Cauld as the heart o' Jessie, 
 Broken for love and wae ! 
 
 Heard ye the cry o' mourning 
 
 In the hush of the lonesome moor ? 
 
 Saw ye the virgin carried 
 
 Frae the childless herdsman's door ? 
 
 Music of death and bridal 
 Met on the summer breeze, 
 
 Wedding and funeral mingled 
 Under the kirkyard trees. 
 
 On a grave they rested the coffin 
 Till the nuptial rites were said, 
 
 And the same auld priest did service 
 For the faithless and the dead ! 
 
 Sad was the heir of Lyndsay 
 When he saw that burial-train, 
 
 Feared was the Ladye Alice 
 At his sudden start of pain. 
 
Feared was the Ladye Alice 
 
 For the auld man dour and gray, 
 
 Saying, " Lift ye back the coffin, — 
 It stoppeth the bridegroom's way ! 
 
 Health to you, Ladye Alice ! 
 
 Health to your loving lord ! " 
 Sad was the heir o' Lyndsay, 
 
 Pierced by that scoffing word. 
 
 Sune frae his home's remembrance 
 
 Far to the wars he fled, 
 And he died for the love of Jessie 
 
 On a Saracen battle-bed ! 
 
THE VOW OF IAN LOM. 
 
 It is strange that in the account of the battle of Inverlochy, with 
 which Sir Walter Scott winds up his " Legend of Montrose," there is no 
 mention of a personage whose energetic and soaring genius must have 
 been congenial to that of the great Border Minstrel. 
 
 Ian Lorn Macdonald, a bard of no mean muse, was present at the 
 battle above alluded to, and has recorded its achievements in powerful 
 Gaelic poetry. It is said, that when summoned by Alastar Macdonald to 
 accompany him to the fight, he replied, " If I fall in the field to-day, who 
 is to celebrate your prowess to-morrow ? " He took his position on an 
 eminence overlooking the scene of action, and his impassioned verse kept 
 pace with the progress of the fray. 
 
 There is a spirited translation of his song on the occasion by Mark 
 Napier, Esq., in that author's " Life of Montrose." It gives a high idea 
 of the imaginative strength of the Gaelic original. 
 
 Ian must then have been a very young man, as he was born in the 
 reign of James VI. of Scotland, and lived, it was alleged, till that of 
 Queen Anne, a spectator and eloquent denouncer of the union of the two 
 kingdoms. His poetical genius was of a high order, entirely devoted 
 to the Jacobite cause, which he advanced as much, if not more, by his 
 songs as others did by their claymores. He accompanied Montrose in 
 most of his inarches, and commemorated his victories. Charles II. created 
 him Gaelic poet-laureate, a distinction of which he was justly proud, and 
 
€i)t Wo\a of to 3iom. 237 
 
 which beginning in his person, died in his death, never having been 
 conferred on a successor. Ian Lom's last fight was the fatal victory of 
 Killiecrankie, where he had gone with Dundee, whose hapless fall in the 
 very heat of success he laments with even more than his accustomed 
 fervour. The story of the poem is strictly true. The two young Mac- 
 donalds of Keppoch, chieftains of the tribe to which Ian Lorn belonged, 
 were murdered by a family of the same name, a father and six sons, 
 who were tacksmen on the lands of Keppoch, and had some private quarrel 
 with the youths. This family of Macdonalds were, however, usually 
 called after their father the Sons of Dougal — a necessary mode of dis- 
 tinction among a clan bearing without exception one common surname. 
 
 The uncle of these unhappy brothers was present, but neither inter- 
 fered to prevent the deed, nor took any subsequent steps to bring the 
 criminals to justice. They continued to live unmolested on their farm. 
 
 But the devoted and intrepid Seannachie was bound to his chieftains 
 by closer ties than those of relationship. Indignant at the kinsman's 
 apathy, he went from house to house, and from castle to castle, calling 
 for vengeance on the assassins. After many fruitless attempts, he at last 
 obtained from government a commission to take the murderers, dead or 
 alive, and from Sir James Macdonald of Sleat a body of men sufficient to 
 execute this commission. 
 
 The seven guilty men defended themselves with unparalleled bravery, 
 barricading their house and fighting till they fell dead beside their own 
 hearthstone. Ian Lom had preserved the dirk with which they had slain 
 their chieftains, and its edge was now turned against themselves. 
 
 Their heads were cut off, and the bodies were buried near the spot 
 where they were killed. A short time since, the ground which tradition 
 had marked as their grave was opened, when seven headless skeletons were 
 found, triumphantly confirming the local legends. The seven heads were 
 
238 Ci)e Woto of to Horn. 
 
 washed at a well on the banks of Loch Lochy, called, in memory of the 
 event, Tober nan Cearn. On the spot a monument has been erected, of 
 which there is a view in the engraving at the head of the poem. The 
 heads were then presented at the foot of the Chief of Glengarry, and 
 finally carried to Skye, as a tribute to the Knight of Sleat, through 
 whose assistance their owners had been brought to a deserved death. 
 
 Castle Tyrim, visited by Ian Lom in his wanderings, was an ancient 
 stronghold of the Macdonalds of Clanranald. It stands on a neck of land 
 stretching into Loch Moidart, and called Eilan Tyrim, or the " Dry 
 Island," because the communication with the mainland is only overflowed 
 at the height of the tide. It is a curious fortress, built in the form of a 
 square court, with the windows towards the interior, and presenting an 
 unbroken wall on all the three sides towards the sea. It was burned by 
 Clanranald before he set forth to join the Earl of Mar in 1715, lest, 
 during his absence, it should fall into the power of his hereditary enemies 
 the Campbells. 
 
 Long after Ian Lom's death his Jacobite effusions exercised a powerful 
 influence over his countrymen, counteracting in great measure the efforts 
 of the legislature to extinguish the cause. 
 
 " Children were taught to lisp them. They were sung in the fanuly 
 circle on the winter nights, and at weddings, lykewakes, fairs, and in every 
 company. They attributed to the Stewarts and their adherents the most 
 exalted virtues, and represented their opponents as incarnate fiends. In 
 1745, Moidart and Kilmonwaig were called "The Cradle of the Rebel- 
 lion," and they were the very districts where the songs of Ian Lom 
 leavened the whole mass of society with Jacobite sentiments." — New 
 Statistical Account of Scotland — Inverness- shire. 
 
THE VOW OE IAN LOM. 
 
 Through the beeches by the river, 
 
 In whose shade a man might lurk, 
 Who is he that wildly searcheth, 
 
 Brandishing a dripping dirk ? 
 On the night air, gore bedabbled, 
 
 Streams the mantle at his back, — 
 Ian Lorn, the Blood-Avenger, 
 
 Hurrying on the murderers' track ! 
 
240 Cf)c Woto of ffan Horn. 
 
 Whither fled those caitiff brothers 
 
 When the assassin's work was o'er ? 
 To the fastness of the mountain, 
 
 To the caverns on the shore ? 
 Doth the kinsman's wrath pursue them, 
 
 In whose sight the deed befell ? 
 Or at peace upon their homestead 
 
 Are the guilty left to dwell ? 
 Now with screaming of the pibroch, 
 
 Now with coronach and cry, 
 Clansmen bear the sons of Keppoch 
 
 In their fathers' grave to lie. 
 Wherefore silent is the minstrel ? 
 
 Chants he not their young renown, 
 Who went forth in manhood's glory 
 
 When the red hand struck them down ? 
 Ere the rites are fully ended, 
 
 Ere the mourners hie them home, 
 In the midst, with head uncovered, 
 
 " Hear me vow !" quoth Ian Lorn. 
 " Till my chieftains be avenged 
 
 Song shall be forsworn by me, 
 Woman's heart and woman's beauty, 
 
 Minstrel's praise and minstrel's fee. 
 
€ty Wo\m of ta Horn. 241 
 
 When I find those sons of Dougal, 
 
 Let my hope of heaven be vain 
 If no heavier weird befall them 
 
 Than was theirs whom they have slain ! " 
 On his brows he thrust his bonnet, 
 
 Turned and strode along the vale, 
 And the clansmen of Macdonald 
 
 Answered with a thrilling* wail. 
 Deep it swelled from manly bosom, 
 
 Silvery sad from woman's tongue, 
 On the fresh-heaped grave of Keppoch 
 
 Like a cloud of grief it hung. 
 
 Oh ! the minstrel's words were mighty, 
 
 And the minstrel's soul was strong, 
 With a more than mortal passion 
 
 Writhing to avenge the wrong ; 
 Journeying swift to hall and castle, 
 
 Fearlessly he told his tale, 
 Crying, " Vengeance for the orphans 
 
 Is the glory of the Gael !" 
 Some in broils were loath to mingle, 
 
 Some indifferent heard his theme, 
 Passive to another's troubles 
 
 As a listener in a dream. 
 
 i i 
 
242 €i)t 2Foiu of Ifan Horn. 
 
 Baffled thus and disappointed, 
 
 Chafed his spirit stern and proud, 
 Yet relaxed he not his mission 
 
 For the vow that he had vowed ! 
 Weary-footed did he wander, 
 
 Till, at length, by sunset's ray, 
 At his feet he saw the ocean 
 
 Curving into Moidart's bay. 
 Every rocky hill was gladdened 
 
 By the reflex from the deep, 
 And amid the glittering waters 
 
 Lay an old embattled keep ; 
 As a blind man unto music 
 
 Turns his sad and rayless face, 
 Sightless turneth Eilan Tyrim 
 
 To the billows at its base. 
 Through the gloomy walls no lattice 
 
 To its chambers dull and blind 
 Shewed the sparkle of the waters, 
 
 Bore the freshness of the wind ; 
 Yet the mirth of Eilan Tyrim 
 
 Deafened e'en the Atlantic's din, 
 For the Chieftain of CI an ran aid 
 
 Held a festival within. 
 
€f)t Woin of to Horn. 243 
 
 Ian Lorn, all travel-sullied, 
 
 Rushed unto the banquet-board, 
 There he told his tale of horror, 
 
 There he waved the bloody sword : 
 " Vengeance, vengeance for the orphans ! " 
 
 " None to help thee here have power ; 
 Leave the dead to heaven's avenging !" 
 
 Quoth the chieftain of the tower. 
 " Live with me and be my minstrel, 
 
 Mine was slain in battle fray ; 
 Thou shalt have his lands and honours 
 
 If amongst us thou wilt stay ; 
 Thou shalt have his only daughter, 
 
 Fairest maid of Moidart she, — 
 Gifted with her father's genius, 
 
 Mavis-throated Marsali." 
 Ian Lorn, with gaze averted, 
 
 Shunned that maiden open-browed, 
 Daring not to look upon her, 
 
 For the vow that he had vowed. 
 " I have said : the chiefs of Keppoch, 
 
 Basely murdered, swell the sod ; 
 I am sworn to their avenging, 
 
 Unto man and unto God. 
 
244 €ty Woto of Un Horn. 
 
 Till I find those sons of Dougal 
 
 Song hath been forsworn by me, 
 Woman's heart and woman's beauty, 
 
 Minstrel's praise and minstrel's fee ; 
 Therefore here I must not linger, 
 
 Therefore maid I must not see, 
 Plighted only to this vengeance, 
 
 Mavis- throated Marsali ! " 
 Gay the mirth arose behind him, 
 
 Dark before him hung the cloud, 
 But he spurned at all temptation, 
 
 For the vow that he had vowed. 
 Journeying swift by firth and ferry, 
 
 Early starting, resting late, 
 Soon he reached the Knight Macdonald 
 
 On the distant shores of Sleat. 
 Loud the minstrel's voice resounded 
 
 Through the rugged halls of Knock, 
 And he shook the chief with passion 
 
 As the earthquake shakes the rock. 
 " Faithful vassal, truthful minstrel, 
 
 By the fell or by the flood, 
 1 will find those sons of Dougal — 
 
 Shedders of the guiltless blood !" 
 
€!)* Woby of to Horn. 245 
 
 Forth he sent, that western chieftain, 
 
 Clansmen armed in strong array, 
 Ian Lorn, the Blood Avenger, 
 
 Went to guide them on their way. 
 " Lo ! the Isles arise against ns !" 
 
 Hotly pressed, the murderers cried ; 
 " Sweep above us, friendly waters ! 
 
 Fall on us, ye rocks, and hide ! " 
 Hunted home unto their dwelling, 
 
 Strongly barred with stone and wood, 
 Pale of face, but firm of purpose, 
 
 By the door those traitors stood. 
 Seven were they, sons and father, 
 
 Stalwart men to wield the brand, — 
 'Twas a strife of desperation 
 
 At the meeting hand to hand. 
 Broken down their vain defences, 
 
 One by one they fell and died, 
 And the sire upon his hearthstone 
 
 Sank at last his sons beside. 
 Through thy woody paths, Glengarry, 
 
 Marched the victors of that fray, 
 In the waters of thy fountain 
 
 Seven heads were laved that day. 
 
246 Ci)e Woto of Un Hour, 
 
 Sternly parting from the corses, 
 
 Left to blacken on the ground, 
 Ian Lorn returned rejoicing 
 
 For the vengeance he had found. 
 Bearing back his ghastly tribute 
 
 To the conquering Knight of Sleat, 
 Thus he sang upon the waters 
 
 Mingled strains of love and hate. 
 
 BOAT-SONG. 
 All is completed, 
 The wicked defeated, 
 
 Conquered and slain. 
 Gory heads seven 
 From traitor hearts riven 
 
 We bring o'er the main. 
 The murdered are quiet now, 
 Calm is each lifeless brow. 
 
 Tranquilly sleeping ; 
 Over the grave at night 
 Hovers no more the sprite, 
 
 Watching and weeping ! 
 All is fulfilled now, 
 Murmurs are stilled now ; 
 
€i)t Woh) of to Horn. 247 
 
 Once more the bard sings, 
 Once more the heart springs ; 
 Once more I'll look on thee, 
 Child of the Seannachie, — 
 Marsali! Marsali ! 
 
 'Venger victorious, 
 Bard not inglorious, 
 
 Tuneful of tone ; 
 Thus floateth far my name, 
 Over the hills my fame 
 
 Every where known. 
 Children beside the fire, 
 Matron and greybeard sire, — 
 
 All love my song ; 
 Still shall it onward spread, 
 As streams from the river head 
 
 Rushing grow strong ; 
 Strong to awaken hope, 
 Strong with despair to cope ; 
 From spirit to spirit past, 
 Rousing like pibroch blast : 
 This fame I offer thee, 
 Child of the Seannachie, — 
 Marsali! Marsali! 
 
248 €Ije Wobi of ta Horn. 
 
 Troubled must be thy life, 
 Ian Lom's worthy wife 
 
 If thou would'st be ; 
 Lofty his mission, 
 From servile condition 
 
 His country to free. 
 Earnest to treasure 
 In song's mighty measure 
 
 Loyalty's breath ; 
 Waiting a brighter day, 
 True to the faraway, — 
 
 True to the death ! 
 Thus like a beacon flame 
 Song shall illume my name ; 
 Many hearts with my lay 
 Stirring when I am clay ; 
 Famous thou too shalt be, 
 Bride of the Seannachie, — 
 Marsali ! Marsali ! 
 
 Thus he sang, that Celtic poet, 
 Rude but fervent was his strain ; 
 
 Thus he wooed the Moidart maiden, 
 Dweller by the western main. 
 
€ty Wob) of to Horn. 249 
 
 Girt through life by war and tempest 
 
 He was great in his degree, 
 For he sang, Montrose, thy glory, 
 
 And he wailed thy fall, Dundee ! 
 Kings arose and kings descended 
 
 Unlamented to the tomb, 
 Ere the coronach was pealing 
 
 For the death of Ian Lorn. 
 Nor with life his greatness perished, 
 
 Left undying in his song 
 Words familiar by the fireside 
 
 When the winter nights were long ; 
 Words familiar, ever chanted, 
 
 To the bride when she was wed, 
 To the babe when it was christened, 
 
 To the corse when it was dead ; 
 By the shepherd in the shealing, 
 
 By the lady in her home, 
 Wheresoever men were gathered 
 
 Went the songs of Ian Lorn. 
 And his voice again was breathing 
 
 From the grave a trust and power, 
 When the Stewart sailed for Scotland 
 
 In a dark and evil hour. 
 
 K K 
 
250 Cfje Woia of to Horn. 
 
 Mightier was the verse of Ian 
 
 Hearts to nerve, to kindle eyes, 
 Than the claymore of the valiant, 
 
 Than the counsel of the wise. 
 Still he singeth unforgotten 
 
 In the echoes of his home ; 
 Every burn and every mountain 
 
 Tells thy glory, Ian Lorn ! 
 
THE WOLF OF EDERACHILLIS. 
 
 The honour of having slain the last Scottish wolf is claimed by differ- 
 ent distinguished families, and the scene of his death has been laid in 
 various parts of the kingdom. By some authorities, the very last wolf in 
 Scotland was killed in the seventeenth century by the famous Sir Evan 
 Cameron of Lochiel. The same exploit is also said to have been achieved 
 by an Ogilvy in the wild glen of Bach-na-gairn, where the Grampians 
 descend in steep and abrupt gorges to the Lowland districts of Forfarshire. 
 However or wherever the race may have become extinct, we are well 
 pleased to remember that it is so — that shepherds are no longer in fear 
 for their flocks, or mothers for their infants, as often happens in the seve- 
 rity of a Continental winter, when these ferocious animals come hunger- 
 stimulated from the mountains. 
 
 In former times the " woulffs " were objects of deserved terror. We 
 are told that the tract of country called Ederachillis, on the west coast of 
 Sutherland, was so infested by them that they even rifled the corpses from 
 the graves, and the inhabitants were obliged to convey their dead to the 
 neighbouring island of Hand a, as the only safe place of sepulture. 
 
252 %\)t Wolf of (Krn-acljtnte. 
 
 Handa is a barren and lofty rock of red sandstone, its cliffs on the 
 north-west side rising six hundred feet in a perpendicular wall from the 
 ocean. They are stratified horizontally, and present the appearance of 
 the most regular and artistic masonry. 
 
 The spray from the stormy billows, which here seldom know repose, 
 is dashed often to their summits, while, undaunted by the noisy roar 
 and continual showers, the seafowl gather thickly on the inaccessible 
 ledges of the rocks. These birds are of various kinds. The osprey or 
 sea- eagle, the gannet or solan-goose, all sorts of gulls, puffins, fulmars, 
 the kestril falcon or hawk, and many others of rarer species, make Handa's 
 shelves their yearly home, coming always to lay their eggs and rear their 
 young in the beginning of spring, and leaving the island in the end of 
 summer, or later, according to the nature of the season. 
 
 They afford food to the inhabitants. The fulmar yields an oil, which 
 cheers the dreariness of winter, by lighting their wretched hovels ; and 
 the feathers are received as rent by the proprietors of the island. 
 
 The grey-furred and green-eyed wolf, which was once a tenant of 
 these districts, was the same as the common European wolf of the present 
 day. The female suckles her young for six months, in a sort of nest 
 heaped roughly together of twigs and grass. The wolf, from its extreme 
 voracity, when flesh cannot be had, will eat refuse of any description. 
 
 The " ware-wolf" or witch disguised in the shape of a wolf, was at 
 one time an universal superstition wherever these animals were found. 
 Even now, the peasants of Russia and Poland hold a belief of the same 
 nature. When the prejudice against witches was in full force during the 
 dark ages of Christendom, the ravages of the wolves would furnish a 
 death-warrant to many a helpless old crone. Many legends are extant in 
 Germany of the deadly " war- wolf ;" the reader will remember one at 
 least, Monk Lewis' ballad of " The Little Gray Woman." 
 
€i)e molt of etoeracpiia. 253 
 
 In the poem the author has ventured on the analogy of all delusions 
 connected with witchcraft to give this particular one a Scottish locality, 
 although she has not heard there is any distinct tradition of the ancient 
 Highlanders having, like the English, attributed the ferocity of this for- 
 midable brute to the malevolence of an old woman in league with Satan. 
 It is not at all improbable, when we recall the number of animals whom 
 the more modern Highlanders endowed with supernatural qualities. 
 Thus the goat was supposed to have more than human sagacity, and to 
 be a secret ally of the fairies, to whom it betrayed the affairs of its 
 master, and enabled the elf to take the mortal at advantage. The magpie 
 was held to possess the gift of foreknowledge, the hare had its influence 
 over events, and the cat was generally looked on as a witch in disguise. 
 Here we have quite a similar superstition of more recent date, the 
 mountain-cat being almost as fierce and dangerous as the wolf. 
 
 The " Diri Moir," or Reay forest, is a wild and desolate region ex- 
 tending over much of the western side of Sutherland, which has always 
 been famous for deer, and a variety of birds and beasts of prey. 
 

 THE WOLF OE EDEEACHILLIS. 
 
 " A boat and a ghastly freight, 
 A boat and a shuddering crew, — 
 
 Where are ye bound so late ? 
 What is the work ye do ? 
 And whose is that face so thin and pale 
 That lies betwixt ye two ? 
 
€ty »olf of entvacfyWs. 255 
 
 On Ederachillis' shore 
 
 Why do the women stand, 
 Beating the swan-white breast, 
 
 Wringing the farewell hand ? 
 Why do their mingled cries and prayers 
 
 Echo along the strand ? 
 
 Why does that old man sage, 
 
 In the name of the Holy Three, 
 Solemnly bless the bark 
 
 That now puts forth to sea ? 
 And why do ye bind your fisher-coats 
 
 With a cross of the rowan-tree ? " 
 
 " To Handa's isle we go 
 
 With our silent freight, the dead ; 
 Uncoffined he lieth now, 
 
 And the sea-spray wets his head ; 
 For the couch of fir where he should have lain 
 Would sink our boat like lead. 
 
 To Handa's isle we go, 
 
 Our graveyard in the deep, 
 Where the tombs stand all a-row, 
 
 Safe in that rocky keep ; 
 And never a foot of man or brute 
 
 Disturbs our kinsmen's sleep. 
 
256 C&« Wolf of etttvatfyilli*. 
 
 The kestril's falcon eye 
 
 Shall watch by our brothers brave, 
 
 The gannet shall feed her young- 
 Close to our children's grave, 
 And whiten the mound with a feathery pall 
 Like the foam of a breaking wave. 
 
 With every spring they come, 
 With every summer they go, 
 
 To what unheard-of climes 
 Heaven alone doth know ; 
 But the birds of the sea ne'er harm the graves, 
 Or the sleepers that rest below. 
 
 On Ederachillis' shore 
 
 The grey wolf lies in wait, — 
 
 Woe to the broken door, 
 Woe to the loosened gate, 
 And the groping wretch whom sleety fogs 
 On the trackless moor belate. 
 
 The lean and hungry wolf, 
 
 With his fangs so sharp and white, 
 
 His starveling body pinched 
 
 By the frost of a northern night, 
 And his pitiless eyes that scare the dark 
 
 With their green and threatening light. 
 
%\)t Wolf of ©Uerad&tUiJl. 257 
 
 The savage and gaunt ware-wolf, 
 That never was nursed in nest, 
 That holds a witch's heart 
 Under a shaggy breast, 
 For human hurt and for human life 
 That nightly goes in quest. 
 
 He climbeth the guarding dyke, 
 
 He leapeth the hurdle bars, 
 He steals the sheep from the pen, 
 
 And the fish from the boat-house spars ; 
 And he digs the dead from out the sod, 
 
 And gnaws them under the stars. 
 
 Last autumn by Loch Stac 
 
 There lived an aged crone, 
 She had nor mate nor child, 
 
 She dwelt by a cairn alone ; 
 There never was heard a woman's voice 
 
 Of such harsh and growling tone. 
 
 She had nor mate nor child 
 To love in her lonely age ; 
 The loves of younger folk 
 But stirred her envious rage, 
 And she scowled on the children from her door 
 Like a wild wolf from its cage. 
 
 L L 
 
258 Z\)t Wolf of GTferacpifo. 
 
 In the gloomy Diri Moir 
 
 One aged man, 'twas said. 
 Knew all the former life 
 The Witch of Loch Stac had led, 
 And why so oft by the stony cairn 
 She made a sleepless bed. 
 
 At the rise of autumn's wind 
 The witch was seen no more, 
 
 And raging tempests beat 
 On Ederachillis' shore; 
 And the billows leapt o'er sinking boats 
 With fierce sepulchral roar. 
 
 In the churchyard on the hill 
 Was heard a growling loud ; 
 
 By the shifting stormy moon 
 That panted through the cloud 
 Was the grey wolf seen at a rifled grave, 
 And it champed at a corpse's shroud. 
 
 Thus every grave we dug 
 The hungry wolf uptore, 
 
 And every morn the sod 
 
 Was strewn with bones and gore ; 
 Our mother earth had denied us rest 
 On Ederachillis' shore. 
 
€i)t Wolf of <£*narf)tllte. 259 
 
 To Handa's isle we go, 
 
 Encircled by the sea ; 
 A swimmer stout and strong 
 
 The grey wolf need to be, 
 And a cragsman bold to scale the rocks 
 
 If he follow where we flee. 
 
 To Handa's isle we sail, 
 
 Whose blood-red cliffs arise 
 Six hundred feet above the deep, 
 
 And stain the lurid skies, 
 Where the mainland foliage never blooms, 
 
 And the sea-mist never dries. 
 
 Push off, push off the boat, 
 
 The crystal moon goes down ; 
 And the sun on Handa's brow 
 
 Hath fastened a golden crown. 
 The priest hath blessed, the women have prayed, 
 
 And Heaven hath smoothed its frown. 
 
 Push off' for the sea-dashed grave, 
 
 The wolf may lurk at home, 
 May prowl in the Diri Moir 
 
 Till nightfall bids him roam ; 
 But the grave is void in the mountain kirk, 
 
 And the dead hath crossed the foam ! " 
 
THE POKTENTS OF THE NIGHT, 
 
 Night to the devout Highlander was a time to rest within doors, and 
 renew the strength by sleep. Evil spirits were abroad, the Prince of 
 Darkness roamed over the hills : it was presumption to dare his presence, 
 and drew upon itself the neglect of all angelic guardians. It is rather 
 difficult to reconcile this timorous avoidance of danger with the thousand 
 recorded facts of nightly creaghs, nightly robberies, nightly assassinations ; 
 but we must remember, that even in the most superstitious the over- 
 whelming passion of the moment has silenced the voice of fear. The 
 constantly recurring disasters of these evil undertakings was, of course, 
 attributed by the neighbours to the contemptuous presumption which 
 overlooked the peril. It was then held an established axiom, that evil 
 spirits were to be shunned, not braved. Those whose necessary tasks 
 detained them out of doors beyond nightfall were not so liable to harm 
 as the daring loiterer, who was sure to suffer for his boldness by an en- 
 counter with the wicked demons let loose upon the earth during the dark 
 hours. 
 
 The vision of armed horsemen riding along the face of an impassable 
 precipice is taken from a narration of a similar appearance in the day- 
 
€f)c portents of ti)t $tgi)t. 261 
 
 time on the mountains of Cumberland. It is given in detail by Sir 
 David Brewster, in his work on " Natural Magic." Scott likewise speaks, 
 in his " Lady of the Lake," of a presage of coining death of a similar 
 character : — 
 
 " Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast 
 Of charging steeds careering fast 
 Along Benharrow's shingly side, 
 Where mortal horseman ne'er might ride." 
 
 The birk scarred by the witch's ban recalls an idea entertained in many 
 parts of the Highlands, that these ill-omened crones could wither a tree 
 by their curses, so that the sap should dry up in the trunk, and the 
 whole become blighted and unfruitful, as if scathed by lightning. 
 
 It was sometimes the custom to baptize an infant over a drawn sword, 
 in the emergency of illness and distance from a priest. The rite of 
 baptism was highly prized among the Highlanders ; they regarded it as 
 an unfailing passport to heaven for the child who died in earliest in- 
 fancy. On the other hand, those unhappy ones whose parents, through 
 accident or neglect, had omitted ensuring for them the entrance into hap- 
 piness, were lost for ever and ever, as much as the most hardened sinner. 
 Their voices were heard in the woods bewailing their wretched fate, and 
 upbraiding their forgetful parents. To "win west" was a proverbial 
 expression for reaching heaven. The Highlanders to this day suppose 
 the realms of everlasting glory to be situate to the westward. This 
 fancy has probably remained to them from an extinct Druidical super- 
 stition, which fixed the locality of the eternal mansions in the island of 
 Hath Innis, among the more remote of the Hebridean archipelago. 
 
 The water of three streams at their confluence possessed, it was said, 
 singular properties. Hither bereaved parents came with the elfin change- 
 
262 CJ;e frrcttntff of tije Htgljt. 
 
 ling, whom the fairies had substituted for their own fair mortal child. 
 The infant being left all night at this gathering of the waters, was found 
 in the morning the very one whom the " gude people " had stolen, the 
 magic of the spot forcing the dishonest elves to restore their prize. The 
 ford crossed on occasion of a burial by a funeral party, was called 
 the Ford of the Dead and the Living. Its waters were of potent effi- 
 cacy to counteract evil spells, witchcraft, and all delusions of the devil, 
 but the ford itself was generally haunted, especially on the approach of a 
 death among the neighbouring inhabitants. The spectre seen by the 
 traveller had its face hidden — a circumstance usually held to portend evil 
 to the spectator himself, who saw in the muffled form his shadowy like- 
 ness. The gazer, when such an appearance came before him, could, by 
 reversing his plaid or any other part of his vestments, ascertain this fact 
 to his satisfaction, as the spectre, if his own, would undergo a similar 
 change. The " Legend of Montrose " illustrates this most dramatically in 
 the dialogue between Kanald of the Mist and Allan Macaulay. 
 
 The compatibility of such a superstitious disposition with a religious 
 and sincere faith has been before commented on ; the effect of those 
 visions would be to sink every serious Highlander on his knees. In his 
 habitual reference of every occurrence, natural or extraordinary, to the 
 watchful superintendence of an all-wise Deity, the Gael has left his 
 posterity a lesson of true wisdom. 
 
THE PORTENTS OF THE NIGHT. 
 
 " What saw ye outbye in the gloamin', gucleman 1 
 Your teeth chatter sairly, your colour is wan ! 
 Did ye venture the pass o' the mountain by night ? 
 Ye surely have witnessed some terrible sight ; 
 Was it aught o' this warld, or a kelpie, or sprite ?" 
 
 " I cam' by the pass o' the mountain, gudewife, 
 But I'll never return a' the days of my life; 
 The calm caller moonlight was stirred on the crags 
 By the glinting of harness, the fluttering of flags ; 
 
264 C!)f portents of tty fitsfjt. 
 
 A Iroop of armed horsemen rode gallantly by 
 Where a goat couldna creep on the precipice high, 
 In a long single file, horse by horse, round the cliff; 
 The flash o' their weapons gaed past in a gliff. 
 Sure never was seen at sic hour, in sic place, 
 Or rider or steed of this earth's mortal race ; 
 And I knelt there in fear wi' my plaid on my face." 
 
 " That troop boded naething but evil, gudeman ; 
 
 The voice o' dissension is loud in the Ian' ; 
 
 The horse o' the Saxon shall trample the vale, 
 
 And faggot and sw r ord be the meed o' the Gael. 
 
 Bat saw ye nae sicht in the forest, gudeman, 
 
 Where the birks are all scaured by the dour witch's ban ? 
 
 Your teeth chatter sairly, your colour is wan ! " 
 
 " Nae sight have I seen in the forest, gudewife, 
 But I heard what I ne'er shall forget in my life, — 
 A moanin' and sobbin' of infant in pain, 
 A dreary cry over and over again. 
 It was na the wind, for the wind it was still ; 
 It was na the burn, for there's frost on the hill ; 
 'Twas the voice of a child, girning sadly and sair, 
 Sounding close at my footsteps and filling the air ; 
 And I searched the dark wood, but no baby was there." 
 
€ty portents of ti)t ffiigfot 265 
 
 " 'Twas the voice o' your baby unchristened, gudeman ; 
 Unblessed by the priest was her life's little span ; 
 No waters of mercy were poured on her head, 
 And therefore she waileth so sair from the dead, 
 And haunteth the forest, and canna find rest ; 
 Unsealed by redemption, she canna win west. 
 Oh ! would I had crossed thee with naked claymore 
 Than barred thee from heaven, my babe that I bore ! 
 Or would I had ta'en thee through corri and spate, 
 Through the drifts of the snow to the priest's very gate, 
 Or ever thou cam'st to such terrible fate ! 
 But saw ye nae sicht by the water, gudeman ? 
 Your teeth chatter sairly, your colour is wan ! 
 Did ye come by the ford where the three rivers meet, 
 Where the widowed and childless gae aften to greet 
 By the graves that lie close at the kirk's holy feet ?" 
 
 " I cam' by the kirk o' the rivers, gudewife, 
 'Tis the last time I ever shall pass it in life. 
 As the ford o' the Dead and the Living I crossed, 
 I saw a drooned man in the wild billows tossed ; 
 The features were downward, no face could I see, 
 But closely he drifted, he brushed by my knee ; 
 And still when the plaid or the hair I w r ould grasp, 
 The wet spray alone did I find in my clasp, 
 
 M M 
 
266 €f)e portent* oi tf)t &i$)t. 
 
 Till the corse floated seaward with shrieks on the breeze, 
 
 With the roar of the river, the sigh of the trees, 
 
 And my heart 'gan to swim, and my pulses to freeze." 
 
 " Ohone for my Donald ! ohone, my gudeman ! 
 
 Was ever sic sorrow since life first beg-an ? 
 
 Not many may look on their ain ghastly wraith, 
 
 Not many like thee hae sic warnin' o' death ; 
 
 For lo ! as I sat here at evening's dark close, 
 
 And toasted your bannocks and thickened your brose, 
 
 The river seemed suddenly rushing beside, 
 
 And I saw a drooned man swept away by the tide, — 
 
 I saw 'twas your face as it hurled o'er the linn, 
 
 There was shrieking without and that vision within. 
 
 As swift as it came so it vanished away, 
 
 And nocht at my feet but the black poussie lay ; 
 
 He shivered wi' terror, I greeted full sore, 
 
 Till your hand at the latch and your foot on the floor 
 
 Gar'd me rise up to meet you and clasp you once more." 
 
 " Your words are a warning of evil, gudewife ! 
 
 Short, short is the thread o' my fast-dwindled life ; 
 
 And mickle my sinnin' and hardened my soul, 
 
 And far is my heart frae the heavenly goal. 
 
 The path o' the just is a steep whinny brae, 
 
 And aft did I stumble, and aft did I stray : 
 
 Kneel down by the ingle, gudewife, and we'll pray !" 
 
THE BLACK OHANTEE OF CHATTAN. 
 
 On the antiquity and celebrity of the Highland bagpipe it is needless 
 to dwell. The potent effect of its strains on the excitable temperament 
 of the Gael, all who have ever been in the North will acknowledge. It 
 must be confessed that an admiration for this sonorous instrument is 
 rather an acquired taste, and that strangers are at first more stunned 
 than enraptured ; but to those whose dearest recollections lie among the 
 blue hills and rushing torrents of the Celt there is something almost 
 supernaturally stirring in this vehement music, when heard in after 
 years, or in the exile of a distant land. 
 
 There were three principal kinds of pipe music, — the pibroch, or 
 gathering, — the failte, or welcome, — and the cumhadh, or lament. 
 
 The Clan Mac Pherson possess a curious relic of the past in a Black 
 Chanter (or flute part of the bagpipe), made of lignum vitas, and en- 
 dowed with magical properties, according to tradition. Its origin is 
 described by Scott in the " Fair Maid of Perth." 
 
 Towards the end of the great conflict which took place on the North 
 Inch of that city (sometimes called St. Johnstone, from its patron Saint 
 John) between the two Celtic confederacies, the Clan Quhele and the 
 
268 €f)e mack Chanter of Cijattan. 
 
 Clan Chattan, " there was seen an aerial minstrel over the heads of the 
 latter, who, after playing a few wild strains on the instrument, let it drop 
 from his hand. Being made of glass, it was broken by the fall, ex- 
 cepting only the chanter, which was, as usual, of wood." The Mac- 
 pherson piper secured this enchanted pipe, and, even though mortally 
 wounded, -poured forth the pibroch of his clan till Death effectually 
 silenced his music. 
 
 The Black Chanter was ever after held to ensure success to its owners, 
 not only to the Macphersons but also to its temporary possessors, whenever 
 lent to other clans by the generosity of its proprietor. Thus the Grants 
 of Strathspey having received an affront through the cowardice of some 
 unworthy members, and being dejected beyond measure, borrowed this 
 magical instrument, whose bold war-notes soon roused their drooping 
 energies, and stimulated them to such valour, that it was a proverb from 
 that time, " No enemy ever saw the back of a Grant." The Grants of 
 Glenmorriston afterwards received it, and it was only restored to the 
 Mac Phersons a few years ago by the present Laird. 
 
 It seems, however, as if its virtues remained to the Mac Phersons 
 during the troubles of 1745, for Cluny Mac Pherson, the chief, having 
 been drawn into the Stuart cause, accompanied Charles Edward in all his 
 victories, and by his own and his followers' bravery much assisted the 
 precarious fortunes of the Adventurer. 
 
 A short while before the fight of Culloden the Mac Phersons were in 
 Athole with Lord George Murray, where they were eminently successful. 
 
 But when the disastrous affair of " Drummossie Moor," as it was called 
 by the Jacobites, took place, the Mac Phersons were absent, on their march 
 from Badenoch, whither they had gone in the interim, and thus their 
 assistance was lost to the most important of all the Stuart struggles. 
 
 It is said an old witch told the Duke of Cumberland that if he waited 
 
Qli)t 33lack Chanter of Cfjattan. 269 
 
 till the green bratach, or banner, came up, he would inevitably be de- 
 feated. He did not wait; and whether in consequence of the Black 
 Chanter being absent or not, it is too certain that he succeeded in ruining 
 the rash and unfortunate Highlanders. The Mackintoshes, who claim 
 the title for their chief of " Captain of Clan Chattan," were in the thickest 
 of the fight ; but they had no supernatural preservative, and shared the 
 fate of that bloody and merciless defeat. 
 
 With Culloden ended the influence of the old faith, loyalty, and reli- 
 gion. The Gael, broken by the severity of the government and the rapid 
 progress of innovation, has learned to forget his former self. With the 
 reckless passions of the past he has also lost much of its rude chivalry. 
 In some hidden nooks and corners some few associations and superstitions 
 hang duskily round the hills ; but the quick strides of society, now 
 advancing on every side, will soon trample down these last remaining 
 characteristics, and the Celt, assimilating more and more daily to the 
 Saxon, will ere long wonder at the deeds of his ancestors, even as the 
 English wonder at the naked Britons who fled before Caesar. As with 
 Culloden we began our volume, so we end it with the same eventful day 
 which closed the page of history on the armed power of the clans. And 
 what more congenial note can we sound for our Farewell than the heart- 
 piercing wail of the fatal field of Drummossie ? 
 
THE BLACK CHANTER OF CHATTAN, 
 
 Black Chanter of Chattan, now hushed and exhausted. 
 
 Thy music was lost with the power of the Gael ; 
 The dread inspiration Mac Pherson had boasted 
 
 For ever expired in Drummossie's sad wail. 
 
 Of old on St. Johnstone's dark meadow of slaughter 
 Thy cadences hurried the piper's last breath ; 
 
 The vanquished escaped amid Tay's rolling water, 
 The conqueror's pibroch was silenced by death. 
 
 That piper is nameless, and lost in like manner 
 The tribes are forgotten of mighty Clan Quhele ; 
 
 While Chattan, that bears the hill-cat on his banner, 
 No time can extinguish, no ruin assail. 
 
€ty Elacfc Cfjantev of Cfjattan. 271 
 
 From the hand of a cloud-cleaving bard thou wert given 
 To lips that embraced thee till moveless and dead ; 
 
 Since then never idly Mac Pherson hath striven, 
 Nor trust in his fortune been shaken by dread. 
 
 O mouth-piece of conquest ! who heard thee and trembled ? 
 
 Who followed thy call, and despaired of the fight? 
 Availed not that foemen before thee dissembled, 
 
 For quenched was their ardour and nerveless their might. 
 
 The blast of thy pibroch, the flaunt of thy streamer, 
 Lent hope to each spirit and strength to each arm ; 
 
 While the Saxon confronting was scared like the dreamer 
 Whose sleep is of peril, of grief, and alarm. 
 
 Led on by thy promise, what chieftain e'er sallied, 
 Nor proved in the venture how just was thy vaunt ? 
 
 At the spell of thy summons exultingly rallied 
 The faltering pulse of dispirited Grant. 
 
 Forerunner of victory ! why didst thou tarry ? 
 
 Thy voice on Drummossie an empire had changed ; 
 We then had not seen our last efforts miscarry, 
 
 The Stuart had triumphed, the Gael been avenged. 
 
272 €ty J3lacfe Chanter of Cfjattan. 
 
 Ah, fatal Drummossie — -sad field of the Hying ! 
 
 The Gathering sank in the hopeless Lament ; 
 What pibroch could stanch the wide wounds of the dying? 
 
 What magic rekindle the fire that was spent ? 
 
 Proud music ! by shame or dishonour ne'er daunted, 
 By murmur of orphan, by widowed despair, 
 
 The fall of thy country thy spell disenchanted, 
 With the last of the Stuarts it vanished in air ! 
 
 Yet rouse thee from slumber, Black Chanter of Chattan, 
 Send forth a strong blast of defiance once more ; 
 
 On the flesh of thy children the vulture doth batten, 
 And sodden with blood are the sands of Lahore. 
 
 As fierce as the tiger that prowls in their forest, 
 Those sons of the Orient leap to the plain ; 
 
 But the blade striketh vainly wherever thou warrest, — 
 Black Chanter of Chattan, bestir thee again ! 
 
 March 16, 1846. 
 
 London: — George Barclay, Castle Street, Leicester Square. 
 

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