The Highland bagpipe

Unreliability of tradition—Lost in antiquity—Occasions of tunes—Interest of stories—The Mac Raes’ March—Story of “Suarachan”—Hal o’ the Wynd—The Mac Intosh’s Lament—Two different stories—A Cholla mo run—Duntroon’s Salute—The Campbell’s are coming.

It serves no good purpose to indulge in regrets for that which is past, but one cannot help feeling sorry that the story of our national music is so scrappy and so unreliable. There is, indeed, a large quantity of material of a kind, and on a cursory examination one may think the stories of the origin of tunes are plentiful enough. But when one begins to go deeper and trace each story to its source, reconcile all its different versions and explain how the same incident crops up in another place, under different circumstances, perhaps even in connection with another tune, it is then that the task of making intelligible, and at the same time trustworthy, stories for melodies that are now so well known, becomes difficult. Precise dates have been given for many tunes, but it is obvious enough that the writers giving them, though doubtless good pipers, were but little conversant with the facts of history. Very few, indeed, of the older tunes can be authenticated. With them it is truly a case of being lost in the mists of antiquity. It is too often assumed that a tune having a direct reference to a certain historical incident, is itself of the date of that incident, while the chances are that it was composed on that incident by a piper who lived many years after. Because Shakespeare wrote Macbeth we do not conclude that he lived in Macbeth’s day. A composer, like a dramatist, has all history spread out before him, and can make his music on what he pleases. We have, for instance, a piece of pipe music called “The Battle of Harlaw,” but, though we know that it is very old, we have no reason to think that, in its present form, it was in existence in 1411. So with very many others. When the events they celebrate took place, very few, if any, of the actors could write, and it was a long time after that the matters referred to became part of written history. When the tunes were composed must, therefore, be decided, when it can be decided at all, by other evidence—by historical data regarding the lives of their composers or by references in the authentic history of the country. Such data and references are, however, because of the lack of education in the times when the accurate information could be got, very scarce, and the result is that, although many of the older tunes have been first favourites from time immemorial, no one has any idea of how they came into being.

There was always a fine vein of poesy and music among the Celts, and they readily composed rhymes and tunes which powerfully affected the imagination. They had magnificent memories, cultivated, of course, by that very lack of written books to which I have referred, and into their tunes they compressed the sentiments of past centuries, and the troubles and joys of everyday life. Noted incidents induced commemoration. The birth of an heir to the ancient clan, the death of the chief, a victory in battle, the home-coming or departure of any notable personage, were all fit subjects for the genius of the clan piper, and were often utilised as such. Where we can prove that the tune was composed when the incident, of which we know the date, occurred, we are on sure ground. When we cannot we are none the wiser. Each clan had its own music, almost all of high antiquity, and all of the class common to the Gael, but we can no more fix the origin of the music than we can fix the origin of the clan. The Munros have a pibroch composed on the battle of Bealach na Broige, an event which took place about 1350, and there is the tradition in the Clan Menzies that their piper played at Bannockburn, but in neither case is the matter of any use as history. “The Desperate Battle of Perth” is alleged to date from 1395, “The Mac Raes’ March” from 1477, and “Mac Intosh’s Lament” from 1526. In each case, however, tradition is the only original authority, and to tradition a hundred years are often as one day, and one day as a hundred years.

But the fact that we cannot fix exact dates does not impair the value of the stories, as stories. And it is as stories, traditions if you will, that we wish to recall them now, if only to show the atmosphere in which our pipe music lived and moved and had its being. The stories I believe are true, though I would not like to vouch for the accuracy of the names of characters and places in every instance, no more than for that of the dates. The incident recorded may have taken place at some other time, in some other place, and with some other people, and tradition may have mixed up names and figures. But there must have been such an incident sometime, somehow, somewhere in the Highlands. So long as we know that it did not originate in the imagination of the story-teller, it illustrates men and manners just as well as if we could swear by all its details. And as it throws light on the circumstances in which Highland music was so often composed, it lends a new interest to the study of that music. I give, I need hardly add, in each case, that version of the story which I consider best authenticated, told, whenever possible, in the form that is of greatest interest.

Let us take the first two or three in the order of their traditional dates:—

is the oldest known pipe tune. The Lord of the Isles invaded Ross-shire about 1477 with a numerous army, and laid waste the country of the Mac Kenzies, burning a chapel at Contin. The Mac Kenzies took the field to protect their lands and property, and in an endeavour to recover the booty from the Mac Donalds they asked the assistance of the Mac Raes. The Mac Raes joined them, and the Mac Donalds were defeated with great slaughter. In the ranks of the Mac Raes there fought Duncan Mac Rae, an orphan, familiarly known by the name of Suarachan, a term of contempt. His prowess on this occasion was remarkable, and fully entitled him to higher consideration. He slew a notable man in the Mac Donald ranks, and then calmly sat down on the body, as if no more was required of him. Mac Kenzie was astonished at the action of this ally of his, and exclaimed:—

“Why sit you so, when your help is so much needed?”

“If paid like a man, I will fight like a man,” replied Mac Rae. “If everyone does as much as I have done the day is yours.”

“Kill your two and you shall have the wages of two,” said the chief.

Suarachan obeyed, and again sat down on the corpse.

“Kill your three,” shouted the Mac Kenzie; “nay, fight on, and I will reckon with you for the dead.”

Suarachan thereupon got up, and dealt fearful destruction among the Mac Donalds, killing sixteen with his own hand, and thus proved his worth. He was ever afterwards held in high esteem, and became a leading man in the clan, acquiring the honourable name of “Duncan of the Axe.” It was an axe he wielded with such dread purpose on the field of battle. The pibroch was composed in his honour and in memory of the conflict, and has always been the march of the clan.

The resemblance between the story and that of Hal o’ the Wynd in Scott’s Fair Maid of Perth is too striking to pass unnoticed. Hal, at the battle on the North Inch of Perth, acted exactly as Suarachan did at Contin. Which is the original story, or whether the two are different stories it is hard to determine. It would be interesting to know where Sir Walter got the legend on which he based the Hal o’ the Wynd incident.

on the authority of The Mac Intosh himself, dates from 1550. Writing in 1885 the chief said:—“The tune is as old as 1550 or thereabout. Angus Mac Kay in his pipe music book gives it 1526, and says it was composed on the death of Lauchlan, the fourteenth laird, but we believe that it was composed by the famous family bard Mac Intyre, on the death of William, who was murdered by the Countess of Huntly in 1550. This bard had seen, within the space of forty years, four captains of the Clan Chattan meet with violent deaths, and his deep feeling found vent in the refrain:—

These are the only words in existence which I can hear of.”

There is, however, another tradition connected with the tune. There was a prediction, believed among the clansmen, that the Mac Intosh of that day would die through the instrumentality of his beautiful black steed, whose glossy skin shone as the raven’s wing, and whose flowing mane and tail waved free as the wind itself. But the chief, whatever he felt, was determined to show his people that he treated the prediction lightly, and so he continued to ride his favourite, in spite of the entreaties of his friends. He rode him on the day of his marriage, and on the way to church the horse became more than usually restive. He reared and plunged, and behaved so badly that the rider, losing control of himself and his horse, drew his pistol and shot the favourite dead. Another, a piebald horse, was procured, and the company proceeded to church. After the ceremony they returned by the way they had come, the bride and her maids on white ponies, and the bridegroom and his friends following. The chief’s horse, in passing, shied at the body of the black horse, which lay by the wayside, and the rider was thrown to the ground and killed on the spot. A turn of the road hid the accident from those in front, and the bride, unconscious of what had happened, went on her way. She is said to have composed and chanted the air as, at the funeral, she moved at the head of the bier, marking the time by tapping on the coffin lid all the way to the grave, where she had to be torn away as the body was being lowered in:—

Another set of words were taken down in 1872 from the singing of Mor Nighean Alasdair Mhic Ruaraidh in Barra. The English here given is not, however, a translation of this, but what is practically a third set, written by Mr. Malcolm Mac Farlane, Paisley, to give some idea of the rhythm of the tune:—

“A CHOLLA MO RUN.”

One of the earliest recorded instances of the bravery of a piper is contained in the annals of our own Highlands, and is inseparably connected with the tune known as A Cholla mo run, referred to in a previous chapter.^[16] It may be as well to give the story here at full length. The hero was the piper of Coll Kitto, or left-handed Coll, who landed in Islay with the advance party of an expedition from Ireland, with instructions to take the Castle of Dunivaig by surprise, should he find that this could be attempted with any degree of success. The Campbells, however, had heard of the expedition, and they drew the party into an ambush and made them prisoners. All were hung off-hand, except the piper, who asked leave first to play a lament over his comrades. The chief of the Campbells had heard of the fame of this piper, and, being himself fond of music, he granted the request, taking care, however, to put cattle in the way of those of Coll Kitto’s people who might follow the advance party, which would distract their attention, while his men could fall on them as they did on the others. The piper saw and understood the arrangements, and adapted his pibroch to the occasion, so that the warning and lamenting notes could not fail to be understood by his comrades. The chief of the Campbells also understood, and on finding himself over-reached he plunged his dirk into the piper, who smiled proudly even in death, for he knew he had saved his friends. The lamenting notes represented in this tune by “We are in their hands, we are in their hands,” and the warning notes represented by “leave the cattle, leave the cattle,” are exceedingly touching, and Coll Kitto, when he heard the pibroch, at once knew that his advance party was in trouble, and that the piper wished him to keep away from the island. Accordingly he turned his birlins, that is, boats, and left for a less dangerous locality. The words, when translated, are far from having the power and beauty of the Gaelic, but they will serve to show somewhat how the old pipers were supposed to speak by their music to those who understood them:—

This was supposed to represent embarking quickly. A “baler” was a dish for throwing water out of the boat.

In this the piper hinted to his friends to call the Mac Donalds to their aid before attacking the Castle.

This was a warning to “avoid the strait,” and hasten to secure a landing place in the shelter of the Mull of Kintyre.

That is one version of the story. There are several others, all more or less similar. The tune is connected by tradition with two or three places in the Highlands, notably with two castles in Argyllshire—Duntroon, near Crinan (destroyed by fire in June, 1899), and, as already stated, with Dunivaig, in Islay. In 1647, another version of the story goes: Campbell of Calder was commissioned by Argyll to proceed against Mac Donald (Coll Kitto) and expel him from Islay, where he had taken up his residence with some followers. Mac Donald, it seems, was a sort of thorn in the flesh to Argyll, and continually troubled him. In this case Calder, assisted by several troops of Campbells and others, razed the Castle of Dunad, where Coll was, to the ground, but Mac Donald himself escaped to Dunivaig, where he was again besieged. Finding his forces too weak, he took boat by night to procure assistance from Kintyre or Ireland, leaving the castle in charge of his mother. Calder having discovered this, determined to increase his own strength, and retired for that purpose, leaving his troops under the lady of Dunstaffnage, a bold, masculine woman. While the male leaders were absent, the wooden pipe conveying water to the castle was discovered, and the supply cut off, with the result that Coll’s garrison surrendered. The night after, the piper, whose profession ensured respect, recognised his master’s boat coming back, and that he might apprise him of danger, he asked leave to play a piece of music he had composed on the misfortunes of the party. The request was granted, and he played:—

Coll Kitto at once recognised the warning, turned his boat, and escaped. The Lady of Dunstaffnage saw how she had been out-witted, and she made the piper play on the top of the highest hill in Islay tunes of the merriest kind, and then ordered his fingers to be cut off so that he might never play again. The hill is known to this day as “The Hill of the Bloody Hand.”

In pretty much the same way the story is associated with Duntroon Castle, only there are no women in it, so it is difficult to say which is correct. But it is plain enough that the incident itself is authentic, although it is doubtless exaggerated, and tradition is somewhat hazy as to the proper location.

“DUNTROON’S SALUTE.”

Another tune—“Duntroon’s Salute”—is mixed up with A Cholla mo run in a rather peculiar way, a way that suggests that the origin of the one is somehow being attributed to the other. Sir Alexander Mac Donald, Alister Mac Cholla Chiotaich, so this story goes, made a raid on Argyllshire in 1644 (the dates are irreconcilable with the accepted facts of the two stories), and surrounded Duntroon Castle, with the object of cutting off every person inside in revenge for the murder of his father’s piper. He himself, with a fleet of galleys, besieged the castle from the seaward side, and he ordered his piper to play the “Mac Donalds’ March.” Instead, however, the piper, on the spur of the moment, composed and played a war cry to alarm Duntroon. After saluting Duntroon and wishing him good health, he warned him of his danger, pointed out that the enemy were ready to attack him by sea and land, from right and left and front. The tune was understood on shore and also on board Mac Donald’s boat, and the poor piper was instantly hung from the yard-arm. Mac Donald finding he could not reduce Duntroon, moved northward, following out his work of destruction. The tune composed and played on this occasion is still known as “Duntroon’s Salute,” and that there is some truth in the story is shown by the way in which it seems to represent the sound of waves breaking against rocks. The exact relations between its origin and that of A Cholla mo run would, however, do with a little clearing up. It may be mentioned as a fact that some years ago a body was found buried within Duntroon, which was evidently that of the piper referred to in the tradition. At anyrate his finger bones were awanting, a fact which goes to prove the second Dunivaig story. But how, then, did the piper come to be buried in Duntroon?

dates so far back in the centuries that we fail to trace its origin. It has been the march of the clan for hundreds of years. There is an old Gaelic song sung to the air, which tradition says was the composition of a piper. This piper, in the course of his vocation, was at a wedding in Inveraray, where he was inhospitably treated. Smarting under a sense of injury, he composed the song:—

thus mercilessly lashing his churlish host. The wedding evidently was so poor that all the company got was limpets, and the song is another hit at the poverty of Inveraray. Burns echoed it when he wrote:—

The tradition, by the way, was so implicitly believed in, that the playing of the tune at a wedding, up to a comparatively recent date, was regarded as a premeditated insult.

One curious story is told of the tune. Not very many years ago the steamer Cygnet was sailing in a Highland loch when a sailor’s wife gave birth to twins. The fact was noticed more particularly because a few years before, in the same steamer, under the same captain, and at the same place, a similar event had taken place. On the first occasion the mother was a Mrs. Campbell, and, strangely enough, just when the twins were born, a piper on board happened to be playing vigorously “The Campbells are Coming,” quite ignorant of the additions that had just been made to the passenger list.

The tune was played by the 78th Highlanders when coming to the relief of Lucknow, and was that heard by Jessie of Lucknow—if there was such a person—as she lay half asleep on the ground.