Five times he dashed on my buckler;
Five times I hurled him back,
Ere I struck him down on the greensward,—
Cormac in conflict not slack.
I swept the head from his shoulders,
And held it up in my hand;
His troops they fled, and we came with joy
To Fingal’s mountain land.

Oscar, the peerless son of Ossian, and the favourite grandson of Finn, is one of the bravest and finest characters among the Fingalians, and his early death greatly affected the hilarity of that happy band of heroes and hunters. The following verses from Gillies’s collection record, instructions and precepts which were inculcated by his royal grandfather; (my own translation):—

“Son of my son,” said the King,
Oscar, thou young prince of might,
When watching thy glittering blade, ’twas my pride
To see thee triumph in the fight.
Cleave thou fast to thy fathers’ fame,
And keep unsoiled their honoured name.
When Treunmor the prosperous lived,
And Trahal, great warriors’ sire,
They were victors on every field,
Winning fame in the conflict dire.
Their names shall flourish in story and verse,
Which the bards hereafter shall rehearse.
Oh! Oscar, spare not the armed hero,
But the needy and feeble sustain;
Like the spring-tide stream rushing in winter
Attacking the foes of the Féinn;
But gentle as summer’s breathing wind—
To all that seek thy succour kind.
Such was the victor Treunmor,
And after him Trahal the brave;
And Finn, too, befriended the weak
From the power of the tyrant to save.
I would meet him with welcome hand,
And shield him beneath my brand.

These are indeed noble sentiments and precepts from a semi-barbarian monarch such as Finn is supposed to have been. It may fairly be questioned whether this is not one of the more recent productions. One line, “’na aobhar shininn mo lamh”—in his cause, &c., reminds us of Christian conceptions. Such a word as aobhar, cause, does not, so far as I am aware, occur in the purely heathen poems.

The ballads on the deaths of Diarmad and of Oscar are among the best, and have been great favourites with popular reciters. The Lay of Diarmad seems to have given names to many places in Scotland and Ireland. The names of the heroes of the Féinn in general we find embedded in the nomenclature of the soil, especially the name of Finn, their great leader. This is evidence of the early era in which they lived, as well as of the affection with which the people cherished their memories. The death of Oscar is a very long ballad. What follows is a free rendering of upwards of the first half:—

The feast was over and the morn
Shed round its brilliant blaze;
The halls of Cairber gleamed afar
Beneath the sheen of rays;
The light within lit up the face
Of heroes stout and tall,
Who started early to their feet
To leave that ancient hall.
Brown Oscar from the Albin shore
Was there among the rest—
Of beauteous form and boldest eye
He stood in might confessed.
“But ere we part,” red Cairber said,
In accents rude and strange,
“Brown Oscar, come from Albin land,
Our spear-shafts we exchange.”
“Why so exchange,” young Oscar said,
With calmly moving lips,
“Thou red-haired Cairber, why exchange,
Chief of the port of ships?”
“Not much for me—not much for me,”
The frowning Cairber said,
“Though every warrior in your isles
To me a tribute paid.”
“Whatever, Cairber, thou shouldst ask
Of gold or precious thing,
All that without disgrace might be
Asked by a manly King,
“Were thine at once; but this exchange
Of shafts without the heads,
With ruthless scorn tears all the garb
Of kindness into shreds.
“Hadst thou not known, thou coward prince,
That Fingal is not by,
Thou hadst not dared to speak such words,—
Less loud would be thy cry.”
“Though Fingal and thy father both
Were here, with sword in hand,
I would have asked, and I should have,
All that I now demand.”
“If Fingal and my father both
Were here, with sword in hand,
Thou wouldst not, if they chose, retain
One foot of Erin land.”
“I make a vow,” quoth Cairber Red,
“Away to drive the deer
From Albin’s sea-girt hills, and bring
The spoil to Erin here.”
“I make a vow—a vow ’gainst that,”
Quoth Oscar. “With this spear
I’ll drive thee back from Albin’s hills
To Erin mount and mere.”
Then Cairber roared, “I make a vow;
This spear of might possessed,
Ere that, fair Oscar, thou shalt see,
I’ll plant beneath thy breast.”
“A vow! a vow!” cried Oscar fierce,
“Ere that shall happen me,
Red Cairber! in thy forehead proud
This spear shall planted be!”
Cold fear and rage alternately
The other warriors shook,
When they had heard the dreadful vows
Both heroes undertook.
They saw fierce gloom was gathering
On Cairber’s knitted brows;
They marked how like the breaking storm
The wrath of Oscar rose.
’Twas then a bard upon his harp,
Gentle as evening’s breath,
Poured forth the numbers that presage
A mighty hero’s death.
Then Oscar seized with rage his arms,
And cast a glance around,
To see where stood his Albin chiefs—
The few that there were found.
Great was the host of Cairber there;
But Oscar’s friends were few,
Still they were brave and undismayed,
And well their arms they knew.
The strife began. We heard the shouts
That came to us afar,
And all the din of deadly clash
From the dread scene of war.
Then up we rose and hastened
To join the widespread fight;
Each joined the battle as he reached
With furious delight.
The bitter struggle lasted long,
And many fell in death;
Our smaller force still smaller grew
On that dark fatal heath.
Though Oscar’s sword—his friends oppressed—
Was failing in its might,
We saw him struggling fiercely on
Amid the woful fight,
Like a hawk darting on the birds
That scattered in their flight!
His course was like the rushing roll
Of surges with their roar
When winter storms have poured their force
Upon the suffering shore.
The Sunbeam of the battle rose—
Finn’s standard we did know—
Then slowly backward, foot by foot,
Retired the treacherous foe—
Scattered like sheep, and fall’n like leaves:
The wild pursuit rolled on;
And on that field of dread were we
In silence left alone.
And there lay Oscar bleeding much
Upon the mournful plain;
And every living Finian there
Had friends among the slain.

The bard Fergus is asked to relate to Finn how the Féinn fared in the conflict. In this part I follow a literal rendering of MacLauchlan’s, modified by Morley:—

“Say, Bard of the Féinn of Erin,
How fared the fight, Fergus, my son,
In Gabhra’s fierce battle-day? say!”
“The fight fared not well, son of Cumhal,
From Gabhra come tidings of ruin,
For Oscar the fearless is slain.
The sons of Cailte were seven;
They fell with the Féinn of Alvin.
The youth of the Féinn are fallen,
Are dead in their battle array.
And dead on the field lies MacLuy,
With six of the sons of thy sire.
The young men of Alvin are fallen;
The Féinn of Britain are fallen.
And dead is the king’s son of Lochlin,
Who hastened to war for our right—
The king’s son with a heart ever open,
And arm ever strong in the fight.”
“Now, O Bard—my son’s son, my desire,
My Oscar of him, Fergus, tell
How he hewed at the helms ere he fell.”
“Hard were it Finn to number,
Heavy for me were the labour,
To tell of the host that has fallen,
Slain by the valour of Oscar.
No rush of the waterfall swifter,
No pounce of the hawk on his prey,
No whirlpool more sweeping and deadly,
Than Oscar in battle that day.
And you who last saw him could see
How he throbbed in the roar of the fray,
As a storm-worried leaf on the tree
Whose fellows lie fallen below,
As an aspen will quiver and sway
While the axe deals it blow upon blow.
When he saw that MacArt, King of Erin,
Still lived in the midst of the roar,
Oscar gathered his force to roll on him
As waves roll to break on the shore.
The king’s son, Cairber, saw the danger,
He shook his great hungering spear,
Grief of Griefs! drove its point through our Oscar,
Who braved the death-stroke without fear.
Rushing still on MacArt, King of Erin,
His weight on his weapon he threw,
And smote at MacArt, and again smote
Cairber, whom that second blow slew.
So died Oscar, a king in his glory.
I, Fergus the bard, grieve my way
Through all lands, saying how went the story
Of Gabhra’s fierce battle-day.” “Say!”

I take the following lines of the close of this grand ballad from Pattison’s blank-verse translation. Finn was beside his grandson before he breathed his last. Oscar heard the great king’s wailing cry, and looking round on all he sighed and said, “Farewell! I shall return no more.” Finn, who never wept before in sight of man but once, when Bran died, strode a pace away and wept. But—

Then Finn came back; and, standing near my side,
He bent again o’er Oscar, while he said:—
“The mournful howlings of the dogs distress me—
The groanings of the heroes old and grey—
The people’s wailing and their blank despair.
O son! that I had fallen in thy stead,
In the dire battle with thy treacherous foes,
And thou hadst loved to be a chief and leader,
And bring the Finians east and west with joy!
O Oscar! thou wilt never rise again!
O’er thee, my old heart, like an elk, is leaping!
Thou wilt return, thou wilt return no more!
’Twas rightly said, ‘I shall return no more!’”

These are some of the scenes of the great battle of Gabhra, the Temora of Macpherson, fought about the year 284 A.D.

Strong-minded ladies in these days clamour for women’s rights; but if men are wise they will, before conceding these, consider what use was made by women in the early days of Finian chivalry of the rights which they then enjoyed. In these Islands in ancient days the gentler sex appears to have possessed some extraordinary powers and to have exercised terrible privileges which were sometimes abused. If a lady put Geasan (obligation) on a knight or chief there was no escape from the execution of her wishes. He had to obey her, however unreasonable the request might be. Thus when the great Finn himself was in the earlier stages of his barbarian youth, before he became the celebrated General of the Féinn, and when he had no better raiment than the skins of the animals he slew for food, he came across one fine morning a grand assemblage of ladies resting on one bank of a great chasm, and a party of gentlemen on the other. One of the former, a proud Princess, insisted in her lover’s case that he should clear that chasm before she gave him her hand; but the poor fellow kept clapping his arms round his body till he could screw his courage to the springing point. Finn understood the conditions, and observed the unfortunate fellow’s predicament, and modestly asked if she would take himself for her wedded lord on his accomplishing the task. She replied that he looked a personable enough man, though marvellously ill clad, and that if he succeeded she would give him the privilege. Finn did succeed, but she laid Geasa on him that he should accomplish the same task every year. This was not the only one that laid Geasa on Finn. Another fair tyrant insisted on his leaping over a dallan as high as his chin, with a similar pillar-stone of the same dimensions borne upward on the palm of his hand. In after days he acknowledged in confidence to his father-in-law, that this was the most difficult feat he had ever performed, and few indeed would be disposed to doubt his assertion. On one occasion Finn nearly failed in one of these exploits; the cause of his failure was thought to be his meeting a red-haired woman on the road, and that it was a Friday morning. It is evident that these Gaelic princesses were a little too exacting, and that it would not do for every one to undertake satisfying their somewhat unreasonable demands. That the laying on of Geasa was attended at times with much discomfort and danger is illustrated in the history of the beautiful but unfortunate Diarmad MacDoon.

Diarmad appears to have possessed one fatal gift—the ball-seirce—that of kindling love in all the women he met. It is said that there was a spot of beauty on his forehead which captivated all the ladies that saw him. He was the nephew of the king; and full proud was Finn at times of the deeds of valour which his sister’s son had achieved. He was generally described as the young, the beautiful, the brown-haired Diarmad. He was as brave and gallant as he was handsome, and a universal favourite among the Féinn. But he was soon to come under the influence of the inexorable Geasa which decided “the woful fate of MacDoon.” At the wedding feast of Finn and Gràine, the daughter of King Cormac, the bride lays Geasa on Diarmad to carry her off; and though this was highly repugnant to his loyal feeling, and in direct contravention to his military oath, as well as against his personal interests, he was obliged to comply. With what result the well known ballad, called “The Lay of Diarmad,” describes. There are many versions of this ballad; the one translated here is that found in “The Book of the Dean of Lismore.” It is here entitled “Bàs Dhiarmaid;” or, “The Death of Diarmad. “A houdir so Allane M’Royree,” or “The Author of this is Allan M’Rorie,” is prefixed. MacRorie was probably a mere reciter. The ballad begins thus:—

Here is Glen-Shee of the elk and deer,
Where we hear the sweetest sounds!
Where oft on its strath the Féinn
Have hunted with eager hounds.
On the fair brows of blue Ben-Gulbin
The sun its bright rays has shed,
Where Finn oft pursued the chase,
And the streamlets ran down blood-red.
Come, harken a little; I sing
Of one of these heroes great—
Of Ben-Gulbin and generous Finn;
Of Diarmad’s sorrowful fate.

In other versions the name of Gràine and her elopement with Diarmad are introduced here, as well as some sharp colloquy between the latter and Finn.

Mournful was Finn on that day
That the fair ruddy Diarmad died,
When he followed the terrible boar
That yet had all spears defied.
’Twas left to bright-armed MacDoon
To meet with the dreaded boar;
It was Fingal’s deceitful plan
That the others should flee it before.
Few were beloved like him—
MacDoon of that lovely band!
By beautiful women bewailed
As he lay with his spear in hand.
Bravely he roused the boar
On the hillside where it had lain—
The old boar of the sweet Glen-Shee,
The fiercest that ever was slain.
There Finn of the ruddiest hue sat down
’Neath Ben-Gulbin’s grassy side;
Whence issued the boar for the woodland;
Oh, the ill that did there betide!
’Twas the clank of the Finian arms,
And the echoing shout of the men,
That wakened the slumbering monster:
Before them he rushed down the glen.
He attempted to distance the heroes—
The old boar of the bristling hide—
Which the spear and the shaft of the quiver
Of the hunter so often defied.

In another version Finn is here represented as saying to Diarmad—“Son of Doon, dost thou wish to win honour?”—thus the king spoke wrathfully; and added—“Slay that boar by thyself, thou gay victor, which the heroes so long has defied.” Diarmad attempts the task.

Then MacDoon of the keen-edged arms
Comes up with the monster fierce,
With his strong poisoned spear he tried
The side of the boar to pierce.
But his spear broke—shivered in three—
On that tough and bristling hide;
With his warm and blood-red hand
That spear he vainly plied.
Then from its sheath he drew
His blade of renown—thin-leaved;
And with it MacDoon slew the monster
While no hurt he himself received.

Finn is greatly disappointed at Diarmad’s success. He evidently calculated that in his struggle with the boar alone his nephew would receive his death-hurt. This was not the case, and—

Then Finn of the Féinn grew sad,
And sat on the side of the hill;
It grieved him that brave MacDoon
Escaped without wound or ill.

From the first Finn cannot be said to have adopted a very magnanimous plan for punishing his nephew; but jealousy being cruel as the grave, he has formed now a cruel expedient for compassing his death:—

After long silence he spoke—
These evil words spoke he—
“Diarmad, measure the boar from the snout,
Tell how many feet long he be.”
Finn he had never refused—
Alas! him no more we meet—
He measures the back of the boar—
MacDoon of the lightsome feet.

In the other versions it is told that Diarmad’s feet were bare, and that the length of the boar was sixteen feet. Finn denied that he was so long, and insisted on a second measuring.

“Diarmad, measure with care again,
The boar against the hair;”
Mournful it was to see
That deed of the hero fair.
He went on that errand sad,
And measured the boar again;
But he trod on a poisonous bristle,
And he felt in his heel a pain.
The hero fell on the field—
MacDoon that had no deceit;
He lay there beside the boar:—
Now, there is the tale complete.

At this part of the relation another version adds that Diarmad, in asking several times for a drink at the hand of Finn, rehearsed how he served him “eastward and westward.” But the king replied that the ill he had done him in one hour outweighed all the good exploits he could tell. “Thou shalt yet get no drink from my shell.” Diarmad then addresses a melancholy farewell to Ben-Gulbin, the hill of his love, and to courtship. He keenly feels his sorrowful plight as his life-blood is ebbing away; and true to his character his last thoughts are, as he dies, of “the maids of the Féinn.” Finn then relents, and pronounces a regretful eulogy over the dead body of Diarmad. In the Dean’s version it is the bard himself that pronounces the praise of the dead, in verses which describe his person and character:—

Pierced to the heart he lies,
MacDoon in the battle brave,
The suffering son of the Féinn;
On this hillock I see his grave.
The blue-eyed hawk of Essroy,
The victor in every fight,
Pierced by the poisonous bristle—
There he lies on the height!
By the jealous design of Finn
Fell the bright-souled MacDoon
Redder his lips than the cherry,
Whiter his breast than the sun.
His tresses flowed golden yellow;
Long eyelash ’neath brow so fair;
Blue and gray in his eye;
Pretty and curled his hair.
Gentle and sweet in his speech
Was that champion clothed with might;
With elegant hands and a faultless form,
And a skin of purest white.
Fair winner of women’s love,
MacDoon of the witching eyes;
In courtship he’ll ne’er engage,
For there ’neath the sod he lies.
Nor with steed nor with hunter shall Diarmad
Go forth for the chase again;
The loved son of beauty and valour
Is left there, alas, in the Glen!

The Death of Diarmad, like the Death of Oscar, has been a great favourite with reciters. But believers in the authenticity of Macpherson’s “Ossian” regard the former as inferior poetry. The author of the version translated above, Allan Macrorie, lived probably in the thirteenth or fourteenth century. Glen-Shee, mentioned in the poem, is a well-known locality in Perthshire, and Ben-Gulbin is a hill in Glen-Shee. But this is not the only place that is said to be the scene of the slaying of the boar and of Diarmad’s death. The district around West Loch Tarbert, Kintyre, also affords topographical indications of the famous hunt having taken place there. Nor can the claims of our friends, the Irish, be forgotten; they also have their Sliabh Gulbin.

When some of the ballads are described as Ossianic it is not to be understood that they were composed at the time that Ossian is supposed to have lived, but that the theme is Ossianic. Of this class is a eulogistic poem on Finn in the Book of the Dean of Lismore. Although written nearly 400 years ago it has yet a modern ring about it as compared with many of the other ballads. The earlier versions of these Ossianic ballads were composed probably in Pagan times, but as the Pagan reciters of them were dying off, the minstrels nominally Christian would take their place, and adapt the old ballads to the new state of things. The elder productions would be undergoing continual transformations in the hands of every new class of reciters. While the theme is the same, sometimes the versions are so different that no single verse in the one can be found in the other. It is in this manner that their chronology becomes a puzzle. Anachronisms abound. Ossian, who flourished upwards of two hundred years before, is introduced by the Christian and post-Ossianic reciters as holding converse with St. Patrick.

“Actor hujus Ossane M’Finn;” or The Author of this is Ossian, the Son of Finn, is prefixed to the poem of which I am now to give a translation. In the course of the ages, Ossian has had to accept the paternity of many productions; but people took this as a matter of course until the appearance of the celebrated works of James Macpherson 250 years after Sir James Macgregor prefixed Ossian’s name to this poem. The poetry of this piece is not of a very high order, but is interesting as giving the popular conceptions regarding Finn 400 years ago. It was probably composed by an ecclesiastic, the number of which class at the time in the Highlands was considerable. It begins thus:—

For twice three days and one great Finn I did not see;
And ne’er before a week such sorrow brought to me.
The son of Teigi’s daughter, king of deeds and might,
My teacher and my strength, my guidance and my light.
Both poet he and chief, a king my love commands;
Finn, monarch of the Féinn, the lord of many lands.
Leviathan at sea, a lion on the shore,
Keen as the air-borne hawk, and wise in art and lore;
He’s courteous and just, a ruler firm and true,
Full polished in his ways, deceit he never knew.
A lofty chief is he in song and in the fight,
Resistless to the foe, to friends their fame and might.
His skin is like the chalk, his cheek is like the rose,
His eye transparent blue, his hair like gold down flows.
The trust of all his men, with every charm of mind,
Prepared for worthy deed, to women meek and kind.
Great champion was he, loved son of field and flood,
The brightness of the blades, the tree above each wood.
Full generous was the king—good and rich wine he poured
From the large green-hued bottle on the festive board.

We never read in the older ballads of such non-primitive things as bottles. Am botul mor glas, which the liberal Finn would place on the table, must have belonged to the fifteenth century. The good qualities of Finn are not yet exhausted.

Of noble mind and form and of a winning mien—
His people’s Head—he walked with step so firm, serene.
In Banva of the hills the fame of war he sought;
There battles twice fifteen the royal Fingal fought.
Assistance for the weak MacCuhail ne’er withheld,
In heart and on his lips no falsehood ever dwelled.
Finn never grudged his aid, his people ne’er oppressed—
The King above all kings, the sun above the rest.
In Erin of the saints before his mighty hand
The monsters left the lakes, the serpents fled the land.
I never could declare, though mine were endless days,
I ne’er could tell one-third of his good deeds and praise.

It is rather curious to find the stereotyped “Erin of the Saints,” in a composition of the fifteenth century. While suggesting the ecclesiastical character of the author, it does not prove that he was a very zealous “saint” himself; for we find that he quietly ascribes to Finn exploits which the Irish ecclesiastical world has all along attributed to St. Patrick. “He cleared the lakes of monsters and the land of serpents.” As usual, Ossian himself is described as an deigh na Féinne:—

But sad am I, and Finn of the brave Fianna dead;
With him, the princely chief, my pride and joy have fled.
Well may my tears outpour, for no delight survives
The princes and the chiefs and all their royal wives.
I lean on death’s cold arm—I’m like the shaking reed;
I’m like an empty nut—I seem a reinless steed.
A feeble kern am I, with sorrow sore within—
Ev’n Ossian I, the bard, the son of noble Finn.

In his forlorn state the bard now remembers the house and court of Finn, his royal father:—

Since Finn now reigns no more, all that I owned is gone—
His house had seven sides—the house of Cuhal’s son;
And seven score of shields did hang on every side;
There fifty robes of wool had been the king beside—
Fifty warriors filled the robes, who were the royal pride.
There were ten bowls full bright for drink, where Finn did dine,
Ten horns of gold, and ten blue flagons of good wine.
How goodly was that house! how grand the home of Finn!
Mean grudging hands, false lustful hearts, there ne’er had been.
Each man had equal rights among the mighty Féinn;
To emulate the King his followers were fain.
He was our chief renowned so far, so nobly good,
Who never to the meanest man was proud or rude.
None empty left his house, good, generous was he;
No gifts were e’er like his—gifts scattered wide and free.

In Cnoc-an-air, an Irish poem, there is a description of the treasures of the Finians, which were said to have been hidden under Loch Lene (Killarney), that reminds us of the robes of wool in Finn’s house. The Irishman and the Highlander got the conception probably from the same source:—

This is the lake—the fiercest to be seen,
That is under the sun truly;
Many treasures belonging to the Fians,
Are in it doubtless secured this night.
There are in the northern side
Fifty blue-green coats of mail;
There are in the western side
Fifty helmets in one pile!

And hundreds of swords, “broad” and “glittering,” and shields, and gold and raiment in plenty. The Scottish author, perhaps because his ideas were cast in a more ancient mould, was somewhat more modest in his description of Finian wealth.

THE NORSE BALLADS.

The Norse ballads constitute another class. The wars between the Féinn and the Lochlins are the theme of many of the ancient Ossianic ballads. It is impossible to say exactly to what age they severally belong. The Vikings, or sea-rovers, began their visits to the Western Isles and Ireland as early as the first century, and continued these visits for more than a thousand years. The name Viking has no connection with King being derived from vic, a bay—vicing, baysman—as Mr Robertson has clearly shown. The erroneous translation sea-kings has been used by several writers. It is the same word as the Gaelic Uig, the name of places on the west sides of Skye and Lewis. In English it assumes the form of Wick—Innerwick. It also means a bay or creek in Gaelic, as found in the words of a poet, “uigean saile.” In 794 the Western Isles were ravaged and Iona destroyed. The monastery of Iona was burnt in 802 by these Vikings; and in 806 the family of Iona, sixty-eight in number, were slain. The abbot of Iona then retired to Kells, Ireland, and Iona ceased to be the centre of Gaelic learning, while all relics of Gaelic culture were removed to Dunkeld and other places.

The Gaelic people of Albin and Erin call the Danes and the Vikings Lochlins. The Vikings were originally half Celtic, if not altogether a Celtic race. Indeed the substrata of many of the Germanic tribes were originally Celtic.

The following ballad probably relates to the wars of the eleventh century:—

THE FINIAN BANNERS.

The Norland King stood on the height
And scanned the rolling sea;
He proudly eyed his gallant ships
That rode triumphantly.
And then he looked where lay his camp,
Along the rocky coast,
And where were seen the heroes brave
Of Lochlin’s famous host.
Then to the land he turn’d, and there
A fierce-like hero came;
Above him was a flag of gold,
That waved and shone like flame.
“Sweet Bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,
“What banner comes in sight?
The valiant chief that leads the host,
Who is that man of might?”
“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon
His is that banner bright;
When forth the Féinn to battle go,
He’s foremost in the fight.”
“Sweet bard, another comes; I see
A blood-red banner toss’d
Above a mighty hero’s head
Who waves it o’er a host?”
“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongs
To good and valiant Rayne;
Beneath it feet are bathed in blood
And heads are cleft in twain.”
“Sweet bard, what banner now I see
A leader fierce and strong
Behind it moves with heroes brave
Who furious round him throng?”
“That is the banner of Great Gaul:
That silken shred of gold,
Is first to march and last to turn,
And flight ne’er stained its fold.”
“Sweet bard, another now I see,
High o’er a host it glows,
Tell whether it has ever shone
O’er fields of slaughtered foes?”
“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,
“It proudly peers in sight;
It won its fame on many a field
In fierce and bloody fight.”
“Sweet bard, another still I see;
A host it flutters o’er;
Like bird above the roaring surge
That laves the storm-swept shore.”
“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,
“Young Oscar’s banner, see:
Amidst the conflict of dread chiefs
The proudest name has he.”
The banner of great Finn we raised;
The Sunbeam gleaming far,
With golden spangles of renown
From many a field of war.
The flag was fastened to its staff
With nine strong chains of gold.
With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;
Before it foes oft rolled.
“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Finn;
“And show your deeds of might
To Lochlin as you did before
In many a gory fight.”
Like torrents from the mountain heights
That roll resistless on;
So down upon the foe we rushed,
And brilliant victory won.

The above set of verses occur in several ballads with considerable variations. It was a sort of national war-song among the Finian leaders in their frequent conflicts with the Norwegians. In the translation several verses are taken from different sources.

Heroic daring and deeds are ascribed by the bard to each of the warrior-chieftains. Brown Diarmad MacDoon is foremost in the fight; the valiant Rayne leaves cloven heads behind him; great Gaul is ever the first to fight, and never turns his back on the foe; Cailte has won his fame on many a field; Oscar bears the proudest name of all the chiefs; and, finally, Finn himself comes before us, his banner, Deo-greine (Sunbeam), gleaming with its spangles of fame over that heroic band, whom he now invites to sweep down on the Lochlins.

The specimens now given of the ancient ballad poetry of the Gael will be sufficient to indicate its character and style. It only remains now to mention in connection with the heroic ballads the names of a few more of the better known ones.

There is a very fine ballad on the death of Dearg or Dargo. Others are the Expeditions or Imeachd of Finn, of Naoinear, or Nine, &c., and the Great Distress of the Fingalians—Teantachd Mor na Féinne. A Norwegian Hag is the theme of a good deal of composition, while the Invasion of Magnus or Manus is a ballad of considerable length and interest. This was probably the celebrated Magnus Barefoot, so well-known in the Hebrides, and throughout the north-west. From the Orkneys to the Isle of Man and Ireland, along the west coast of Scotland, the Lochlins traversed the seas for centuries and held rule; and well did they and the Highlanders know one another.