Nought to me but a sting all her bright beauties bring—
I droop with decay, and I languish;
There’s a pain at my heart like a pitiless dart,
And I waste all away with anguish.
She has stolen the hue on my young cheeks that grew,
And much she has caused my sorrow;
Unless now she renew with her kindness that hue
Death will soon bid me “Good morrow.”

Death did soon bid poor Ross “good morrow” and in this song, like Michael Bruce, he sang his own elegy. How pathetically the poet cries in the prospect of death!—

If she were thus low, with what haste should I go
To ask how the maiden was faring:
Now short the delay till a mournful array
The brink of my grave will be bearing!

Ross is a poet of a high order, and one of the sweetest minstrels the Highlands have produced. Many of his songs are highly popular. The exquisite sweetness and finish of Ross appear in his praise of the “Highland Maid,” the first two stanzas of which are rendered as follows by Mr Angus Macphail, whose early death has been a loss to Gaelic literature:—

My pretty Highland maiden,
With tresses golden bright,
And blue eyes softly shading,
And soft hands snowy white;
O’er Scotland’s hills and plains
With thee I fain would go,
Wrapped in our native tartan plaids
That in the breezes flow.
Give me my Highland dress,
’Tis grand beyond compare;
Give me my Highland maid,
Sweet, smiling, young, and fair;
Then banish sleep and care,
From eve to rosy morn,
In happy love beneath our plaid,
The proudest dress that’s worn.

Ross is one of the best known and best loved of all the Gaelic bards. His career, so similar to that of Keats, ends so prematurely and pathetically that his memory has become engraven on the hearts of all who hear his story and love to sing his songs.

EWEN MACLACHLAN.

Ewen MacLachlan, a poet of real culture, sweetness, and light, was born in 1775, in Torracaltin, Coiruanan, where his ancestors, who originally came from Morven, were for several generations. His great-grandfather was a bard of note. He was educated first in the parish school of Fort-William, and afterwards in King’s College, Aberdeen. While carrying on his studies he was tutor successively in the family of Cameron of Camishy, in that of Cameron of Clunes, and in that of Macmillan of Glenpean. He distinguished himself highly at school and at the University, especially in classics. He intended to enter the Church, but on the eve of taking license some friends dissuaded him from taking the step, recommending him to wait, and aim at a professorial chair. Among these was the gentle author of “The Minstrel,” Professor Beattie, who thought much of MacLachlan, and became his fast friend. In 1798 MacLachlan published some of his own productions in Allan Dall’s volume, which he himself committed to writing for the Blind Bard. These were the “Songs of the Seasons,” etc., and several books of Homer’s Iliad translated into Gaelic heroic verse. In 1818 he published his “Metrical Effusions,” where Greek, Latin, English, and Gaelic poems appear. He was engaged by the Highland Society of Scotland to compile a Gaelic dictionary. For this work he was eminently qualified, being intimately acquainted with old Gaelic, as well as with Eastern and classical languages. He died before the work was finished, in 1822, in the 47th year of his age. When he died he was head master of the Grammar School of Old Aberdeen, a post for which his classical attainments peculiarly fitted him. A love-song by MacLachlan—Gur gile mo Leannan—is still among the most popular in the language. He himself has furnished us with an English equivalent, which will give a fair idea of the more tender qualities of his genius. These simple and pretty verses, usually sung to a plaintive air, come to us laden with the purity and freshness of the mountain breeze:—

Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore;
Not so white is the new milk that flows o’er the pail,
Or the snow that is show’r’d from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud’s yellow wreath on the mountain’s high brow,
The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display.
When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o’er the grove,
Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love;
Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
Like the moon, when the stars are bedimm’d with her blaze.
The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn;
But the mavis is tuneless—the lark strives in vain,
When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.
When summer bespangles the landscape with flow’rs,
While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowr’s,
Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I’ll rove,
And feast unrestrain’d on the smiles of my love.

MacLachlan counted a number of distinguished men among his friends—among others, Alexander, Duke of Gordon; the late Glengarry, Sir John Sinclair, Dr Gregory, and Lord Bannatyne Macleod. His funeral was attended by the Professors of the University and Magistrates of the city to show their respect. His remains were removed to his native Lochaber for burial. On the way to the burial place at Killievaodain in Ardgour the hearse was met and accompanied to the last resting-place by Glengarry and a number of his clansmen dressed in their native garb. Few of MacLachlan’s talents and culture in modern times have devoted their energies to the cultivation of Gaelic literature. There is a reason: the practical spirit of the nineteenth century has, perhaps desirably, cooled even the enthusiasm of bardic natures.

JOHN MACLEAN.

Among the bards of some note who flourished in the first quarter of this century is John MacLean, usually styled the Laird of Coll’s Bard. He is one of the last of the order of family bards, or senachies. But the office in his case does not appear to have been of much advantage to himself—it was more honourable and ornamental than remunerative. MacLean was born in the Island of Tiree in 1787. As an instance of the tenacity with which Highlanders cleave to the traditional pedigrees of their families, it maybe mentioned that he traced himself back through the MacLeans of Treisinnis, of Ardgour, and of Duart to the great Hector Roy of the Battles, who was killed at Harlaw in 1411. But this is a small claim as compared with that advanced by a Dublin schoolmaster, John O’Hart, who, in a pamphlet dedicated to her Majesty Queen Victoria, whom he regards somewhat as a fellow-sovereign, pretends to trace his pedigree to the mighty monarchs of Eire who once reigned in “Tara’s Hall!” MacLean published a collection of poetry, most of the pieces being his own composition, in 1818; another volume of his own poems appeared at Antigonish in 1836. His works complete have since been issued in excellent style under the title of “Clàrsach na Coille” (Harp of the Wood), edited with intelligence and care by the Rev. A. M. Sinclair of Nova Scotia, whose Gaelic scholarship and enthusiasm are well known on this side of the Atlantic. It is said that “in the poet’s younger days the people of Tiree led merry lives; they did not trouble themselves with hard work; they had, however, plenty to eat and drink. The island was full of distilleries, and whisky-drinking was carried on to a very great extent. There were capital dancers in the place, and certainly these men did not allow their legs to become stiff through want of exercise upon the floor.” This picture of island-life suggests the material which was frequently the source of inspiration to bardic lucubrations. After learning the trade of shoemaking, MacLean started for Glasgow, where he married. In 1810 he was drafted into the militia, but was discharged next year. In 1819 he emigrated to Nova Scotia, where he lived till the year 1848, much respected and appreciated by all his countrymen who knew him. It appears that MacLean has composed religious poetry, though little known—some of his hymns being printed in Glasgow in 1835. Here is an account of this side of his nature: “It was not till he had been several years in Barney’s River that he turned his attention to this species of composition. His hard lot in this world no doubt tended to direct his attention to a better world. He had always led a good moral life—a more truthful or a more honest could not be found. He had always observed the worship of God regularly in his family.” MacLean is a bard of considerable powers, but cannot be compared with the bards whose names are known wherever the Gaelic language is spoken. One song of his has been highly popular, mainly because of the sweet air that is attached to it. The following verses will show the manner of the song, Och a rùin gur tu air m’aire:—

Each day I sigh here a lonely stranger,
I cannot sing with my heart love-laden;
I was right foolish to give my promise
To her of Canna, the youthful maiden.
It was with gladness I left the island,
Home of my childhood and my devotion,
To seek the gold here that may be found not
In those bare islands amid the ocean.
How proud and happy I was with Allan
Beginning work in the gray of morning;
’Twere better far to be there than labour
A lonely stranger ’neath Lowland scorning.
I would not stay in my native island,
To my ambition the land was narrow;
When Lowland lasses inquire in English,
I say in Gaelic, “I came from Barra.”

This song is so painfully simple and commonplace, notwithstanding its popularity, that it can scarcely bear translation at all, unless the translator is permitted to introduce some of the stock sentiment and phraseology of the muse. One of MacLean’s best pieces is on the Laird of Coll’s Boat. Another of more than average merit was written shortly after his arrival in Nova Scotia. It shows the bard ill at ease in his new surroundings in the Coille Ghruamach, or Gloomy Wood. It opens thus:—

I stray alone in these woods of shadows,
My thoughts are restless, I feel in pain;
This place conflicts with the laws of nature,
My strength forsakes me in heart and brain.
I cannot sing the old songs of Albin,
My bosom saddens to hear their strain;
My Gaelic dies since I speak no longer
That tongue still cherished beyond the main.
Alas! small wonder although I sorrow
Behind the hills in this gloomy wood,
In this lone desert by Barney’s River,
With bare potatoes alone for food.
Ere cultivation is seen rejoicing
O’er all the land and the trees are cleared,
My strength will fail in an arm exhausted
While yet the children are left unreared.

MacLean is one of the last of the old order of bards. His poetry shows little or no trace of English reading; and the theme of the majority of his poems is the praise of the Laird of Coll or some kindred chieftain. Very appropriately might the happy couplet of Sir Walter Scott describing the old and infirm minstrels of other days be applied to MacLean—

“A simple race! they waste their toil,
For the vain tribute of a smile.”

It ought to be mentioned, however, that the Laird of Coll showed on more than one occasion that he did not forget his enthusiastic senachie.

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