Chapter II: Part 2

The Lady then spoke, and said to the beggar, “Will you take the boat there if you get the command of it?” He said he would, and she gave orders to let him have the command. He sat at the helm and told them to shorten sail, and make everything taut, and now, the boat did not take in a thimbleful of water. They made for Tiree, and the place come to was the lower part of Hynish, at the furthest extremity of the island. The first place of shelter which the beggar saw, he let the boat in there. The little cove is still known as the Port of the Galley (_Port-na-Birlinn_) on the south side of _Barradhu_ where the present dwellings belonging to the Skerryvore Lighthouse are. The company landed safely, and on parting the Lady of Dowart told the beggar man to come to see her at Island House, where the residence of the Dowart family was at that time, and which is still the proprietory residence of the island. The name Island House is derived from its present site having been formerly surrounded by the water of the fresh-water lake near it. It communicated with the rest of the island by means of a draw-bridge, but there being now no necessity for this safeguard the space between the house and the shore has been filled up, and the moated grange has become like ordinary dwelling houses. The stranger wandered about for some time, and then went to the Island House and was kindly received. After a day or two, he thought it would be better to get a house for himself, and the Lady of Dowart said that she would give him any place that he himself would fix upon. Apparently the island was not much tenanted then, and according to the custom of the time, he got a horse with a pack-saddle on, and on the ridge of the saddle (_cairb na srathrach_), he put the upper and lower stones of a quern (_bràthuinn_), one on each side of the horse, secured by a straw, or sea-bent rope, and wherever the rope broke it was lucky to build the house there. The beggar-man’s quern fell at Sunny Spot (_Grianal_), now better known as Greenhill. He built a bothy there, and a woman came to keep house for him. By her he had a son, whom he would not acknowledge. When the child was able to take care of itself she went again to him with it that she might be free. He still refused to receive the child and told her to avoid him. She then thought as she had heard from him before where he came from, that she would go with her son to his relatives in Ireland. When she arrived there the child’s grandfather received her very kindly. She stayed with him till her son had grown to manhood (_gus an robh e ’na làn duine_). As she was about to return the grandfather said to his grandson, “Which do you now prefer, to follow your mother, or stay with me?” The lad said he would rather follow his mother, and risk his fortune along with her. They came back to Tiree again, and the son would give no rest till they went to see his father. When they reached the bothy the mother said “you will surely receive your son to-day though you would not acknowledge him before.” But he would not any more than at first. His son then took hold of him, and putting his knee on his breast, said, “before you rise from there you will own me as your lawful son, and my mother as your married wife.” He did this and was set free. They then lived together and built a house, and houses, and increased in stock of cattle. One wild evening in spring, when they were folding the cattle, they observed a stout looking man of mean appearance coming from Kilkenneth, still a township in that part of the island, and making straight for the house.

“I never saw a bigger man than that beggar,” said the son.

“He is big,” the father said, “I well know what man it is; he is coming after me, and I will lose my life this night, I killed his brother, but it was not my fault, for if I had not killed him, he would have killed me.”

“Perhaps you will not lose your life to-night yet,” said the son, “be kind to him, and when he has warmed himself, ask him to go out with us to kill a cow, for the night is cold.”

The stranger came in and was made welcome. The old man then said since there was a stranger, and the night chilly, they better take a cow and kill it. They went out and brought in the cow. The young man said to the stranger, “Which would you rather, take the axe, or hold the cow’s horn?” (_Co dhiu b’ fhearr leis an tuath na ’n adharc_). The stranger chose to hold the horn, and the blow by which the beast was felled was so sudden and unexpected that the stranger fell with it. The youth immediately fell upon him and kept him down, saying, “You will only have what you can do for yourself, till you tell why you came here to-night (_Cha bhi agad ach na bheir thu g’ a chionn gus an aidich thu ’de thug so an nochd thu_). He told word for word how he came to avenge his brother’s death. (_Dh’ innis e facal air an fhacal mar thainig e thoirt mach éirig a bhràthair_).

“You will not leave this alive” said the young man, “until you promise not to molest my father while you remain in the country.” The stranger vowed, if released he would not offend anyone. He was allowed to remain and they passed the night cheerfully and peacefully (_gu sona sàmhach_). The stranger returned the way he came. The father and son then settled together, and are said according to tradition, to have been the first Browns in Tiree.

Another version of the story is, that the first settler in Greenhill was a Campbell, and that he was the maker of those underground dwellings (_tighean falaich_) which still exist on that farm; curious habitations, which are unlike any building now in use, and worthy of closer examination by antiquarians. It is said that there are buildings with similar entrances exposed by sand blowing and covered with a great depth of earth in Tra-vi at the distance of two miles or more further south.

There is a precipice on the west side of Kenavara hill called Mac-a-Bhriuthainn’s leap (_Leum Mhic-a-bhriuthainn_) which one of this sept of Browns is said to have jumped across backwards, and which no one has since jumped either backwards or forwards. The one who took the jump is said to have been chased by a wild ox, which pushed him over the hill, and if he had not been a man of steady eye and limb, the fall would have ended in sure destruction. The place where he leapt was a ledge in the face of a precipice where the slightest overbalance or weakness, would have precipitated him several hundred feet into a dangerous and deep sea. No trained tightrope dancer ever required more sureness of eye and limb than must have been brought into action in this leap.

In the top of the same hill (Kenavara) there is a well, Briuthainn’s Well (_Tobar Mhic-a-Bhriuthainn_), which is said to have its name from the first who came to the island having, in his wanderings, subsisted on its water and wild water-cress.

THE STORY OF MAC-AN-UIDHIR.

The name Mac-an-Uidhir is not borne by any person now living, so far as the writer is aware. Like many other names it may have been changed into MacDonald, or some other clan-name. When a person changed his name to that of some other clan, or powerful chief, he was said to accept the name and clanship (_Ainm ’sa chinneadhdas_). This name must, at one time, however, have been common. The ford between Benbecula and South Uist is called “The ford of the daughter of Euar” (_Faoghail Nic an Uidhir_), and Nic-an-Uidhir is also named by the Lochnell bard as a sister of Headless Stocking (_Cas-a’-Mhogain_), a well-known witch, who lived so long ago as when Ossian the poet was a boy (_giullan_).

“Did ever you hear mention
Of Rough Foot-gear daughter of Euar?
She was young in Glenforsa,
When Ossian was a young boy;
She was going about as a slip of a girl
With Headless Stocking her sister.
I am a wretched creature after them
Not knowing what became of them.”

(“An cuala sibhse riamh iomradh
Mu Chaiseart Gharbh, Nic an Uidhir?
Bha i òg an Gleann Forsa
Nar bha Oisean ’na ghiullan;
Bha i falbh ’s i ’na proitseach
Le Cas-a’-Mhogain a piuthar.
’S mise an truaghan ’nan déigh
’S gun fhios gu de thainig riu.”)

The person of whom the following story is told, lived at Hynish in the island of Tiree, and had become engaged to a young woman in the neighbourhood. Between the espousal and marriage, the engaged couple went with a party of friends for a sail to Heisker, near Canna. The men of the party went ashore seal-hunting and one of the young woman’s disappointed suitors took advantage of the opportunity to get Mac-an-Uidhir left behind, and coming back to the boat told that the intending bridegroom had been drowned. By this lie he hoped to make the bride despair of seeing her intended any more, and by renewing his own attentions, to get her to consent to accept himself. She, however, not believing that he was dead, said that she would marry no one for a year and a day from the date of his alleged drowning. [Heisker means high rock,[6] and this one, near the island of Canna, is called the High Rock of Windlestraws (_Heisgeir nan Cuiseag_). It has no one living on it. At the present day a few young cattle are grazed upon it, and a boat comes for them in spring from Canna, which lies to the N.E. It is not otherwise visited except once or twice a year by seal-hunters.]

At first, Mac-an-Uidhir subsisted on birds and fish eaten raw; after his powder and shot were expended, he had to keep himself alive upon whelks, or whatever he could get along the shore, principally whelks. This sort of shellfish is said to keep a person alive though he should have no other means of subsistence, till he becomes as black as the shield or wing of the whelk (_co dubh ri sgiath faochaig_). The abandoned and castaway youth lived in this way for three quarters of a year; but at last he got away from the islet, and for the last three months of the year was making his way home. He arrived on the night on which the marriage of his intended to his unscrupulous rival was to take place. He went to the house of his foster-mother, who did not know him, his appearance through his privations having becoming so much changed, and, he having asked to be allowed to remain for the night, she said she was alone, and could not let a stranger like him stay. She also told of the festivities in the neighbourhood, and said that he had better pass the night there. He asked the occasion of the festivities: she told him how her foster-son had been drowned, and supplanted, and that this was the night of his rival’s marriage, saying, “If they are happy I am sad, another one being in the place of my foster-son” (_Ma tha iadsan subhach tha mise dubhach dheth, fear eile bhi dol an àite mo dhalta_). She then added, “this time last year, he perished when he went with a party to hunt seals in Heisker; his intended vowed that she would not marry for a year, in the hope of his returning, as she had not been quite satisfied that he had been drowned, and to-night the time is expired.” “Let us go” he said, “to see them.”

“You may go,” she replied, “but they are near enough to me as it is.” He then asked her if she did not recognise him, and told who he was, but she refused to believe him, saying her dear child (_mo ghràdh_) could not be so much altered in the time. He put the matter out of question by asking if she would know her own handiwork, and shewing what was left of the hose (_osain_) she had given him, to convince her. When she saw the labour of her own hands (_saothair a làmh fhéin_), she joyfully welcomed him, and went with him where the marriage party were. Those who were there were surprised to see her arrival, knowing the sad state in which she was at this time of year, through the loss of her foster-child. They, however, received the stranger as well as herself with the utmost kindness. The bride made the remark, when the stranger turned his back, that he was like Mac an Uidhir but when his face was towards her he appeared like a stranger whom she had never seen before; but that her heart warmed towards him. The custom was then gone through of the stranger drinking out of the bride’s glass, and Mac-an-Uidhir when doing this, slipped a ring into the glass, which, she immediately recognised as that of her first lover. The whole matter was then upset, and the party for whom the preparations were made were dispersed, and the bride followed the fortunes of her first lover.

Of a song made by the foster-mother to Mac-an-Uidhir, when he was reported to have been drowned, and was looked upon as dead, the following verses have been preserved. In the translation the literal words are given, but no attempt is made at reducing them to the rhyme which is essential in English poetry.

“Thou good son of Euar
Of generous and noble heart
At one time little I thought
It would ever happen
That you would be drowned
And your boat return empty
While its irons would last
And repair was not needed
While its stern-post stood,
Its sides and prow,
While yards would hold out,
Or a fragment of its oak.
Your well ordered new plaid
Is on the surface of the grey waves
Your head is the sport of the little gull
And your side of the big gull;
Your sister is without brother
And your mother without son
Your bride without husband
And poor me without god-son.”

Ach a dheagh Mhic an Uidhir
’G an robh an cridhe fial farsuinn
Bha mi uair ’s beag shaoil mi
Gu ’m faodadh sid tachairt
Gu ’m biodh tus’ air do bhàthadh
’S do bhàta tighinn dachaidh
Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn
’S nach iarradh i calcadh
Thùg horoinn O.

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-iaruinn
’S nach iarradh i calcadh
Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a h-earluinn
Agus tàthadh ’s a saidhean
Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan
Agus bloidhean d’a darach
Thùg horoinn O.

Fhad ’s a mhaireadh a slatan
’S bloidhean d’a darach:
Tha do bhreacan ùr uallach
Air uachdar nan glas thonn
’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn
’S fuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig
Thùg horoinn O.

’S fuil do chinn aig an fhaoilinn
’S fhuil do thaobh aig an fharspaig:
Tha do phiuthar gun bhràthair
’S do mhàthair gun mhac dheth
Do bhean òg ’s i gun chéile
’S truagh mi fhéin dheth gun dalta.
Thùg horoinn O.

There is quite a modern instance, perhaps about the beginning of this century, of a native of the islet of Ulva, near Mull, having been driven during a snowstorm to _Heisgeir-nan-Cuiseag_ (High Rock of Windlestraws) and passing the winter there alone till he was taken off early in the following summer. He, too, must have subsisted on whelks and what he could get along the shore. He was going home from Tiree.

Anxious to be at home at the New-year O.S., he, with a companion, left Tiree, and before going far a snowstorm came on, and the wind increased in violence till they were driven they did not know where. The companion got benumbed and died in the boat. It could only be said by the survivor that they passed very high rocks on some island.

The boat was cast ashore on Heisker, and the poor man left in it had to pass the winter as best he could, without food or shelter.

The islet is too distant from Canna for him to have been observed by any signal he could make.

NOTES:

[6] The islet near North Uist, on which the Mona Light house is built, is called the High Rock of the Monks, _Heisgeir nam Manach_.

STEEPING THE WITHIES.

There is an expression in Gaelic “It is time to steep the withies” (“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad_”), meaning, it is time for one to leave or make his escape from the company he is in. This expression is said to have arisen in this way. A little undersized man and good archer was sitting on a stool by his own fireside, when enemies intent on securing his person came in to the house. He sat quietly, but his wife going backwards and forwards through the house, and being ready-witted, when she understood the character of the intruders, gave a slap on the ear to her husband saying, as if he were merely the herd boy, “It is time to steep the withies” (“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad_”). He immediately left the house, and she managed to put his bow and arrows out at the window. He having stationed himself in a favourable locality did not allow a single one of his enemies to leave the house without killing them with his arrows, one by one as they came out at the door. Regarding the truth of this story it is noticeable, that uniformly throughout the Highlands the expression, “It is time to steep the withies” (“_Tha ’n t-àm bhi bogadh nan gad_”), means, not that it is time to prepare for action, but that it is time for one to make himself scarce. A story of the same kind is told of King Alfred the Great, that he escaped from his enemies in somewhat the same way. In olden times the harnessing of animals for carrying burdens, ploughing, etc., was done by means of withies made of willow, sea-bent,[7] or other accessible material, iron being scarce and difficult to procure, and these withies had to be steeped before work with them was commenced. It required a good deal of acquaintance with the work before the horse was fully equipped with pack-saddle, creels, and other equipments for which withies were necessary, and the only means available. The names of some of these withies still survive _e. g._ the _Gad-tarraich_ is the Gaelic name still in use, although the material is leather, and not withies, to denote a belly-band.

NOTES:

[7] Tough Grass growing by the shore.

LITTLE JOHN OF THE WHITE BAG.

(_IAIN BEAG A’ BHUILG BHAIN_).

This doughty little archer was attached to the family of the MacLachlans of _Coruanain_, or little Lamb-dell, near Fort-William, on the borders of Inverness-shire and Argyleshire. He derived his name from his carrying a white bag of arrows, which he was very skilful in the use of. In far off and unsettled times, when a foray or _creach_ was being taken from _Coruanain_, one of the raiders, having met little John, said, “Little John of the White Bag, I will mount the hill side quicker than you” (_Iain bhig a’ Bhuilg Bhàin, bheir mise am fireach dhiot_). In a struggle it is always an advantage, even when other things are even, to have the higher position on a hill side. Little John replied, “The hand of your father and grandfather be over you, White Stirk, I will put the Brankes (or Iron Gag) on you (”_Làmh d’ athair ’s do sheanair ort, a Ghamhain Bhàin cuiridh mise biorach ort_“). The _biorach_, branker, was a spiked iron gag, or instrument set with pointed iron pins, fixed round the head of calves to keep them from sucking. The expression “The hand, &c., be over you” was a common expression, meaning much the same as the English “Look out,” or “Take care of yourself.” Saying this, Little John let fly an arrow which struck the other in the forehead, toppled him over, and put an end to the discussion.

THE KILLING OF BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.

(_AONGHAS MOR MAC’ILL’-EOIN_), BIG ANGUS, SON OF JOHN, AT COR-OSPUINN IN MORVEN.

In Ardnamurchan, where the district of Kintra commences, there is a streamlet that falls into Loch-Moidart, which lies along the north of Ardnamurchan, called _Faoghail Dhòmhnuill Chonalaich_. This streamlet derives its name from Donald MacDonald, or MacConnell, having been slain there under the following circumstances. Tradition is uniform as to the incident which gave its name to the place, and as to the circumstances under which the murder was committed. Donald was the heir to the chieftainship of Ardnamurchan, but his uncle, Big Angus, wishing to secure the estate for himself, waylaid his nephew at the ford mentioned, which is very difficult to jump across when the tide is in, as he was on his way to be married to a daughter of the then Chief of Lochiel. While Donald was jumping across the ford, one of Big Angus’s men shot an arrow in his face, so that when he touched the ground on the other side, he staggered and reeled. Before he fell prostrate Big Angus said that he would wonder if his nephew would dance as merrily at his marriage with the daughter of the One-eyed Chief of meat-broth (_saoil an dannsadh tu co cridheil sin air banais nighean Cham-na-eanraich_). The meaning of this nick-name given to the Chief of Lochiel is a covert allusion to the cattle-lifting of Lochiel. Before the introduction of tea, extract of meat was largely made use of, and even meal was mixed with it for those in strong health, but weak, and even chicken broth, was given to those who were in delicate health. Some say that the Chief referred to was _Ailein nan Creach_ (Allan the Cattle-lifter), who derived his name from the number of cattle-spoils that he lifted. Lochaber being a wild and remote district was not unnaturally a place to which cattle forays were taken when people sought “the beeves that made the broth” in other localities.

In Gregory’s History of the Western Islands _Dòmhnull Conalach_ is called John, probably from the Chiefs of Ardnamurchan being known as Mac-’ic-Iain, the son of the son of John, and mention is made of his murder. Several families who have in recent times come to Coll from Ardnamurchan call themselves Johnstones.

Big Angus himself had a house near Strontian strongly fortified according to the ideas of those days. It was surrounded by a deep ditch (_Tigh daingean dige_) and what is now called a moated Grange. On hearing that Lochiel with a strong band of followers was on his way to avenge the death of the young Chief of Ardnamurchan, Big Angus fled, but he was closely pursued by the avengers. Having come to Cor-ospuinn in Morven he looked behind him, when the sun was rising, to see if his pursuers were coming. Lifting his helmet and shading his eyes with his hand when looking intently sunwards, one of the pursuers, a little man, remarked, “Would not this be a good opportunity for killing him?” Another answered, “It is not your trifling hand that would slay the powerful man.” (_Cha ’n i do làmh leibideach a leagadh an duine foghainteach_). The little man replied, “Would not an arrow do it” (_Nach deanadh saighead e_), saying this, he launched an arrow which struck Big Angus in the forehead and killed him.

* * * * *

NOTES:

BIG ANGUS OF ARDNAMURCHAN.

(_Aonghas mór Mac ’ic Eoin_)

The incidents of this story occurred about 1596. The house of the redoubtable Angus was at _Ath na h-éilde_ (Ford of the Hind (deer)), opposite _Druim-nan-torran_ (The Ridge of Knolls), near _Sròn an t-sìthean_, Strontian, the Promontory of the Fairy Dwelling. He had a bad wife, who was continually urging him to make himself Chief of the clan, and it was at her instigation that he waylaid his nephew at Kintra. On hearing that the Chief was to be married to the daughter of Lochiel, his wife warned big Angus that he would yet be reduced to draw the peat creels (_tarruing nan cliabh mòine_) for his nephew. Angus was the first to be at Kintra, at the river, and the first to cross. The guests were assembled at Lochiel for the marriage of Donald MacDonald, when word was brought of his having been slain. Immediately the assembled guests with their followers set off to take vengeance, and, finding Big Angus’s house deserted, they tied tinder (_spong_[8]) to an arrow and set the moated house on fire. The place where Angus was slain in Morven is still called _Leac na Saighead_ (The Ledge of the Arrow), and the archer was _Iain Dubh Beag Innse-ruith_ (Little Black John of Inch-rui). Big Dugald MacDonald (_Dughal mòr MacRaonuil_), of Morar had his hand similarly fastened by an arrow to his forehead.

[8] Amadon--made from a fungus. A.C.

THE LAST CATTLE RAID IN TIREE.

It seems to have been a kind of raid or robbery to which the island of Tiree was particularly liable. Plunderers and pirates, having chosen a suitable day when the seas about the island were at rest, and the cattle could be easily got on board the galley, or _birlinn_, carried on depredations far and wide on the island. Once the cattle were got by them on board the galley, they looked upon themselves as safe from pursuit.

There are two traditions in existence of the island having been so visited, and their fate will illustrate the manner in which, in unsettled times, such expeditions were conducted. The last foray of the kind was not successful, but the cattle and sheep were collected for taking away. The people got warning in time, and the cattle-lifters had to make their escape, leaving their booty behind them.

The last successful foray was in the days of the Tanister of Torloisk, and seems to have been only sometime previous to or about the ’45. The account which tradition gives of it is that the Tanister, or second heir (_proximus haeres_), of Torloisk in Mull was called Malise MacLean. His first name is somewhat peculiar, and not common among the MacLeans or any other West Highland clan, and was given to him in this manner. The heir of Torloisk was a promising healthy boy, but the succeeding children of the then chief were dying young. The Chief was then advised by the sages of his race to give to his child the name of the first person whom he met on the way to have the child baptized. The first person encountered was a poor beggar man who had the name of Malise. A name given in this way was known as _ainm rathaid_, or road name, and was deemed as proof against evil. The father gave this name to the child who survived and became Tanister. Being without the prospect of an estate the Tanister thought he would come to Tiree, and piece by piece get an estate for himself. He came to have the half, third, or other share of the town-ship of _Baile-meadhonach_, now called Middleton, in Tiree, and married, and his descendants are still known.

One day, a galley, with sixteen men on board (_Bìrlinn ’s sea fir dheug_), came to Soraba beach. The men landed and collected every live animal that was about the place. At the time, the Tanister happened to be fishing at the rocks in Kenavara Hill, and on coming home soon after and hearing what had been done, he called to his neighbours asking them what they meant to do, were they going with him to turn the raid (_creach_). They all refused for fear of being killed, as the freebooters were a strong party. He said, “I will not do that; I prefer to fall in the attempt (_tuiteam ’s an oidhirp_), rather than let my cattle be taken.” He took with him his sword and followed the spoilers. When he came to the end of the pathway and within sight of the galley, he stood before the creach. The freebooters told him to leave the road or he would feel the consequences (_Gu ’m biodh a’ bhuil dha_). He answered, “I will not leave, and the consequences will be to you, until I get my own.” He got this as he seemed determined, and when he had got it, he asked also the cow of a poor woman from the same township as himself, and having got this also, he said they might do with the rest what they liked. The plan of the robbers was to drive the cattle to the beach, where the galley was, and throwing them down and tying their forelegs together (_ceangal nan ceithir chaoil_), place them on bearers, or planks, and put them in the boat. When they had done so, they made off, and no one knew whence they had come or whither they went. This was the last successful raid of the kind raised in Tiree.

Subsequent to this creach, and in the time of Mr. Charles Campbell being Minister of Tiree, several galleys, or _bìrlinnean_, each with its complement of men, and in addition each with a pretending minister and his man, made their appearance on the coast of Tiree. In those days every minister took his man along with him, and in this case each minister but one took his man from the boat. Wandering open-air preachers were in those times called hillock ministers (_ministearan nan cnoc_), and the one to whom the story refers was to officiate at _Ceathramh Mhurdat_, or Fourth Part, called Murdat, now embraced in the farm of Hough,[9] and which was then thickly populated. Having sent due intimation round of his service, most of the people were drawn to hear him. His man was left behind to give him warning of any disturbance of the expedition which might occur. After he had been speaking for some time his man came in. The islanders had become aware of the nature of the invasion. The sheep and the horses were gathered at the back of the hill of Hough, and a band of the cattle-lifters had surrounded them for to drive them to the shore. A number who had not got to the preaching had observed this, and following them, took the sheep and horses from them. Immediately, the minister’s man ran with all possible speed to warn the preacher at Murdat. When he came to where the sermon was, the preacher concluded, and handing the book to his man, venturing to think that the people would not understand him, said, as if reading a line, “MacLellan, beloved friend, where did you leave the _Shockum sho?_”--_i.e._, the booty. (_Mhac-’ill-fhaolain, a dhuine ghaolaich, c’ àite an d’ fhàg thu an ’seogam seoth’?_). The incomer taking the book, and as if intoning the psalm, said, “Matters are worse than we thought; they have taken from us the plaintive bleaters” (_’s miosa tha na mar a shaoil: thug iad uainn an ’cirri-mèh’_): _cirri-mèh_ is but an imitation of the bleating of sheep, and is found used in different localities as a pet or ludicrous name for sheep.

The people sang along with the precentor. They did not know but that the words may have been part of the psalm, when one who was smarter and more ready-witted than the rest got up and said, “We have been long enough here, these men are robbers, and not ministers.” The service was concluded, the people going to look after their cattle, and the minister and his man making their way with all speed to where the galleys lay. Before the people could overtake them, they got on board and made off, leaving their booty behind, and glad to escape with their lives.

NOTES:

[9] Pronounced Hoch.

LOCHBUIE’S TWO HERDSMEN.

This tale was written down as it was told by Donald Cameron, Rùdhaig, Tiree, more than twenty-five years ago, and to whose happy and retentive gift of memory it is a pleasure to recur. He had a most extensive stock of old lore, and along with it much readiness and willingness to communicate what he knew. In this the ludicrous element is natural, and the events seem to follow each other as a matter of course, so that the tale, so far as probability is concerned, may be true enough. It is one of the few tales to which a date is attached, and so far as history can be consulted the state of the country at that time makes it probable enough. Loch Buie is a district lying to the South of the Island of Mull, pleasantly situated. The tale runs as follows:--

In 1602 Lochbuie had two herdsmen, and the wife of one herdsman went to the house of the other herdsman. The housewife was in before her, and had a pot on the fire. “What have you in the pot?” said the one who came in. “Well there it is,” she said, “a drop of _brochan_ which the goodman will have with his dinner.”

“What kind of _brochan_ is it?” said the one who came in.

“It is _dubh-bhrochan_,” (see note 1) said the one who was in.

“Isn’t he,” said she, “a poor man! Are you not giving him anything but that? I have been for so long a time under the Laird of Loch Buie, and I have not drank _brochan_ without a grain of beef or something in it. Don’t you think it is but a small thing for the Laird of Loch Buie though we should get an ox every year. Little he would miss it. I will send over my husband to-night, and you will bring home one of the oxen.”

When night came she sent him over. The wife then sent the other away. The one said, “you will steal the ox from the fold, and you will bring it to me, and we will be free; I will swear that I did not take it from the fold, and you will swear that you did not take it home.”

The two herdsmen went away. In those days they hanged a man, when he did harm, without waiting for law or sentence, and at this time Lochbuie had hanged a man in the wood. The herdsmen went and kindled a fire near a tree in the wood as a signal to the one who went to steal. One sat at the fire, and the other went to steal the ox.

The same night a number of gentlemen were in the mansion (2) at Loch Buie. They began laying wagers with Lochbuie that there was not one in the house who would take the shoe off the man who had been hanged that day. Lochbuie laid a wager that there was. He called up his big lad MacFadyen (see note 3), and said to him was he going to let the wager go against him. The big lad asked what the wager was about. He said to him that they were maintaining that there was no one in his court who could take the shoe off the one who had been hanged that day. MacFadyen said he would take off him the shoe and bring it to them where they were.

MacFadyen went on his way. When he reached, he looked and saw the man who had been hanged warming himself at a fire. He did not go farther on, but returned in haste. When he came they asked him if he had the shoe. He told them he had not, for that yon one was with a withy basket of peats before him, warming himself. “We knew ourselves,” said the gentlemen, “that you had only cowards.”

The lameter, who was over, said, “It is a wrong thing you are doing in allowing him to lose the wager. If I had the use of my feet, I would go and take his leg off as well as his shoe before I would let Lochbuie lose the wager.”

“Come you here,” said the big lad, “and I will put a pair of feet that you never had the like of under you.” He put the lameter round his neck (lit. the bone of his neck), and off he went. When they came in sight of the man who was warming himself the lameter sought to return. MacFadyen said they would not return. They went nearer to the man who was warming himself. The one that was at the fire lifted his head and observed them coming. He thought it was his own companion, the one who had gone to steal the ox, who was come. He spoke and said, “Have you come?” “I have,” said MacFadyen. “And have you got it?” “Yes,” said MacFadyen. “And is it fat?”

“Whether he is fat or lean, there he is to you,” and he threw the lameter on to the fire.

MacFadyen took to his heels (lit. put on soles) and fled as fast as ever he did. Off went the lameter after him. He put the four oars on for making his escape. The one at the fire rose, thinking there were some who had come to pry upon himself, and that he was now caught. He went after the lameter to make his excuses to the Laird of Loch Buie. The lameter was observing him coming after him, feeling quite sure that it was the one who had been hanged.

MacFadyen reached, and they asked him if he had taken the shoe off the man. He said they did not; that he asked him if the lameter was fat, and that he was sure he had him eaten up before now. The lameter came, and that cry in his head for to let him in, for that yon one was coming. He was let in. The moment this was done, the one who had been on the gallows knocked at the door, to let him in. Lochbuie said he would not.

Editor’s Note:

The translation of lines 6 and 7 renders the Gaelic idiom exactly. Translated more freely into English it would run, “and the lameter came, and with yon terrified cry demanded admittance, saying that the hanged man was coming after him.”

“I am your own herdsman.” They now let him in. He then began to tell how he and the other herdsman went to steal the ox, and that he thought it was the other herdsman who had returned, and it was that made him ask if he was fat. Lochbuie and his guests had much sport and merriment over this all night. They kept the herdsman till it was late on in the night telling them how it happened to him.

The one who went to steal the ox now came back and reached the tree where he left the other herdsman, but found no one. He began to search up and down, and became aware of the one dangling from the tree.

“Oh,” said he, “you have been hanged since I went away, and I will be to-morrow in the same plight that you are in. It has been an ill-guided object, and the tempting of women that sent us on the journey.”

He then went over and took the man off the tree to take him home. He went away with him and never got the like, going through hill, and through mud and dirt, till he came to the house of the other woman. He knocked at the door. The wife rose and let him in.

“How have things happened with you?” “Never you mind, whatever; but, alas! he has been hanged since we went away.”

The wife took to roaring and crying.

“Do not say a word,” he said, “or else you and I will be hanged to-morrow. We will bury him in the garden, and no one will ever know about it. And now,” he said, “I will be returning to my own house.”

The one that was in Loch Buie thought it was time for him now to go home. He knocked at his own door. His wife did not say a word. He then called out to be let in.

“I will not,” said the wife, “for you have been hanged, and you will never get in here.”

“I have not yet been hanged,” he said.

“Be that as it may to you,” she said, “you will never come here.”

The advice he gave himself was to go to the house of the other herdsman. He called out at that one’s door to let him in.

“You will not come in here. I got enough carrying you home on my back, and you after being hanged.”

There was a large window at the end of the house. He went in at the window. “Get up,” he said, “and get a light, and you will see that I have not been hanged any more than yourself.” When he saw who he had, he kept him till morning, till day came. They then talked together, telling each other what had happened to them on both sides, and thought they would go to Lochbuie, and tell him all that occurred to them. When Lochbuie heard their story, there was not a year after that but he gave each of them an ox and a boll of meal.

LOCHABUIDHE ’S A DHA BHUACHAILLE.

Ann an 1602 bha dà bhuachaille aig Lochabuidhe, ’s thàinig bean an darna buachaille gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile; agus bean-an-tighe stigh roimpe ’s poit aice air teine; “Dé th’ agaibh anns a’ phòit?” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh. “Ma ta,” ars’ ise, “deur de bhrochan a bhios aig an duine le ’dhìnneir,” “’Dé,” ars’ an té a thàinig a stigh, “an seòrsa brochain a th’ ann?” “Tha,” ars’ an té a bha stigh, “dubh-bhrochan.”[10] “Nach esan,” ars’ ise, “an duine truagh? Nach ’eil thu ’toirt da dad ach sin? Tha mise an uiread so de ùine fuidh thighearna Lochabuidhe, ’s cha d’ òl mi brochan gun fhionnan-feòla no rud-eiginn ann. Saoil nach beag do thighearna Lochabuidhe, ged a gheibheamaide damh ’s a’ bhliadhna; nach beag a dh’ ionndrainneadh e e? Cuiridh mise an duine agam fhéin a nall an nochd ’s bheir sibh dhachaigh fear de na daimh.”

’N uair thàinig an oidhche chuir i nall e. Chuir a’ bhean an so air falbh an duin’ eile. Thuirt an darna fear, “Goididh tusa an damh thar na buaile, ’s bheir thu thugamsa e, agus bithidh sinn saor; mionnaichidh mise nach d’ thug mi thar na buaile e, ’s mionnaichidh tusa nach d’ thug thu dhachaigh e.”

Dh’ fhalbh an dà bhuachaille. ’S an àm sin chrochadh iad duine tra ’dheanadh e cron, gun fheitheamh ri lagh no binn; ach anns na lathan bha tighearna Lochabuidhe an déigh duine ’chrochadh stigh ’s a’ choille. Dh’ fhalbh iadsan ’s dh’ fhadaidh iad teine aig craoibh ’s a’ choille, mar chomharradh do ’n fhear a chaidh a ghoid. Shuidh fear aig an teine ’s chaidh am fear eile a ghoid an daimh. Air an oidhche fhéin bha mòran de dhaoin’-uaisle ’s a’ Mheigh[11] aig tighearna Lochabuidhe. Bhuail iad air cur gheall ri tighearna Lochabuidhe nach robh duine ’s an tigh aige a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Chuir tighearna Lochabuidhe geall riù-san gu ’n robh. Ghlaodh e nuas air a ghille mhòr Mac Phaidean.[12] Thuirt e ris an robh e brath an geall a leigeadh air. Dh’ fharraid an gille mòr c’ ar son a bha ’n geall. Thuirt e ris, gu ’n robh iad ag ràdh nach robh duine ’n a chùirt a bheireadh a’ bhròg thar an fhir a chaidh chrochadh an diugh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean gu ’n tugadh esan dheth a’ bhròg ’s gu ’n tugadh e thuga ann an sud i.

Dh’ fhalbh Mac Phaidean air a thurus. ’Nuair a ràinig e sheall e ’s chunnaic e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh ’deanamh a gharaidh. Cha deach e na b’ fhaid’ air aghaidh, ’s thill e le cabhaig. ’Nuair a ràinig e thuirt iad ris, an robh a’ bhròg aige. Thuirt e riu nach robh, gur h-ann a bha ’m fear ud ’s làn cléibh de mhòine air a bhialthaobh ’s e ’deanamh a gharaidh. “Dh’ aithnich sinn-fhéin,” ars’ na daoin’-uaisle, “nach robh agad ach an gealtair.” Thuirt an clàraineach[13] a bha thall, “Is ceàrr an rud a tha thu ’deanamh, an geall a leigeadh air; na ’m biodh comas nan cas agam-fhéin dh’ fhalbhainn ’s bheirinn a’ chas dheth co math ris a’ bhròig mu ’n leiginn an geall air tighearna Lochabuidhe!”

“Thig thusa so,” ars’ an gille mòr, “’s cuiridh mise dà chois nach deachaidh riamh ’n leithid ortsa fothad.” Chuir e ’n clàraineach mu chnàimh ’amhaich, ’s dh’ fhalbh e leis. ’Nuair thainig iad ’an sealladh an duine a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh, dh’ iarr an clàraineach tilleadh. Thuirt Mac Phaidean nach tilleadh. Dhlùthaich iad ris an fhear a bha ’deanamh a gharaidh. Thog am fear a bha aig an teine a cheann, ’s mhothaich e dhoibh-san a’ tighinn. Shaoil leis gur h-e a chompanach fhéin, am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh, a bha air tighinn. Labhair e ’s thuirt e, “An d’ thàinig tu?” “Thàinig,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e agad?” “Tha,” ars’ Mac Phaidean. “’S am bheil e reamhar?” “Biodh e reamhar no caol agad, sin agad e!” ’s e a’ tilgeadh a’ chlàraineich mu ’n teine.

Chuir Mac Phaidean na buinn air, ’s theich e co làidir ’s a rinn e riamh. Leum an clàraineach air falbh as a dhéighinn, chuir e na ceithir raimh[14] orra gu teicheadh. Dh’ éirich am fear a bh’ aig an teine, agus dùil aige gur h-e feadhainn a thainig a dh’ fharcluais air fhéin a bh’ ann, ’s gu ’n robh e nis a sàs. Dh’ fhalbh e as déighinn a’ chlàraineach, dhol a ghabhail a leithsgeul do thighearna Lochabuidhe. Bha an clàraineach ’g a fhaicinn a’ tighinn as a dhéighinn, ’s e làn-chinnteach gur h-e ’m fear a chaidh chrochadh a bh’ ann.

Ràinig Mac Phaidean. Dh’ fharraid iad dheth an d’ thug iad bròg bharr an duine. Thuirt e nach d’ thug, gu ’n dubhairt e ris-san an robh an clàraineach reamhar, ’s gu ’n robh e cinnteach gu ’n robh e air ’itheadh aca roimhe so.

Ràinig an clàraineach ’s an glaodh ud ’n a cheann, esan a leigeadh a stigh, gu ’n robh am fear ud a’ tighinn. Leigeadh a stigh e. Am buileach a bha e stigh, bhuail am fear a bh’ air a’ chroich ’s an dorus, esan a leigeadh a stigh. Thuirt fear Lochabuidhe nach leigeadh. “Is ann a th’ annam,” ars’ esan, “am buachaille agaibh fhéin.” Leig iad ’an so a stigh e. Bhuail e so air innseadh dhoibh mar chaidh e-fhéin ’s am buachaille eile a ghoid an daimh; gu ’n do shaoil esan gur h-e ’m buachaille eile a bha air tilleadh leis an damh, gur h-e ’thug air a dh’ fheòraich an robh e reamhar. Bha spòrs is fearas-chuideachd anabarrach aig tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s aig ’uaislean air a so fad na h-oidhche. Chum iad aca am buachaille gus an robh e ro-fhada dh’ oidhche ’g innseadh naigheachd mar a dh’ éirich dha.

Thàinig so am fear a chaidh a ghoid an daimh. Ràinig e ’chraobh aig an d’ fhàg e ’m buachaille eile ’s cha d’ fhuair e duine. Bhuail e air siubhal sìos ’s suas; mhothaich e ’n slaod ud nuas ris a’ chraoibh. “O,” ars’ esan, “tha thusa air do chrochadh bho ’n a dh’ fhalbh mise, ’s bithidh mise am maireach air an ruith air am bheil thu fhéin. ’S e an turus mi-shealbhach, ’s buaireadh nam ban, a chuir sinne air an turus.”

Ghabh e null ’s thug e’ n duine bhàrr na croiche g’ a thoirt dachaigh. Dh’ fhalbh e ’s cha d’ fhuair e leithid dol roimh mhonadh ’s roimh pholl ’s roimh eabar riamh; mu dheireadh ràinig e tigh na mnatha bha ’n duine air a chrochadh aice. Bhuail e ’s an dorus; dh’ éirich a’ bhean ’s leig i stigh e. “Ciamar a dh’ éirich dhuibh?” ars’ a’ bhean. “Is coma leatsa co-dhiù, mo thruaighe! tha e air a chrochadh o ’n a dh’ fhalbh sinn.”

Chaidh a’ bhean gu glaodhaich agus gu caoineadh. “Na abair guth,” ars’ esan, “air neo bithidh tu fhéin ’s mise air ar crochadh am màireach. Tiodhlaicidh sinn anns a’ ghàradh e, ’s cha bhi fios aig duine am feasd air. Nis (ars’ esan), bithidh mise falbh dhachaigh thun mo thighe féin.”

Ach smaointich am fear a bha ’n Lochbuidhe gu ’n robh an t-àm aige tighinn dachaigh nis. Bhuail e ’s an dorus aige fhéin. Cha dubhairt a bhean guth. Ghlaodh e so a leigeadh a stigh. “Cha leig,” ars’ a bhean, “’s ann a tha thu air do chrochadh; cha tig thu so am feasd!”

“Cha ’n ’eil mi air mo chrochadh fhathast,” thuirt esan.

“Biodh sin mar a dh’ fheudas e dhuit,” ars’ ise, “cha ’n fhaigh thu stigh so am feasd.”

Is e ’chomhairle a smaointich e air, dol gu tigh a’ bhuachaille eile. Ghlaodh e ’s an dorus aig an fhear ud, a leigeil a stigh. Thuirt am fear ud, “Cha tig thu stigh an so; fhuair mise gu leòir ’g ad thoirt dachaigh air mo mhuin ’s tu air do chrochadh.” Bha uinneag mhòr air ceann an tighe ’s ghabh e dh’ ionnsuidh na h-uinneig. Thàinig e stigh air an uinneig. “Eirich,” ars’ esan, “’s las solus ’s gu ’m faic thu nach do chrochadh mise na ’s mò na ’chrochadh tu-fhéin.”

’Nuair chunnaic e gur e a bh’ aige, chum e aige e gu maduinn, gus an d’ thàinig an latha. Chuir iad an so an guth ri chéile a dh’ innseadh dhaibh mar a dh’ éirich dhaibh thall ’s a bhos; gu ’n rachadh iad gu tighearna Lochabuidhe ’s gu ’n innseadh iad dha na h-uile dad mar a dh’ éirich dhaibh. ’Nuair chuala tighearna Lochabuidhe mar a dh’ éirich doibh, cha robh bliadhna tuilleadh nach tugadh e damh do na h-uile fear dhiubh, ’s bolla mine.

NOTES:

[10] _Dubh-bhrochan_ is a thin mixture of oatmeal and water, without meat or vegetables. This seems to have been a popular drink in olden times. When the Lord of the Isles kept state at Duntulm Castle in Skye, no one was admitted into the potentate’s body-guard unless he could take the vessel (diorcal), containing the liquid, with one hand from his companion, take his own mouthful, and pass it on to the next. In the Island of Mull, adjoining the Sound, and opposite Ardtornish, once the seat of the Lords of the Isles, there is a place, probably deriving its name from some fancied resemblance to this dish, called Loch Diorcal.

[11] Moy Castle is situated near the modern mansion-house of Lochbuie, and the reference appears to be to it in the Gaelic text. (Ed.)

[12] MacFadyens were said by one of the clan, of whose judgment and intelligence the writer has cause to think very highly, to have been the first possessors of Lochbuie, and when expelled, that they became a race of wandering artificers, (_Sliochd nan òr-cheard_--the race of goldsmiths), in _Beinn-an-aoinidh_ and other suitable localities in Mull. The race is a very ancient one, but it has often been noticed that they are without a chief.

[13] _Clàraineach_ means one on boards. A person losing the use of his limbs, and going on all fours, with boards or pieces of wood below his hands and knees, and with which he could more easily drag himself over the ground. When placed sitting, he could not move. In olden times the defects of humanity, which are now relieved by many means, were left entirely to chance or very simple aids, and were the objects of malevolent persecution, rather than of charitable or kindly consideration.

[14] _Na ceithir ràimh_ (the four oars)--fled upon all fours. (Ed.)

MAC NEIL OF BARRA, AND THE LOCHLINNERS.