Chapter V: Part 5

In early times, long ago, (_’an toiseach an t-saoghail, o chionn nan cian_), it is said that the island of Mull was uninhabited except by a few families who were living, on the south side at Carsaig, in that part of the island known as the Ross of Mull. These families lived isolated from the rest of the world; none of them had ever seen any one from anywhere else there, and none of themselves had ever left the place. They had no boats, and they said the other islets and land that they were seeing opposite were other worlds. One day, then, they saw coming on the sea before them (_mu’n comhair_) from the mainland a speck (_dùradan_), and when it came near they compared it to a horse with a tree standing on its back, but when it came to the shore it was a boat made of wicker-work covered with hides, with one man in it, who had some drink with him, and a quantity of hazel nuts for food. On account of his boat being covered with hides[23], they named him “The cowhide man, (_am boicionnach_). On landing, he told them how he had left home, out of curiosity to see other places, and that was the first place he was able to reach. He is said to have come from Ardencaple in the district of Lorn on the mainland (_Ard-nan-capull, ’an Lathurna_.) He stayed a long time with them, as they treated him kindly, being much pleased with him. He taught them new ways that were useful to them in their every-day life, and by his skill and knowledge promoted their welfare in many ways. On seeing that they were not utilizing the milk of their cows and goats by making cheese from it, he asked them the reason of this. They told him that they did not know what cheese was, as they had never heard of it nor seen it, and would like well to know how it was made. They had the art of making butter among them previous to his coming. He took in _Lus-buidhe-bealltainn_, (marsh marigold) and putting its stalks in the milk turned it to curds and whey. This is said to be the first cheese that was made in Mull. Some time, nearly a year after this, another boat, or, as they described it, a horse with a tree in its back, was seen coming in the same way. This one came ashore at Lochspelvie, further eastward, and had one man in it also, whom they named “The one in the skin coverings” (_an craicionnach_). He was brother to the one who came before, and had come in search of him. The two strangers and the natives were agreeing well together, and the brothers began to build a boat when they found wood abundant in Mull. When the boat was finished they named it “the six-oared boat” (_iùrach nan sia ràmh_), and when it was fitted up and made ready for sailing, the two brothers took a crew with them and set off in it, to go to one or other of the worlds (_na saoghalan eile_) that they were seeing before them, and reached Jura (_Diùra_), but the natives of the island would not let them land, as they had never seen a boat before. They stoned them away from the shore. They then went to Colonsay, but the Colonsay men (_na Colosaich_) were equally hard-hearted (_doirbh_). They attacked them, and tried to blind them by throwing sand about their eyes. It was then that they went on to the green (_lit._, blue) island (_an t-eilean gorm_), the name by which Islay was then known, where they arrived at a more favourable time, no one being before them at the shore. They drew the boat up on the land, and went on to see if there were people to be found on the island or if they would meet with anyone who could direct them to a house. The first person they met was an old man who was watching cattle (_aig aire sreud_). He thought they belonged to the island, as no one was known to have ever come to or gone away from it. The first of the brothers who came, asked the old man to give him information about the place. The old man remarked, “How curious your speech is, if you were born in this island.” He said, “No, I am not a native of this island.” The old man said, “And if not, what has brought you here?” “The reason of my coming is, to ask what you can give, and give what I may.” The old man then, as it was nightfall, kindled a fire, and they sat with him till daylight, when men and houses were to be seen. The Islay men were hospitable to the strangers, who remained a full year and built seven boats for them. The elder brother married a woman of the country, and after some time he thought of returning to Mull again. Having prepared his boat he set off, taking his wife and the others with him, and set his course northwards (_aghaidh a bhàta, tuath_). They had not gone far when a thick mist came on which darkened their world, and as they had no compass and could see no land, they drifted till the boat went in to a shore. This was the first appearance of land they saw since leaving the _Eilean Gorm_. A big man came down where they were--they never saw his equal for size--and he caught the fore part of the boat and drew it up above high water mark, with them all in it. He invited them to go to his house. They went with him and were made welcome. The daughter of the house, on being asked by the elder of the two brothers for a drink, brought a a two-hooped wooden dish full of milk, set it on the floor beside them and went away. One of the strangers rose to lift the dish and he could not. Then three of them rose, but it defied them to lift it. She came back, and finding the dish as she left it, said, “If you have quenched your thirst it is not awanting from the measure (_air a’ mheasair_)”. The cowhide one replied, “We have not been accustomed to stoop like cattle (_cromadh mar bhà_) when we take a drink, and we could not lift the dish.” At that she caught the wooden dish by the ear, in her left hand, and held the drink to them all. “Where have you come from,” she said, “or where are you going?” “We came from the dark-blue sea-isle,” he said, “and are going to the hilly isle (_do ’n eilean bheannach_).” “That is Mull,” she said, “Mull of my love, Mull of little men (_Muile mo ghràidh, Muile nam fear beaga_).” They passed that night cheerfully together, and went to put off to sea next day; but when they tried to move the boat and get it afloat, they might as well attempt to move the Rhinns of Islay (_an Roinn Ileach_) they could not move it. The young wife who came with them from Islay said then, “I know where we are; we are in the green isle that is under spells (_fo gheasaibh_), but I have a gift that will let us leave it,” and she told those with her how her mother had at parting given her a cap, saying, “If you are ever in a strait, put it on, and you must at the same time bend your head to the ground as low as your feet seven times (_seachd uairean do shròn a bhualadh ri òrdaig do choise_).” She had the cap in her belt (_’n a cneas_), and she told them to sit in the boat and take the oars. She then stood in their midst, touched the cap, bent her head, and it went up to her breast (_an cneas_); the next time it went up to her neck (_am muineal_); the third time, to her chin, (_an smigead_); then, as she bent her head, at the fourth time, it went up past her mouth to her nose; the next time, it reached her eyes, then her forehead, at last the top of her head, and the boat was off. The mist was still there. They asked the eldest brother in which direction they were to set their course. He told them to follow the flight of birds, as they went shorewards in the evening and would guide them to land. There is a saying about the home-coming of birds and fish, that “Birds of the universe go westward, and fish of the deep eastward (_Eòin an domhain, siar, ’s iasg an domhain, sear_).” During the night, the younger brother, the one of skins, called out that there was a mound before them (_gu ’n robh tòrr rompa_). His brother who was in the afterpart of the boat said, “Is it a tòrr without grass,” and it has got the name of Torrens to the present day (_’se na tòrrain a theirear riu gus an là ’n diugh_). They reached Mull shore when it was day, and they ran-in the boat at a narrow strait that was like an opening in a dyke (_cachaileith ghàraidh_), and before they got them from the tholepins, the oars were broken. The place is still known as the narrow strait of broken oars (_Caolas-a’-bhristidh-ràmh_). They got on shore, and went home and told where they had been and what had happened to them.

The person, now above 70 years of age, from whom the above story was taken down almost word for word by the writer, said that he heard the story when he was a young man, and that the following story (that of the two sisters), was a continuation of it; the incidents of the story occurred during the absence of the two brothers from the place, and were told to them by the natives, in return for the story of their own adventures. The name Torquil, which occurs in this story, and the belief in witchcraft and occult power indicated, suggests that the colony in Mull came originally from Lochlin, or that the story belongs to a later period of history than that that of “The two brothers.” The story is as follows:--

THE TWO SISTERS AND THE CURSE.

Two sisters were living in the same township on the south side of Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely _Mairearad_[24] had a fairy sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa[25] (_Ealasaid_), and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart. “And now, sister,” she said, “you will not tell any one.” “No,” her sister answered, “I will not tell any one; that story will as soon pass from my lips as it will from my knee (_o’m ghlùn_)”; but she did not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he went away and never returned, nor was he seen or heard of ever after by any one in the place. When the lovely sister came to know this, she left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and never afterwards came inside of a house door, to stand or sit down, while she lived. Those who herded cattle (_ag uallach threud_) tried frequently to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song in which she told how her sister had been false to her, and that the wrong done to her would be avenged on the sister or her descendants, if a fairy (_neach sìth_) has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married, she repeated, “Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the evil will be avenged on her or on him (_phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,[26] &c._).” What she hummed in her mournful song was:--

My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,
My father, who loved me, is asleep in the tomb,
Friendless and solitary I wander through the fields,
Since there is none in the world of my kindred
But a sister without pity.
She asked, and I told, out of the fulness of my joy;
There was none nearer of kin to know my secret;
But I felt, and this brought the tears to my eyes,
(_lit._, raindrip on my sight),
That a story comes sooner from the lip than from the knee.

She was then heard to utter these wishes--

May nothing on which you have set your expectations ever grow,
Nor dew ever fall on your ground.
May no smoke rise from your dwelling,
In the depth of the hardest winter,[27]
May the worm be in your store,
And the moth under the lid of your chests.
If a fay-being has power,
Revenge will be taken though it may be on your descendants.

Tha suidheag mo mhàthar gu fàs, falamh, fuar,
Tha m’ athair ’thug luaidh dhomh ’n a shuain fo ’n lic.
Gun daoine gun duine na raoin tha mi ’siubhal,
’S gun ’s an t-saoghal do ’m chuideachd
Ach piuthar gun iochd.
Dh’ iarr ise ’s thug mise do mheud mo thoil-inntinn;
’S mi gun neach ’bu disle g’ an innsinn mo rùn;
Ach dh’ fhairich mi sid ’s thug e snidh’ air mo léirsinn
Gur luaithe ’thig sgeul o ’n bheul na o ’n ghlùn.

An sin thuirt i na guidheachan so:--

“Na-na-chinn ’s na-na-chuir thu t-ùidh,
’S na-na-shil an driùchd ad shlios,
’S na-na-rug ad bhothan smùid
Ann an dùlachd crùth an crios;
Gu ’n robh a’ chnuimheag ann ad stòr
’S an leòmann fo bhòrd do chist’;
Ma tha cumhachd aig neach sìth,
Dìolar ge b’ ann air do shliochd.”

Ailsa (_Ealasaid_) married, and had one son. In some way her afflicted sister heard of this, and she then added to her song--

Dun Ailsa has married,
And she has a son Torquil.
Brown-haired Torquil who can climb the headland
And bring the seal off the waves,
The sickle in your hand is sharp,
You will in two swaths reap a sheaf.

Phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,
’S tha mac aice--Torcuil.
Torcuil donn ’dhìreadh sròin,
’S a bheireadh ròn bhàrr nan stuadh,
Bu sgaiteach do chorran ’n ad dhòrn
’S dheanadh tu dhà dhlòth an sguab.

Whatever gifts the brown-haired only child of her sister was favoured with, besides others, he was a noted reaper, but this gift proved fatal to him (_dh’ fhòghainn e dha_). When he grew up to manhood, he could reap as much as seven men, and none among them could compete with him. He was then told that a strange woman was seen coming to the harvest fields in autumn, after the reapers had left, and that she would reap a field before daylight next morning, or any part of the ripe corn that the reapers could not finish that day, and in whatever field she began, she left the work of seven reapers, finished, after her. She was known as the Maiden of the Cairn (_Gruagach[28] a’ chùirn_), from being seen to come out of a cairn over opposite. One evening then, brown-haired Torquil, who desired to see her at work, being later than usual of returning home, on looking back saw her beginning in his own field. He returned, and finding his sickle where he had put it away, he took it with him, and after her he went. He resolved to overtake her and began to reap the next furrow, saying, “You are a good reaper or I will overtake you;” but the harder he worked, the more he saw that instead of getting nearer to her, she was drawing further away from him, and he then called out to her,

“Maiden of the cairn, wait for me, wait for me.” (_’Ghruagach a’ chùirn, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

She said, answering him,

“Handsome brown-haired youth, overtake me, overtake me.” (_’Fhleasgaich a’ chuil-duinn, beir orm, beir orm._)

He was confident that he would overtake her, and went on after her till the moon was darkened by a cloud; he then called to her,

“The moon is clouded (_lit._ smothered by a cloud), delay, delay.” (_Tha ’ghealach air a mùchadh fo neòil, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

“I have no other light but her, overtake me, overtake me,” she said.

He did not, nor could he, overtake her, and on seeing again how far she was in advance of him, he said, “I am weary with yesterday’s reaping, wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “I ascended the round hill of steep summits (_màm cas nan leac_), overtake me, overtake me;” but he could not. He then said, “My sickle would be the better of being sharpened (_air a bhleath_), wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “My sickle will not cut garlic, overtake me, overtake me.” At this she reached the head of the furrow, finished reaping, and stood still where she was, waiting for him. When he reached the head of his own furrow, he caught the last handful of corn,[29] to keep it, as was the custom, it being the “Harvest Maiden” (_a’ mhaighdean-bhuana_), and stood with it in one hand and the sickle in the other. Looking at her steadily in the face, he said,

“You have put the old woman far from me, and it is not my displeasure you deserve.” (_Chuir thu a’ chailleach fada uam ’s cha b’ e mo ghruaim a thoill thu._)[30]

She said,

“It is an evil thing early on Monday to reap the harvest maiden.” (_’S dona ’n ni_ (var., _mì-shealbhach_) _moch Di-luain dol a bhuain maighdein._)

On her saying this, he fell dead on the field and never more drew breath. The Maiden of the Cairn was never afterwards seen, nor heard of; and that was how the sister’s wishes ended.

NOTES:

[23] Boats made of twigs and covered with hides, the hairy side of the skin being uppermost, could go long distances over rough seas.

[24] This name is sometimes rendered in English, Margaret. Erraid Isle (_Eilean earraid_) is in the Sound of Iona, south of Mull.

[25] The rock of Ailsa in the firth of Clyde is called in Gaelic _Creag Ealasaid_, and _Ealasaid a’ chuain_ (Ailsa of the sea). A round grey rock lying near the shore in Mannal, south side of Tiree, is called _Sgeir Ealasaid_, the Ailsa rock. The name _Ealasaid_ is in English also Elizabeth and Elspeth.

[26] _Odhar_, dun or grey, is applied to cattle; as, _bò mhaol odhar_, a dun hornless cow; _gabhar mhaol odhar_, a grey goat: it is sometimes used as an expression of contempt, as _creutair odhar_, a dun creature. The diminutive of _odhar_, _odhrag_, is a pet name for a cow.

[27] The words of the first four lines of “the wishes,” are, as regards their form in the Gaelic text, almost unintelligible; they merely represent the sounds uttered by the reciter, without being correct either in form or composition. The sounds belonging to the first line might, for instance, have been represented thus:--_’Na ana-chìnnt ’s ’n a an-shocair dhuit d’ ùidh_: perhaps the utterance was intentionally ambiguous.--(Ed.)

[28] _Gruagach_, the supernatural being, in this instance was said to be a woman; but _gruagach_ usually meant a chief. (See Vol. IV., Argyllshire series, p. 193.)

[29] There was a custom at one time, that the last handful of corn that was cut, and which finished the harvest, was taken home by the reaper, who was usually the youngest person in the family who could reap. The bunch was tastefully decorated and kept, at least till the following year, as the harvest maiden.

[30] It was also a custom in other times for old women to go about asking charity, and if infirm, they were carried about from house to house and villages, and whoever was last in a township to finish the reaping of his corn had to maintain one that year, and the same thing might happen to him the next year. When the run-rig system was common, the last furrow of corn was sometimes left standing as no one could be got to own it, through fear of having to keep the old woman for a year.

THE DARK, OR PITCH-PINE, DAUGHTER OF THE NORSE KING,

AND HOW SHE THINNED THE WOODS OF LOCHABER.

When the Norsemen came, and their visits were frequent and numerous, to this country and these islands, to lay claim to and take possession of the land, the fame they gathered for themselves through their indulgence in every manner of cruel spoliation, and slaughter of the people wherever they landed, was that they were a bold, courageous, hardy, rough (“The Norsemen a rough band”), peremptory and unscrupulous race, and more than that, it was attributed to them that they practised witchcraft, charms, and enchantments, and had much of other unhallowed learning among them. The Norse King’s eldest daughter was particularly noted for her knowledge of the “Black Art.” There was no accident or mischance that befell friends, or destruction that overtook enemies, or any luck or good fortune that attended either friend or foe, but it was said that she was the cause of it, or had some hand in it. She was famed at home and abroad, far and wide, for her skill among cows and cattle, she was said to possess every variety of dairy knowledge in her father’s kingdom. There was no charm or evil eye that fell on any living creature in the fold but she could dispel and avert, nor hurt nor injury they got but she could heal, nor dizziness nor fits into which they fell, from which she could not restore them, until it was said of her that the lowing of cattle, the incoherent cry of calves, and the rough cry of yearlings was to her the sweetest and most soothing music, and that she would answer the call of cattle, though she might be lost in the midst of the northern woods, and the cry from the nethermost part of the farthest off quarter of the universe. She knew the herb that had the property of taking its qualities from milk, as well as she was acquainted with the spells by which its virtues could be restored, and every charm and invocation that was practised or then esteemed. The flowers of the meadows and woods were as familiar to her as the ridges of corn or a grain on straw, and there was not a leaf on tree, bush, or shrub, with whose properties she was not acquainted. Her father’s kingdom was clothed with pine wood, and was then as now famous for the fine quality of the wood from which most of the wealth of the kingdom was obtained.

One of those times when the Norsemen came to Scotland to take possession of and sub-divide the land thus taken, they observed that the pine wood of Lochaber was growing so fast, and extending so far, that in time it might supersede the Black Forests of Sweden. But on this occasion the northern forces were driven back. On reaching home they reported the matter to the king, and their opinion, that the increase of the wood must be checked, otherwise his northern woods would be of little esteem.

It occurred to the King to consult his daughter on the matter, since she was learned, and to get knowledge from her of the best method of thinning and destroying the Scottish wood. She gave him the desired information, but said that she must be the bearer of the method and must necessarily go to Scotland herself. She obtained the King’s permission and made preparations for the journey.

From the gifts she possessed, neither sea nor land, air nor earth could hinder her progress until she accomplished her purpose. When she reached Lochaber the method she adopted was to kindle a fire in the selvage of her dress, and she then began to go through the woods, and as she could travel in the clouds as well as on the ground, when she ascended and whirled in the air, the sparks of fire that flew from her dress were blown hither and thither by the wind and set the woods on fire, until the whole country was almost in a blaze, and so darkened by the smoke, that one could hardly see before them; and, from being blackened more than any tree in the forest, by the smoke and soot of the fiery furnace which surrounded her, she was known and spoken of by the name of “Dark, or Pitch Pine.” The people gathered to watch her, but from the rapidity of her ascent and the swiftness with which she descended, they could not grasp her any more than they could prevent her, and were at a loss what to do. At last, they sought instruction from a learned man in the place. He advised them to collect a herd of cattle in a fold, wherever she would stand still, and whenever she heard the lowing of the cattle she would descend, and when she was within gun-shot they were to fire at her with a silver bullet, when she would become a faggot of bones. They followed this advice and began to gather cattle and follow after her until the pinfold large and small was full set in the “Centre of Kintail.” Whenever she heard the cry of the herd she descended and they aimed at her with the silver bullet, as the wise man told them to do, and she fell gently among them. Men lifted the remains and carried them to Lochaber, and to make sure that dead or alive she would do no more injury to them, they buried her in Achnacarry; and the person from whom the story was first heard nine years ago [1880] said that he could put his foot on the place where she was buried.

The Norse King was amazed at his daughter not returning, and at his not receiving any account from her. He sent abroad to get tidings of her. When the news of the disaster that happened to her was brought to him, he sent a boat and crew to bring her home, but the Lochaber women by their incantations destroyed those whom he sent. The boat was wrecked, and the men lost, at the entrance to Locheil. The next ships that came were not more successful. The third time the King sent out his most powerful fleet. What they did then was to send and try through spells to dry up the wells of the Fairy Hill of Iona. The virtue of these wells was that wind could be obtained from any desired quarter by emptying them in the direction of the wind wished for. When the ships were seen approaching, the wells began to be emptied, and before the last handful was flung out, the storm was so violent, and the ships so near, that the whole fleet was driven on the beach under the Fairy Hill, and the power and might of the Norsemen was broken and so much weakened that they did not return again to infest the land.

AN DUBH GHIUBHSACH, NIGHEAN RIGH LOCHLAINN,

AGUS MAR A CHRIONAICH I COILLE LOCHABAIR.

Mar thàinig na Lochlannaich an toiseach, ’s bu bhitheanta sin, air feadh nan dùthchannan ’s nan eileinean so, a thogail chòraichean ’s a ghabhail sealbh air fearann, ’s e an cliù a choisinn iad dhaibh féin, leis gu ’n robh iad ris a h-uile seòrsa léir-chreach ’s milleadh air muinntir nan àiteachan a bha iad a’ ruigheachd, gu ’n robh iad ’n an daoine dalma, misneachail, cruaidh-chridheach, borb. “Lochlannaich, a’ bhuidheann bhorb,” neo-easmaileach, neo-thròcaireach ’s a thuilleadh air sin, bha e air chur as an leth gu ’n robh buidseachd agus druidheachd ’s iomadh eòlas toirmisgte eile ’n am measg.

Bha ’n nighean a bu sine aig Righ Lochlainn sònraichte ainmeil air son na bh’ aice de ’n “Sgoil Dubh.” Cha robh sgiorradh no tubaist a thachaireadh do chàirdean, no sgrios a thigeadh air naimhdean, no math no rath a dh’ éireadh do h-aon diù, nach robh e air a ràdhainn gur i b’ aobhar-cinn dha, no gu ’n robh làmh thaobh-eiginn aice ann. Bha i aig an tigh ’s uaithe fada ’s farsuinn comharraichte air son sgil am measg cruidh ’s feudail; ’s ann aice bha gach seòrsa eòlas cruidh ’an rìoghachd a h-athar. Cha robh sian no sùil a laidheadh air creutair beo ’s a’ bhuaile nach togadh i, no tuaineal no ceangal ’s an rachadh iad nach fhuasgladh i, gus an abairteadh gur e geumnaich cruidh, blaomannaich laogh agus ràcaireachd ghamhna an t-aon cheòl cadail a bu bhinn leatha, ’s gu ’m freagradh i ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n spréidh ged bhiodh i ’n a suain an teis-meadhon coille dhubh a h-athar ’s an geum o cheann ìochdar iomall an domhain.

B’ aithne dh’ i an lus a bheireadh an toradh as a’ bhainne co math ’s a b’ aithne dh’ i na h-eòlais a thilleadh air ais e, agus gach seòrsa sian agus oradh a bha air a chleachdainn no air a chunntas feumail ’s an àm. Bha gach luibh ’s a’ mhachair no ’s a’ choille co-ionnan dh’ i ri arbhar nan imirean no spilgean cònlaich, ’s cha robh duilleag air craoibh, no preas, no dris, nach b’ aithne dh’ i. ’S an àm so bha dùthaich a h-athar còmhdaichte le coille ghiubhais, agus iomraideach (mar tha fhathast) air son co math ’s a bha a fiodh, ’s bha neart de bheartais na rìoghachd ’tighinn a stigh air a tailibh.

Uair de na h-uairean sin thàinig na Lochlannaich do Albainn a thoirt a mach fearainn ’s a dheanamh roinn na còrach air na gheibheadh iad, ’s thug iad fainear gu ’n robh coille ghiubhais Lochabair a’ fàs ’s a’ gabhail roimpe co mòr ’s gu ’m faodtadh e ’bhi gu ’n cuireadh i stad air coille dhubh na Suain. Chaidh feachd Lochlannach an uair so thilleadh air ais an taobh a thàinig iad, ’s ’n uair a ràinig iad dhachaidh dh’ innis iad do ’n righ mar bha iad ’am beachd a thachradh ’s gu ’m feumadh stad a chur air cinneas na coille Albanaich neo nach bitheadh mòran meas air a’ chonnadh aige-san. ’S e smuaintich an righ bho ’n a bha h-uile ionnsachadh aig a nighean gu ’n cuireadh e ’chomhairle rithe, ’s gu ’m faigheadh e fiosrachadh uaipe ’d e an dòigh a b’ fhearr ’s a bu luaithe air a’ choille Albanaich a dheanamh na bu lugha ’s a crìonadh. Dh’ innis i dha, ach gu ’m bitheadh aice fhéin ri dol ann. Fhuair i cead o ’n Rìgh, ’s rinn i deas air son falbh; ’s leis na cumhachdan a bh’ aice cha chuireadh muir no tìr, talamh no adhar, stad air a ceum gus an ruigeadh i ceann thall a’ ghnothaich.

’N uair a ràinig i Lochabair ’s e ’n dòigh a ghabh i, dh’ fhadaidh i teine ’an iomall a gùin ’s ghabh i gu siubhal roimh ’n choille, ’s leis gu robh comas aice falbh anns na neòil co math ’s air an talamh, dhìreadh i suas agus ’n uair bha i ’dìreadh ’s a’ cur cuairteig anns an adhar, bha na sradagan teine a bha ’falbh as a gùn a’ dol gach taobh leis a’ ghaoith ’s a’ lasadh na coille gus an robh an dùthaich uile gu bhi ’n a caoirean teintich ’s co dùinte le deathaich ’s gur gann a bu léir do dhuine lias, ’s a chionn gu ’n robh i fhéin air fàs anns an deathaich ’s anns an t-sùith na bu duibhe na craobh ’s a’ choille, ’s e “An Dubh Ghiùbhsach” a theireadh iad rithe.

Bha muinntir na dùthcha cruinn còmhla ’g a feitheamh ’s cha chumadh iad sealladh oirre leis co àrd ’s a rachadh i anns na speuran ’s co luath ’s a thèarnadh i gu talamh. Cha b’ urrainn iad greim fhaighinn oirre na bu mhotha na b’ urrainn iad stad a chur oirre, ’s cha robh fios aca ’d e a dhèanadh iad. Mu dheireadh chaidh iad air son fòghluim gu duine ionnsaichte a bha ’s an dùthaich. Thuirt esan riu, buaile cruidh a chruinneachadh far an stadadh i, ’s ’n uair a chluinneadh i ’n fheudail ’s a’ bhuar gu ’n tèarnadh i; ’s an uair a bhiodh i mar urchair gunna uapa iad a losgadh oirre le peileir airgid, ’s gu ’n rachadh i ’n a cual chnàmh. Ghabh iad a chomhairle ’s thòisich iad air togail chreach ’s air ise leantuinn gus an robh a’ bhuaile làn-suidhichte le crodh ann an Crò-Chintàile. Co luath ’s a chuala ise a’ gheumnaich theirinn i ’s loisg iad oirre leis a’ pheileir airgid mar dh’ iarr an duine glic orra, ’s thuit i ’n a ceòsaich ’n am measg. Thog iad eadar dhaoine am pronnan a bh’ aca dhi ’s thug iad leo do Lochabair i, ’s chum gu ’m bitheadh iad cinnteach nach dèanadh i cron beò no marbh dhoibh tuilleadh, thìodhlaic iad i ann an Achanacairidh; ’s am fear bho ’n deachaidh an naigheachd a chluinntinn an toiseach--anns a’ bhliadhna 1880--bha e ’g ràdhainn gu ’m b’ urrainn dha a chas a chur air an uaigh anns an do chuireadh i.

Bha ioghnadh air Righ Lochlainn nach robh a nighean a’ tilleadh no sgeul uaipe. Chuir e forfhais a mach, ’s trà chualaic e mar thachair dhi, chuir e bàta ’s sgioba air son a toirt dachaidh, ach dh’ fhoghain mnathan Lochabair le ’n ubagan dh’ i. Chaidh a briste ’s na daoine chall, aig bun Lochiall. Cha d’ ràinig an ath chabhlach na bu mhò. ’S an treasa uair trà chuir an Righ mach feachd na rioghachd ’s e rinn iadsan, chuir iad eòlas a thaomadh tobraichean Dhun-I, ’s bha e ’n cois an eòlais, rathad ’s am bith a rachadh na tobraichean a thaomadh gu ’m faighteadh a’ ghaoth a dh’ iarrtadh. ’N uair fhuaradh sealladh air a’ chabhlach, thòisichear air taomadh an tobair, ’s mu ’n robh a’ bhoiseag mu dheireadh as, bha a’ ghaoth co làidir ’s a’ chabhlach co dlùth ’s gu ’n do bhrisdeadh iad air cladach an Dùin, ’s chaidh cumhachd ’s feachd nan Lochlannach lughdachadh co mòr ’s nach do thill iad riamh tuilleadh a dheanamh dòlais no a thoirt sgrios air an tìr.

O’NEIL,

AND HOW THE HAIR OF HIS HEAD WAS MADE TO GROW.

There was a smith, before now, in Ireland, who was one day working in the smithy, when a youth came in, having two old women with him.

He said to the smith,

“I would be obliged to you,” he said, “if you would let me have a while at the bellows and anvil.”

The smith said he would. He then caught the two old women, threw a hoop about their middle, and placed them in the smithy fire, and blew the bellows at them, and then took them out and made one woman, the fairest that eye ever saw, from the two old women.

When the smith laid down at night, he said to his wife,

“A man came the way of the smithy to-day, having with him two old women; he asked from me a while of the bellows and anvil, and he made the fairest woman that man’s eye ever saw, out of the two old women. My own mother and your mother are here with us, and I think I will try to make one right woman of the two since I saw the other man doing it.”

“Do,” she said, “I am quite willing.”

Next day he took out the two old women, put the hoop about their middle, and threw them in the smithy fire. It was not long before it became likely that he would not have even the bones of them left. The smith was in extremity, not knowing what to do, but a voice came behind him,

“You are perplexed, smith, but perhaps I will put you right.” With that he caught the bellows and blew harder at them; he then took them out and put them on the anvil, and made as fair a woman out of the two old wives. Then he said to the smith,

“You had need of me to-day, but,” said he, “you better engage me; I will not ask from you but the half of what I earn, and that this will be in the agreement, that I shall have the third of my own will.” The smith engaged him.

At this time O’Neil sent abroad word that he wanted one who would make the hair of his head to grow, for there was none on the head of O’Neil or O’Donnell, his brother, and that whoever could do it, would get the fourth part of his means. The servant lad said to the smith,

“We had better go and make a bargain with O’Neil that we will put hair on his head,” and they did this. “Say you to him,” said the servant lad, “that you have a servant who will put hair on his head for the fourth part of what he possesses.”

O’Neil was agreeable to this, and the servant lad desired to get a room for themselves, and asked a cauldron to be put on a good fire. It was done as he wished. O’Neil was taken in and stretched on a table. The servant lad then took hold of the axe, threw off O’Neil’s head, and put it face foremost in the cauldron. After some time he took hold of a large prong which he had, and he lifted up the head with it, and hair was beginning to come upon it. In a while he lifted it up again with the same prong, this time a ply of the fine yellow hair would go round his hand. Then he gave the head such a lift, and stuck it on the body. O’Neil then called out to him to make haste and let him rise to his feet, when he saw the fine yellow hair coming in into his eyes. He did as he had promised; he gave the smith and the servant lad the fourth part of his possessions. When they were going home with the cattle the servant lad said to the smith,

“We are now going to separate, we will make two halves or divisions of the cattle.”

The smith was not willing to agree to this, but since it was in his bargain he got the one half. They then parted, and the animal the smith would not lose now, he would lose again, he did not know where he was going before he reached home, and he had only one old cow that he did not lose of the cattle.

When O’Donnell saw his brother’s hair, he sent out word that he would give the third part of his property to any one who would do the same to himself. The smith thought he would try to do it this time alone. He went where O’Donnell was, and said to him that he would put hair on his head for him also, as he had done to his brother O’Neil. Then he asked that the cauldron be put on, and a good fire below it, and he took O’Donnell into a room, tied him on a table, then took up an axe, cut off his head, and threw it, face downwards, into the cauldron. In a while he took the prong to see if the hair was growing, but instead of the hair growing, the jaws were nearly falling out. The smith was almost out of his senses, not knowing what to do, when he heard a voice behind him saying to him, “You are in a strait.” This was the lad with the Black Art, he formerly had, returned. He blew at the cauldron stronger, brought the prong to see how the head was doing, or if the hair was growing on it. The next time he tried it, it would twine round his hand. Since it was so long of growing on it, he said, “We will put an additional fold round my hand.” When he tried it again it would reach two twists. He took it out of the cauldron and stuck it on the body. It cried to be quickly let go, when he saw his yellow hair down on his shoulders. The hair pleased him greatly; it was more abundant than that of O’Neil, his brother. They got fully what was promised them, and were going on their way home. The lad who had the Black Art said, “Had we not better divide the cattle?”

“We will not, we will not,” said the smith, “lift them with you, since I got clear.”

“Well,” said the other, “if you had said that before, you would not have gone home empty-handed, or with only one cow,” and with that he said, “You will take every one of them: I will take none of them.”

The smith went home with that herd, and he did not require to strike a blow in his smithy, neither did he meet with the one with the Black Art, ever after.

O’ NEIL, ’S MAR A CHAIDH AM FALT AIR A CHEANN.

Gobhainn bh’ ann roimhe so ann an Eirinn, ’s bha e latha de na làithean ag obair anns a’ cheàrdaich agus thàinig òganach stigh ’s dà sheana-bhoirionnach aige. Thuirt e ris a’ ghobhainn, “Bhithinn ann ad ehomain,” ars’ esan, “na ’n toireadh tu dhomh tacan de ’n bholg ’s de ’n innean.” Thuirt an gobhainn ris gu ’n tugadh. Rug e an sin air an dà chaillich, chaith e cearcall mu ’m meadhon, ’s chàirich e ’s an teallach iad, ’s shéid e am bolg riu; thug e ’n sin mach iad ’s rinn e aon bhoirionnach a bu bhreadha ’s a chunnaic sùil duine de ’n dà chaillich. ’N uair a luidh an gobhainn ’s an oidhche, thuirt e ris a mhnaoi, “Thàinig fear rathad na ceàrdaich an diugh ’s dà chaillich aige, ’s dh’ iarr e orm treis de ’n bholg ’s de ’n innean, ’s rinn e ’m boirionnach a bu bhriadha a chunnaic sùil duine riamh air an dà chaillich. Tha mo mhàthair fhéin ’s do mhàthair fhéin againn ann an so, ’s tha mi ’smaointeachadh gu ’m feuch mi ri aon bhoirionnach ceart a dheanamh orra bho ’n a chunnaic mi am fear eile ’g a dheanamh.”

“Dean,” ars’ ise, “tha mi làn-toileach.”

Am màireach thug e mach an dà chaillich ’s chuir e ’n cearcall mu ’m meadhon, ’s thilg e ’s an teallach iad. Cha b’ fhada ach gus an robh coltach nach bitheadh na cnàimhean fhéin aige dhiùbh. Bha an gobhainn ’n a chàs gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh e, ach thàinig guth air a chùlthaobh, “Tha thu ann ad éiginn, a ghobhainn, ach ma dh’ fhaoidte gu ’n cuir mise ceart thu.” Rug e air a’ bholg ’s théid e na ’s teinne riu; thug e mach iad a sin ’s chuir e air an innean iad, ’s rinn e boirionnach a bu bhriadha de ’n dà chaillich. Thuirt e sin ris a’ ghobhainn, “Bha feum agad ormsa an diugh, ach,” ars’ esan, “’s ann a ’s fearr dhuit mise fhasdadh, ’s cha ’n iarr mi ort ach darna leth de na bheir mi a mach; ach gu ’m bi so anns a’ chùmhnant, gu ’m bi an treas trian de m’ thoil fhéin agam.” Dh’ fhasdaidh an gobhainn e.

Aig an àm sin chuir O’ Neil mach fios na ’m faigheadh e fear a chuireadh falt air, chionn cha robh falt idir air O’ Neil na air O’ Domhnull a bhràthair, gu ’n toireadh e dhoibh a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a mhaoin; ’s thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “’S fhearr dhuinne falbh ’s bargan a dheanamh ri O’ Neil gu ’n cuir sinn falt air;” ’s rinn iad mar sin. “Abair thusa ris,” thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “gu bheil gille agadsa a chuireas falt air, air son a’ cheathramh chuid d’ a mhaoin.”

Bha O’ Neil deònach air a shon so, agus dh’ iarr an gille seòmar fhaotainn dhoibh fhéin, ’s dh’ iarr e coire a chur air, ’s teine math ris. Rinneadh mar a dh’ iarr e, ’s chaidh O’ Neil a thoirt stigh, ’s chuir e ’n a shìneadh air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh ’s thilg e dheth an ceann, ’s chuir e ’n comhair na goille anns a’ choire e. ’An ceann tacain rug e air gramaiche mòr a bh’ aige ’s thog e suas an ceann leis, ’s bha toiseach fuilt a’ tighinn air. Ann an ceann treis thog e suas a rithist e leis a’ ghramaiche cheudna, agus an uair so ruigeadh car m’ a dhòrn de ’n fhalt bhriadha bhuidhe. Thug e sin an togail ud air, ’s bhuail e air a’ choluinn e. Ghlaodh sin O’ Neil greasad air ’s a leigeil air a chois, ’n uair a chunnaic e ’m falt briadha buidhe a’ tighinn ’n a shùilean. Rinn e riu mar a gheall e; fhuair iad a cheathramh chuid d’ a mhaoin.

’N uair bha iad so ’dol dachaidh’s an spréidh aca, thuirt an gille ris a’ ghobhainn, “Tha mi nis ’dol a dhealachadh ribh, ’s nì sinn dà leth air an spréidh.” Cha robh an gobhainn toileach air so a thoirt dha, ach bho ’n a bha e ’n a chùmhnant fhuair e ’n darna leth. Dhealaich iad so, agus am beothach nach cailleadh an gobhainn an dràsd’ shiubhladh e rithist, ’s cha robh fhios aige c’ àite an robh e a’ dol, ’s mu ’n d’ ràinig e ’n tigh cha robh aige ach seann mhart nach do chaill e de ’n spréidh.

’N uair a chunnaic O’ Domhnull am falt a bh’ air a bhràthair, chuir e mach fios gu ’n toireadh e ’n treas cuid d’ a mhaoin seachad do aon ’s am bith a chuireadh air fhéin e. Smaointich an gobhainn gu ’m feuchadh e-fhéin g’ a dheanamh an dràsda gun duine ach e-fhéin. Chaidh e far an robh O’Domhnull ’s thuirt e ris gu ’n cuireadh e air-san e mar an ceudna, ’s gur e a chuir air a bhràthair, O’Neil, e, ’s dh’ iarr e ’n coire ’chur air ’s teine math ris. Thug e O’ Domhnull stigh do sheòmar ’s cheangail e air bòrd e, ’s rug e air an tuaidh, ’s thug e dheth an ceann ’s thilg e ’an comhair na goille e anns a’ choire. ’An ceann treis rug e air a’ ghramaiche dh’ fheuchainn an robh falt a’ cinntinn, ach ’an àite falt a bhi ’cinntinn ’s ann a bha na giallan ’tuiteam as. Bha an gobhainn ’an impis dol as a chiall, gun fhios aige ’dé dheanadh e, ’n uair a chualaig e guth air a chùlthaobh ag ràdhainn ris, “Tha thu ann ad éiginn.” Bha so gille na sgoil-duibhe, a bh’ aige fhéin roimhe, air tilleadh. Shéid e ris a’ choire na bu teodha, ’s thug e sin nuas leis an gramaiche a shealltainn ciamar a bha an ceann a’ deanamh, ’s bha am falt a’ cinntinn. An ath-uair a dh’ fheuch e e, ruigeadh car mu ’dhòrn dheth. “Bho ’n a bha e co fada gun chinntinn,” ars’ esan, “cuiridh sinn car a bharrachd mu ’m dhòrn;” ’s ’n uair a dh’ fheuch e rithist e, ruigeadh e ’n dà char. Thog e as a’ choire e, ’s bhuail e air a’ choluinn e; ’s ghlaodh e ’ghrad-fhuasgladh, ’s e ’faicinn ’fhalt buidhe sìos air a ghualainn. Chòrd am falt ris fior mhaith, bha barrachd fuilt air ’s a bh’ air O’ Neil a bhràthair. Fhuair iadsan ’cheart ni a chaidh ghealltainn doibh, ’s bha iad ’dol dachaidh air an rathad. Thuirt gille na sgoil-duibhe, “Nach fheàrr dhuinn ar treud a roinn?” “Cha roinn, cha roinn,” ars’ an gobhainn, “tog leat iad, bho ’n a fhuair mise saor.” “Ma tà,” ars’ esan, “na ’n dubhairt thu sin roimhe cha deachaidh thu dhachaidh falamh no air aon mhart; agus leis a sin,” ars’ esan, “bheir thu leat h-uile h-aon diùbh, cha ghabh mise gin diùbh.”

Chaidh an gobhainn dachaidh leis an spréidh sin, ’s cha do ruig e leas buille a bhualadh ’an ceàrdaich tuille, ni mò a thachair e-fhéin air fear na sgoil-duibhe tuille.

BEAST FABLES.

THE WOLF AND THE FOX.

This story, like many others in which the lower animals figure as characters, is very popular in the Highlands, in fact, Mr. Campbell of Islay, by whom it is mentioned, could not help falling in with it. But the version published by him is destitute of several interesting incidents which form a part of the story. The narration depends always upon the knowledge and skill of the person who tells it, and this edition is given because there is to be found in it incidents of much interest and amusement, not to be found in any other version, such as the Fox’s oath and standing in front of the fire. The Gaelic is not given except in the essential expressions, and it is not deemed of much consequence to give more, as their fluency and number depend upon the reciter’s knowledge and tact. In these fables the lower animals appear with the same characteristics as are always assigned to them, and in this tale the fox appears as not only wily and cunning, but also as the most unprincipled scoundrel, indifferent to the interests of others, and also to what is usually of weight with men, the restraint of an unseen power.

The Fox and Wolf were keeping house together near the shore, and as might naturally be expected, were very poor and at times hard up for food. At first the fox kept himself in good condition, and was not so voracious as the wolf. After a heavy storm in winter time the two went along the shore to see what the sea had cast up. This is still done by poor people in the islands, and in those places where wood does not grow. They are often fortunate enough to find logs and planks of wood. On the occasion of the wolf and the fox’s journey they were fortunate enough to find a keg of butter. Probably it had come from Ireland and been swept or thrown overboard in the storm. It was particularly welcome to the poor finders, and the rascally fox at once coveted it for himself. He said to the wolf that, as this was the winter time, they had not so much need of it, but when the hungry summer (_samhradh gortach_) would come, it would be doubly welcome; they had better bury it, and no one would know of its existence but themselves. They dug a deep hole, buried the keg of butter, and went home with their other provisions. Some days after that the fox came in, and wearily throwing himself on a settle, or seat, which formed part of the furniture, he heaved a deep sigh and said, “Alas! Alas! Woe is me (_Och! Och! fhéin thall_).”

“Alas! Alas!” said the sympathising wolf, “what is it that troubles you?”

“Dear me,” said the fox, “they are wanting me out to a christening (_Och! Och! tha iad ’gam iarraidh mach gu goisteachd_),” still pretending a weary indifference, and the Gaelic expression is here noticeable, as, being asked out to a baptism means literally being asked to be god-father, or gossip at the baptism, a practise observed in the Highlands, even where the Roman Catholic and Episcopal systems have disappeared.

“Alas! Alas!” said the wolf, “are you going?”

“Alas! Alas!” said the fox, “I am.” When he came home, the wolf asked what name they had given the child. “A queer enough name,” said the fox, “_Blaiseam_,” (let me taste).

Some days after that again the same manœuvre was gone through, and when the fox returned and the wolf asked him the child’s name, he said it was as queer a name as the former one,--“_Bi ’na mheadhon_,” (be in its middle). A third time the manœuvre was gone through and the child’s name was said to be the queerest of all, “_Sgrìob an clàr_,” (scrape the stave).

At last the “hungry summer” came; and it was such as is well known even in eastern countries when the stores of the preceding harvest are exhausted, and the stores of the year’s harvest are not yet ready. The fox and the wolf went for the keg of butter, but it had disappeared. The fox being prepared for this emergency began at once to accuse the wolf of having taken it, “No one knew it was there but our two selves, and I see the colour of it on your fur.”

The two went away home, the wolf very much cast down, and the fox persisting in his accusation that the wolf had stolen it. The wolf solemnly protested that he had never touched it.

“Will you swear then?” the fox said.