Chapter VI

A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold The sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold, And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade, Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayed Sharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale; And misty shadows gathered in the vale-- When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw Amid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe, The ruins of their winter dwelling laid In smouldering ashes; while the high stockade Around the rocky wall, like ragged teeth, Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath, Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze.

He sped towards the wood, and through the trees Called loud for those who perished. On his fair And gentle spouse he called in his despair. His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was white As Wyvis snow, he called for in the night. Full loud and long across the Strath he cried-- The echoes mocked him from the mountain side.

Ah! when his last hope faded like the wave Of twilight ebbing o'er the hills, he gave His heart to utter grief and deep despair; And the cold stars peer'd down with pitiless stare, While sank the wind in silence on its flight Through the dark hollows of the spacious night; And distant sounds seem'd near. In his dismay He heard a Fian calling far away. The night-bird answered back with dismal cry, Like to a wounded man about to die-- But Caoilte's lips were silent ... Once again And nearer, came the voice that cried in vain. Then swift steps climbed Knockfarrel's barren steep, And Alvin called, with trembling voice and deep, To Caoilte, crouching low, with bended head, "Who liveth?" ... "I am here alone," he said ... Thus Fian after Fian came to share Their bitter grief, in silence and despair.

All night they kept lone watch, until the dawn With stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn Its dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose From deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes, And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall rest While flees our evil foeman farther west? Arise!" ... "But who hath done this deed?" they sighed; And Finn made answer, "Garry." ... Then they cried For vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt To answer Finn's command.

A cold wind swept From out the gates of morning, moaning loud, As swift they hastened forth. A ragged shroud Of gathering tempest o'er Ben-Wyvis cast A sudden gloom, and round it, falling fast, It drifted o'er the darkened slopes and bare, And snow-flakes swirled in the chill morning air-- Then o'er the sea, the sun leapt large and bright, Scatt'ring the storm. And moor and crag lay white, As westward o'er the hills the Fians all In quest of Garry sped.

At even-fall They found him ... On the bald and rocky side Of steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide Within a cave, which, backward o'er the snow, He entered, that his steps might seem to show He had fled eastward by the path he came. All day he sought to flee them in his shame, Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine, And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien-- He sought in vain to hide till darkness cast Its blinding cloak betwixt them.

When at last Finn cried, "Come forth, thou dog of evil deeds, Nor respite seek!" ... His limbs like wind-swept reeds Trembled and bent beneath him; so he rose And came to meet his friends who were his foes-- Then unto Finn he spake with accents meek, "One last request I of the Fians seek, Whom I have loved in peace and served in strife"-- "'Tis thine," said Finn, "but ask not for thy life, For thou art 'mong the Fians." ... "I would die," Said Garry, "with my head laid on thy thigh; And let young Alvin take thy sword, that he May give the death that will mine honour be."

'Twas so he lay to die ... But as the blade Swept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed, And slipped upon the sward ... And his fierce blow That Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low-- A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh, And poured his life-blood forth ... A low, weird cry The great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned-- In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound-- His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray In gathering gloom ... And when in death he lay, The glory of the Fians passed away.

HER EVIL EYE.

O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,
Will have the evil eye;
The fear will come about my heart
When she'll be passing by;
She'll have the piercing look to wound
The very birds that fly.

I would not have her evil wish,
I would not have her praise,
For like the shadow would her curse,
Me follow all my days--
When she my churning will speak well,
No butter can I raise.

O Mairi Dhu will have the eye
To wound the very deer--
Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns
When her they would come near?
They'll have the red cords round their necks,
So they'll have naught to fear.

It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man,
Against her would prevail;
And first her eye was on his churn,
Then on the milking pail;
When she would praise the brindled cow,
The cow began to ail.

The trout that gambol in the pool
She'll wound when she goes past;
Then weariness will come upon
The fins that flicked so fast;
And one by one the lifeless things
Will on the stones be cast.

O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain
To poor Dun Para's arm;
It is myself would have the work
Undoing of the harm--
I'd twist around the three-ply cord
Well-knotted o'er the charm.

Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe
O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass;
He'd fill the wooden ladle where
The dead and living pass--
And with the water, silver-charmed,
He'd save his little lass.

I'll lock my cheese within the chest,
My butter I will hide;
I'll bar the byre at milking time,
Although you'll wait outside--
You'll maybe go another way--
Who'll care for you to bide?

A CURSING

So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,
When the men will be fighting afar--
Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold
When it's only with women they'll war

Weasels that creep in the dark!
Foxes that prowl in the night!
Rats that are hated and vile!--
O hasten you out of my sight!

Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?--
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof
If you hadna' a roof to your cave

Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves--
Whose meal will you have in your bag?

Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush-- Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man-- His fame for the thieving is gone To the reivers and rogues of your clan

You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
Fitter to die than to live?"
But maybe I'll slay with the tongue
And the heart that will never forgive

The curse of the frail will be strong,
The curse of the widow be sure;
O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,
Black, black is the curse of the poor!

Ha! laugh at your ease while you can--
Laugh! it's the devil's turn next--
For after I'm done with you all,
O who will be doleful and vext?

Bare-kneed on the ground will I go--
My hair on my shoulders let fall,
Now hear me and never forget
My curses I'll cast on you all

_Little increase to your clan!
The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
The luck o' a Friday on moors!

Fire upon land be your lot!
Drowning in storm on the deep!
Leave not a son to succeed!
Leave not a daughter to weep!

Here's the bad meeting to you!
Death without priest be your fate!
Go to your grandfather's[3] house--
The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_

[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]

[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]

[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"--The grave]

[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"--The devil]

LEOBAG'S[1] WARNING.

Would Murdo make the wry mouth?
Is Ailie cross-eyed?
O mock no more the beggar man,
You'll scorn wi' pride!
The wind that will be blowing west,
Might turn and blow south--
O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes
And Murdo's wry mouth.

O mind ye o' the Leobag
And yon rock cod--
"Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried,
"For the hook and rod!"
The tide it would be turning while
The Leobag would mock--
And that is why it's gaping as
It gaped below the rock.

[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.]

TOBER MHUIRE.

(WELL OF ST MARY.)

'Tis for thee I will be pining, _Tober Mhuire_. Thou art deep and sweet and shining, _Tober Mhuire_. In the dimness I'll be dying, And my soul for thee is sighing With the blessings on thee lying-- _Tober Mhuire_.

O thy cool, sweet waters dripping, _Tober Mhuire_, Now my sere lips would be sipping, _Tober Mhuire_. O my lips are sere and burning-- For thy waters I'll be yearning, And yon road of no returning, _Tober Mhuire_.

O thy coolness and thy sweetness, _Tober Mhuire_. O thy sureness and completeness, _Tober Mhuire_. O this life I would be leaving, With the greyness of its grieving, And the deeps of its deceiving, _Tober Mhuire_.

I would sip thy waters holy, _Tober Mhuire_. While the drops of life drip slowly, _Tober Mhuire_-- Till the wings of angel whiteness, With their softness and their lightness, Blind me, fold me, in their brightness-- _Tober Mhuire_.

SLEEPY SONG.

(_Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians_.)

Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep in the deep lone cave;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom my love I gave--
Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Wearily falls the wave.

Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep, and have never a fear;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom I love so dear--
A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
A weary wind I hear.

Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
Sleep, while I watch till you wake;
Sleep a little--a little little,
Love whom I'll ne'er forsake--
Sleep a little, and blessings on you
My lamb, or my heart will break.

SONG OF THE SEA.

The sea sings loud, the sea sings low, And sweet is the chime of its ebb and flow Over the shingly strand; For its strange, sweet song that woos my ear The first man heard, as the last shall hear-- Seeking to understand ...

THE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN.

Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,
Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death;
And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry--
An evil omen the magician saith--
A low gust panted like a man's last breath,
As morning crept into the chamber black;
Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack.

For the last time his evil foemen came;
The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led.
The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame;
The duns were fallen and the fords ran red;
And widows fled, lamenting for their dead,
To fair Emania on that fateful day,
Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay.

Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,
Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes,
The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare.
And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise;
Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise,
Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms,
And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms.

His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide
In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood
All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride--
His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hood
Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood
Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd
Levarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept

Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,
And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice--
The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,
Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise,
But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,
Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,
And wept big tears of blood before him on the ground

Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war
'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,
Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,
Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from us go?'
They smote their hands, and fast their tears did flow--
Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plain
Full well he knew that he would ne'er return again

How vehement and how beautiful they swept--
The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold
And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,
Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd
The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold
Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres,
Slender and tall and red--the King of Charioteers!

Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,
His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh
A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,
He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high,
As flames the sun upon the western sky,
His round shield from afar was flashing bright,
Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white

Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back,
The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair,
Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black,
Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare,
Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rare
Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind
His shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind

Betimes three crones him meet upon the way,
Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair--
Workers of spells and witcheries are they--
The brood of Calatin--beware! beware!
They proffer of their fulsome food a share,
And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries
'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'

He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,
The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake--
With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,
Of which he was forbidden to partake
But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,
And their foul food he in his left hand took--
Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook

For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,
When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,
Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,
Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!
A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,
And all the land did with thy fame resound,
As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'

Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,
Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,
Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,
Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,
His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,
In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,
And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed

He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near
'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'
Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear--
'Now link thy shields and close together throng,
And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long
Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,
Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart

As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar
Assault the giant trees and lay them low,
As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,
As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow--
Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,
Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,
To drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain

And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood
In feignèd strife upon a knoll of green,
Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood,
A satirist him besought to intervene,
Whereat he slew them as he drave between--
"Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while,
The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee revile."

'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,"
Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,
And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and keen
And slew the satirist and nine beside,
Then his fresh onslaught made the host divide
And flee before him clamouring with fear,
The while the stealthy Lugaid seized Cuchullin's spear

"O sons of Calatin," did Lugaid call,
"What falleth by the weapon I hold here?"
Together they acclaim'd, "A King will fall,
For so foretold," they said, "the aged seer."
Then at the chariot he flung the spear,
And Laegh was stricken unto death and fell
Cuchullin drew the spear and bade a last farewell

"The victor I, and eke the charioteer!"
He cried, and drave the war-steeds fierce and fast.
Another pair he slew, "To me thy spear,"
Again a satirist call'd. The spear was cast,
And through the satirist and nine men pass'd
But Lugaid grasps it, and again doth call,--
"What falleth by this spear?" They shout, "A King will fall"

"Then fall," cried Lugaid, as he flung the spear--
The Grey of Macha sank in death's fierce throes,
Snapping the yoke, the while the Black ran clear:
Cuchullin groan'd, and dash'd upon his foes;
Another pair he slew with rapid blows,
And eke the satirist and nine men near:
Then once more Lugaid sprang to seize the charmèd spear.

"What falleth by this weapon?" he doth call
"A King will fall," they answer him again ...
"But twice before ye said, 'A King will fall'" ...
They cried, "The King of Steeds hath fled the plain,
And lo, the King of Charioteers is slain!" ...
For the last time he drave the spear full well,
And smote the great Cuchullin--and Cuchullin fell

The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left alone
The King of Heroes dying on the plain:
"I fain would drink," they heard Cuchullin groan,
"From out yon loch" ... He thirsted in fierce pain.
"We give thee leave, but thou must come again,"
His foemen said; then low made answer he,
"If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me"

His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie,
And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no moan.
Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die,
Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone ...
He wended to the standing pillar-stone,
Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear,
And to his foemen called, "Come ye, and meet me here."

A vision swept upon his fading brain--
A passing vision glorious and sweet,
That hour of youth return'd to him again
When he took arms with fearless heart a-beat,
As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat,
"Who taketh arms upon this day of grief,
His name shall live forever and his life be brief"

Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye,
His body to the pillar-stone he bound,
Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die ...
He would die standing ... so they gathered round
In silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground,
And watch'd the hero who with Death could strive;
But no man durst approach ... He seem'd to be alive ...

LOST SONGS.

Harp of my fathers--on the mouldering wall
Of days forgotten--like a far-off wind
Hushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall,
Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall
The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned,
That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.

Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees,
I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme--
The inner music quivering on the breeze
I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas,
On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time
That mingles with thy melodies sublime.

OTHER POEMS.

THE DREAM.

'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream, Measured by moments, that to me did seem, A life-long spell of joy and peace to be--

Will that last dream that comes ere death descends, From which I shall not wake to know it ends, Thus seem to live on through Eternity?

FREE WILL.

Say not the will of man is free
Within the limits of his soul--
Who from his heritage can flee?
Who can his destiny control?

In vain we wage perpetual strife,
'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires--
Who leads must serve.. The pulse of life
Throbs with the dictates of our sires.

Since when the world began to be,
And life through hidden purpose came,
From sire to son unceasingly
The task bequeathed hath been the same.

We strive, while fetters bind us fast,
We seek to do what needs must be--
We move through bondage with the past
In service to posterity.

STRIFE.

Weary of strife-- The surge and clash of city life-- I sought for peace in solitude, Within the hushed and darkened wood And on the lonesome moor-- But found contending leaf and root Engaged in conflict fierce though mute, While what was frail was slain By what was strong in dire dispute-- I sought for peace in vain! The world, sustained by strife, endures in pain.

"All things that are in conflict be," I murmured on the shelving strand, Where struggling winds would fain be free-- The tides in conflict with the wind's command, Turned tossing, wearily-- I heard the loud sea labouring to the land-- I saw the dumb land striving with the sea.

SONNET.

(_Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's._)

The drowsing city sparkles in the heat, And murmur in mine ears unceasingly The surging tides of that vast human sea-- The billows of life that break with muffled beat And vibrate through this high and lone retreat; While over all, serene, and fair, and free, Thy dome is reared in naked majesty Grey, old St Paul's ... In thee the Ages meet, Slumbering amidst the trophies of their strife. And in their dreams thou hearest, while the cries Of triumph and despair ascend from Life, The murmurings of immortality-- Thou Sentinel of Hope that doth despise What was and is not, waiting what shall be!

"OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES."

"Is baby dead?" he whispered, with wide eyes
Tearless, but full of eloquent regret,
His childish face grown prematurely wise--
Pond'ring the problem death before him set.

"Baby is dead," I answered, as I laid
My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh;
"Oh! daddy, why did God do this?" he said,
And silently my heart made answer, "Why?"

He touched her white, worn face, and said, "How cold
Is our wee baby now." ... His eyes were deep ...
Then came his little brother, two years old,
He looked, and lisped, "The baby is asleep."

NOTES.

_The Wee Folk_.--In Gaelic they are usually called "The Peace People" (sithchean). Other names are "Wee Folk" (daoine beaga); "Light Folk" (slaugh eutrom), etc. As in the Lowlands, they are also referred to as "guid fowk" and "guid neighbours."

_The Banshee_ (Beanshith).--Sometimes referred to as "The Fairy Queen," sometimes as "The Green Lady." She sings a song while she washes the clothes of one about to meet a swift and tragic fate. In the Fian poems she converses with those who see her, and foretells the fate of warriors going to battle.

_The Blue Men of the Minch_ (Na Fir Ghorm).--Between the Shant Isles (Charmed Isles) and Lewis is the "Stream of the Blue Men." They are the "sea-horses" of the island Gaels. Their presence in the strait was believed to be the cause of its billowy restlessness and swift currents.

_The Changeling_.--When the fairies robbed a mother of her babe, they left behind a useless, old, and peevish fairy, who took the form of a child. This belief may have originated in the assumption that when a baby became ill and fretful, it was a changeling.

_The Urisk_ is, if anything, a personification of fear. It is a silent, cloudy shape which haunts lonely moors, and follows travellers, but rarely does more than scare them.

_My Fairy Lover_.--Fairies fell in love with human beings, and deserted them when their love was returned. Women of unsound mind, given to wandering alone in solitary places, were believed to be the victims of fairy love.

_Yon Fairy Dog_ (An Cu Sith) was heard howling on stormy nights. He was "big as a stirk," one informant has declared The "fearsome tail" appears to have been not the least impressive thing about it. The MacCodrums were brave and fearless, and were supposed to be descended from Seals, which were believed to be human beings under spells.

_My Gunna_.--This kindly, but solitary, elf herded cattle by night, and prevented them from falling over the rocks. He was seen only by those gifted with the faculty of "second sight." The Gunna resembles the Lowland "Brownie."

_Her Evil Eye_.--Belief in the Evil Eye is still quite common, even among educated people, in the Highlands. Not a few children wear "the cord," to which a silver coin is appended, as a charm against the influence of "the eye."

_The Little Old Man of the Barn_ (Bodachan Sabhaill).--Like the Gunna, he is a variety the kindly Brownie, and assisted the needy.

_Nimble Men_ (Na Fir Chlis) are "The Merry Dancers," or Aurora Borealis. It was believed that, when the streamers were coloured, the "men and maids" were dancing, and that after the dance the lovers fought for the love of the queen. When the streamers are particularly vivid, a pink cloud is seen below them, and this is called "the pool of blood." It drips upon blood-stones, the spots on which are referred to as fairy blood (fuil siochaire). A wizard could, by waving his wand, summon the "Nimble Men" to dance in the northern sky.

_The Water Horse_ haunted lonely lochs, and lured human beings to a terrible death. When a hand was laid on its main, power to remove it was withdrawn.

_A Cursing_--The Gaelic curses are quaint in translation, but terrible in the original.

_Bonnach Fallaidh_.--It was considered unlucky to throw away the remnants of a baking. So the good-wife made a little bannock, which was pierced in the middle, as a charm against fairy influence. It was given to a child for performing an errand, but the charm would be broken if the reason for gifting it were explained. That was the good-wife's secret. It was also unlucky to count the bannocks, and when they fell, "bad luck" was foretold. Finlay's bannock was not kneaded on the board or placed on the brander, but, unlike the other bannocks, was toasted in front of the fire.

_The Gruagach_ was a gentlemanly Brownie, who haunted byres. It was never seen, although its shadow occasionally danced on the wall as it flitted about. Often, when chased, it was heard tittering round corners. In some barns, Clach-na-gruagach--"the Gruagach's stone"--is still seen. Milkers pour an offering of milk into the hollowed stone "for luck." The cream might not rise and the churn yield no butter if this service were neglected. A favourite trick of the Gruagach was to untie the cattle in the byre, so as to bring out the milkmaid, especially if she had forgotten to leave the offering of milk.

_Tober Mhuire_ (St Mary's Well) is situated at Tarradale, Ross-shire. When a sick person asks for a drink of Tober Mhuire water, it is taken as a sign of approaching death. It is a curious thing that this reverence for holy water should be perpetuated among a Presbyterian people. Wishing and curative wells are numerous in the North.

_The Fians of Knockfarrel_.--This story belongs to the Ossianic or Fian cycle of Gaelic tales in prose and verse. Hugh Miller makes reference to it, but speaks of the Fians as giants. In Strathpeffer district the tale is well known, and it is referred to in "Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition." It is also localised in Skye. There are several Fian place-names in the Highlands. The warriors are supposed to lie in a charmed sleep in Craig-a-howe Cave, near Munlochy, Ross-shire. Caoilte, the swift runner, was a famous Fian. Finn was chief, and Goll and Garry were of Clan Morna, which united with the Fians. "Moolachie" is a little babe, and "clarsach," a harp.

_Ledbag's Warning_.--Children who twist their mouths, or squint, are warned that, if the wind changes, their contortions will remain. The fate of the flounder, which mocked the cod, is cited as a terrible example.

_Conn, Son of the Red_ is a Fian tale of which several old Gaelic versions have been collected. Goll, the "first hero" of the Fians, slew the Red when Conn, his son, was seven years old. In the fullness of time the young hero, whom his enemies admire as well as fear, crossed the sea to avenge his father's death, and engaged in a long and fierce duel with Goll.

_Death of Cuchullin_ is from the Cuchullin Cycle of Bronze Age heroic tales. The enemy have invaded and laid waste the province of Ulster, and the chief warriors of the Red Branch, except Cuchullin, who must needs fight alone, are laid under spells by the magicians of the invaders. The poem is suffused with evidences of magical beliefs and practices. Cuchullin goes forth knowing that he will meet his doom. His name signifies "hound of Culann." In his youth he slew Culann's ferocious watch-hound which attacked him, and took its place until another was trained. It was "geis" (taboo) for him to partake of the flesh of a hound (his totem), or eat at a cooking hearth; but he must needs accept the hospitality of the witches. The satirists are satirical bards who, it was believed, could not only lampoon a hero, but infuse their compositions with magical powers like incantations. Cuchullin cannot be slain except by his own spear, which he must deliver up to a satirist who demands it. Emania, the capital of Ulster, was the home of the Bed Branch warriors.

_Sleepy Song_.--When Diarmid eloped with Grianne, as Paris did with Helen, the Fians followed them, so that Finn, their chief, might be avenged. Diarmid, who is the unwilling victim of Grainne's spells, dreads to meet Finn, and is in constant fear of discovery.