Ossian Collection > Macdonald bards from mediaeval times

Mhac Mhic Alastair," and said to have been com-
posed in the days of Donald Mac Anghais INIhic
Alastair of Glengarry, in whose veins the Ross
branch had conjoined with the chief of the
MacRonalds by the marriage of his grand-
fatlier and grandmother. Campbell is said
to have been the satirist's name, and the mother
of the poetess was a MacDonald. There are only
two stanzas of the poet's, the rest of tiie song is
ascribed to the poetess : —
AN T-ATIIAIR (THE FATHER).
Thig Mac Shomhairle bho'n Rùta
Le 'chliabhan duilisg, 's le 'liiirich,
Air ghearran ban bacacli frùbach,
'Se 'riiith gu h-oitir nam niùsgan.
Thig larl Eura romh chial Dùragh,
Cho daondacli 's nach faodar a channtas ;
Cha stad e'n taobh so do'n Rata,
'S bheir e maidhni* air larla Hounntaidh.
AN NIGHEAN (THE DAUGHTER).
Thig Mac Shomhairle bho'n Rùta,
'Marcach nam fàlairean crùitheach,
Nan steud fallain, meadhrach, sunntach,
Strian òir 'nan ceann air a lùth-ehleas.
Thig Mac-Mhic Alastair air thus ann,
'S Raonallach g'an coir 'bhi cliùiteach,
("eannard bhàrd is chearach rùisgte,
Chuirinn geall gu'm b' fheàird a' chùis sibh.
Gheibht' 'ad bhaile beùir gun ehunntas,
loraairt thric air phiosan dliitha,
Mac-na-Braich' air bhlas an t-shiùcair,
Air bhòrd aca 's aiseag dlùth air.
Thig Mac-Mhic- Ailein a Mùideart,
Le dheich cewd do dh'fhearaibh clii\iteacli
Nan clogaid 's nan sgiath 's nan h'lireach,
'S nan lann glas nach tais ri rùsgadh.
Thig Mac Athic'Raonnuillbho'nCheapaich,
Cùirt-fhear air 'fliaolum 'an Sasonn,
Nan steud h'lthor nu-Mdlirach gasta,
'8 grcùdhnach a rachadli nan astar.
Dh' eirgheadh leat bho'n Ghleann-an-Chumhann
Oighreachan deas nan cùl buidhe,
Cinn-fheòdhna nach ciiirt' am niughadh,
'8 greòdhnach 'dh' fhalbhadh a' bhuidheann,
'Ailein ruaidh, le d' theangadh liiibte !
Theid mi 'd bhian, is chi do shùil e ;
Bho'n threig thu na facaill bu chliùiteach,
Gu earras 'thoirt leat, 's nach b' fhiùighe e.
Ma ghearras tu slat 's dlùth-choill,
Togar do mhart anns an nbhladh ;
Bidh agad sreang air do chùlaobh,
'S tu 'marcachd air chnagaibh dlùtha.
'S binn leam an langan 's am btiireadh,
Miol-choin 'an ceangal ri d' lùithean,
'Bhi 'gad tharruing as an di\thaich,
Gu citsin a' Bhaile mhiiraich.
* Maoin.
Chunnaig mi long seach an rugha,
Crith air a biiird 's 'na siubhal,
Gaoth 'ga seòladh roimh chaol cnmhann,
Clann-Dòmhnaill-an-fhraoicli, a' bhuidheann.
Translated by Mr Ewan MacLachlan, Aberdeen.
THE FATHER (POET).
See Sumerled's great child from Rutlia speed
With his dilsc-pannier, and rag-fluttering weed.
He trots on the lame, lifeless lazy beast,
To dig for spoilt fish, his luxurious feast.
But Erra's Earl, who makes the valiant yield,
Shall bring his countless armies to the field
To Rutha's towers the hero bends his course,
And Huntly soon shall prove his mighty force.
THE DAUGHTER (POETESS).
Great Sumerled's great son, from Rutha speeds,
Illustrious rider of high-mettled steeds,
With thund'ring prance they beat the smoky plains
And sunbeams glitter from their golden reins.
Glengarry's chief shall lead the warlike throng,
With brave MacRanalds, famed in lofty song.
Oft cheers, thy boon, the bard and shiv'ring swain,
And threat'ning foes defy thy might in vain.
Oft near thy mansion, round the jovial crowd.
Health foU'wing health, the barmy beverage flowed.
While Malt's delicious son with virtues stored
In silver cups quick crossed the lib'ral board.
See Muidart's captain comes with soul on fire,
A thousand warriors march behind their sire,
With helmets, shields, and radiant mail display'd
Dire scene ! where these unsheath the azure blade _
The branch of Ronald comes from Keppoch's
groves.
With easy grace the court-bred warrior moves,
His fiery coursers dart with lightning's pace.
Panting with joy to run in glory's race.
Near these the heirs of Cona's winding vale,
Their yellow tresses streaming on the gale.
Champions that never crouched to mortal foe,
With rapid march around thy standard flow.
Red-pated Allan ! loosely railed your tongue !
My wrath shall scourge you for the insulting song.
At spotless worth you aimed your vulgar jibe,
Deserting fame to gain a jialtry bribe.
If once you dare to touch our sacred grove.
You'll pay the forfeit from your folded drove.
Your back-bound hands the felon's thongs shall
tame.
And iron pegs torment your guilty frame.
How sweet to hear the yell of barking hounds.
Strung to your houghs inflicting wounds on wounds,
And dragging from the land the Knave of Knaves,
Doom'd, in some town, to toil with kitchen slaves.
I saw the barge that passed yon headland mound.
With bellying sails, she skimmed the frothy sound,
Her gallant crew Clann Domhnuill's matchless
name.
That weais the branchy heath in fields of fame.