Blair Collection > Celtic monthly > Volume 1, 1893

THE CELTIC MONTHLY.
are told of one hundred harpists being present
at the same exercise of hardship. The numbers
of modes on which it was composed, and the
variety of cadences, resulting from the Gaelic
having no uncompounded word of more than one
syllable that has not the accent on the first,
seems to me, in Gaelic music, to necessitate
something far higher than a mere knowledge of
octaves only. This also appears from the fact
that when the Gaels were marching into battle,
with the bards in front, a thousand and more in
number, chanting their march, occasionally the
whole army broke in with all their might, strik-
ing their shields with their sword-hilts. Now,
if this was a noise, and not a sound — in other
words, unless the voices and the shields, and the
shields amongst themselves, were in harmony —
instead of rousing a musically-susceptible people
like the Gaels to the tremendous enthusiasm of
the " mir-cath," it would depress them to all the
depths of poltroonery that it is possible for a
Gael to feel; and which history declares to be
unappreciable to others
Ammianus, in the passage already referred
to, states that amongst the Celtic Gauls their
bards celebrated the achievements of their heroes
in epic verse, accompanied with sweet airs on
the lyre.
3rd. The words and music were alike rhyth-
mical, the words dominating the music, and not
the music the words. They were in perfect
accord with each other in time, accent, and ex-
pression. But, beyond this, both bore in them
the poetic inspiration, which the bards, espe-
cially Ossian, claim in such rapturous terms.
The effect upon the spirits of the Gaels was
such as to incent them to the loftiest heights of
valour, termed by them the " mir-cath." This
was in war ; but in peace also this hardship led
the Gael to practice all that in their ethical code
made them and their nation great and honour-
able. Turn from this to the prevailing prose
chant so characteristic of this age, where the
music dominates the words, whilst the latter
have no correct, if any, time, accent, measure or
expression, and which, in their agony to catch
the music, frequently become a babble. Where,
then, is the culture, in century three or century
nineteen 1 I must add, however, to prevent
mistake, that our Gaelic rhythmical chant has
not, like the dismal and doleful Gregorian tones,
one note to one syllable, because they may have
two or even three syllables to one note of the
music, but only that the words and music are
related, and clink into each other with such
perfect adaptation, as to give the powers and
inherences of both. The merely aesthetic music
of the Gael I do not at present refer to. Some
of the singing was undoubtedly antiphonal. At
New York I was informed by the best authority
that at an unreformed synagogue there I would
hear the psalms sung as in David's time I had
the pleasure of going there, and finding that
they were sung rhythmically, and in such
fashion as to delight a Gaelic bard's spirit.
The subject is a very wide one, and your
space only allows me to point out a few promi-
nent characteristics. I close, then, with a few-
stanzas of Ossian's, showing, first, the place
given to woman, and, second, the rhythmic
chant.
COXX'S CHANT OF THE SECOND CENTURY.
(Fmgal, Duan iv.. verse 1).
Ossian Soliloq i
Key G.
J:d|d:r|n:s|n : — | r : n I r : s | n J
I \
\: rln :- I -: n I r : s | n : sin :- | r
: ml s : m I r : r d :— I — I
:,|d:-
Who is tliis that with song from the hen cornea,
Like to Lena's arch, seen midst of showers ?
'Tis the youthful, whose accents are music—
Toscar's white-handed daughter, the pure.
Ossian addresses Malvina.
Oft, indeed, to my song hast thou hearkened.
And oft have thy tear-drops down flowed ;
Now, then, list we to feats done by heroes,
And to blue-mailed Uscar's bright fame.
When depart will the shadow from ('una,
That Cona whose streams aloud sound;
As for me, my arm is now helpless,
And my age steeped in darkening gloom.
! my daughter, the fair and the lovely,
Whose hand is as white as the snow.
My days midst of battle have spent been,
When no blindness nor gloom laid me low.
Nor yet was I thus sad and waesome,
When her love Evirallan me gave,
Evirallin, my brown-haired, sweet maiden,
Brauo's daughter of bosom the fair.
The translation is my own, and however de-
fective otherwise, it gives the rhythm.
Note. — 1 don't suppose that many, if any, will
now dispute Ossian's era and genuine hardship
after the perfect proof given that Fingal reigned