Books and other items printed in Gaelic from 1871 to 1900 > Sar-obair nam bard gaelach, or, The beauties of Gaelic poetry, and lives of the Highland bards

180 SAR-OBAIR NAM BARD GAELACH.
Robert continued to attend his usual avocations till within a fortnight of his death,
which took place on the 5th August, 1778, being then aged 64 years. The death of the
bard caused a universal feeling of sadness, not only in his own native corner, but over
tne whole county. It might be said that there was no individual but mourned for him as
a friend : those only excepted whose continued immoralities and errors had rendered
them objects on which fell with severity the powerful lash of his satire.
His stories of wit and humour were inexhaustible ; and, next to superior intelligence
and acuteness of mind, formed perhaps in his every-day character the most distinguishing
feature. He had ever a correct and delicate feeling of his own place ; but if any one,
high or low, superior or equal, drew forth the force of his sarcasm upon themselves, by
assuming any undue liberty on their part, it was an experiment they seldom desired to
repeat. His readiness and quickness of repartee often discovered him where he had been
personally unknown before. At one time, when travelling northward through a part of
Argyllshire, he met by chance with Mr M£Donald of Achatriochadan, well known in
his own country as a man of notable humour and distinguished talents. Robert addressed
to this gentleman some question relative to his way; and giving a civil answer, Mr
M‘Don aid added, “ I perceive, my man, by your dialect, you belong to the north—what
part there?” “ To Lord Reay’s country.” “O! then, you must know Rob Bonn!”
“ Yes I do, as well as I know myself. I could point him out to you in a crowd.”
“ Pray do inform me, then, what sort of person he is, of whom I have heard so much.”
“ A person, I fear, of whom more has been spoken than he well deserves.” “You
think so, do you ?” The last answer did not please the inquirer, who was poetic himself,
thinking he had met with too rigid a censurer of the northern bard, and the conversation
ceased, while they both proceeded together on their way. After a pause, Mr M‘Donald,
pointing to Ben-Nevis, which now rose in the distance before them, says, “ Were you
ever, my man, at the summit of yonder mountain?” “I never was.” “Then you
never have been so near to heaven.” “ And have you yourself been there ?” “ Indeed
I have.” “ And what a fool you have been to descend 1” retorted the bard, “are you
sure of being ever again so nigh ?” M'Donald had caught a tartar. “ I am far deceived,
said he, “ if thou be not thyself Rob Bonn !” The bard did not deny it, and a cordial
friendship was formed between them.
To Rob Bonn’s moral character testimony has already been borne. It was uniformly
respectable. To those acquainted with what may well be denominated the moral and
religious statistics of the bard’s native country at that time, and happily still, it will
furnish no inconsiderable test not only of his moral but of his strictly religious demeanour,
that he was chosen a ruling elder, or member of the Kirk Session of the parish of Dur¬
ness. In that country such an election was never made where the finger of scorn could
be pointed at a blemish of character. It scarcely requires to be told, that his society was
courted not alone by his equals, but still more by his superiors in rank. No social party
almost was esteemed a party without him. No public meeting of the better and the best
of the land was felt to be a full one, without Rob Bonn being there.
In the bosom of his own humble but respectable family, we have good authority for