There are several Gairloch men now living who essay the poetic vein in their own language. One of them is Alexander Mackenzie, of Oban, or Opinan, near Mellon Udrigil. He is called "the bard," and has composed, it is said, some good songs. He lives the ordinary life of a crofter. Perhaps the best known of living Gairloch bards is Duncan Mackenzie, the Kenlochewe bard. He was born in 1831, on the Culinellan farm near Kenlochewe. His father Hector was a weaver at Kenlochewe, and composed some poems, but his muse was neither so prolific nor so notable as that of his son. Duncan's mother was of the Loch Carron Mackenzies, some of whom were also poets. Duncan Mackenzie was never at school, and only learned to read Gaelic after attaining manhood. He had a brother named Malcolm, who was a piper, and died some years ago. The bard displayed his talents at an early age, for he composed several pieces when only eleven years old. The first which attracted public attention to his talents as a bard was a dialogue in verse between himself and Fionnla Leith, which he composed at the age of fifteen. The bard is a crofter at Kenlochewe. Like his father he is a good weaver; at times he has also proved himself an efficient shoemaker, mason, and carpenter. He is not a great singer, but he sometimes, though rarely, renders his own songs in a low voice but with expression. He has composed a large number of songs. A dozen of them have been published by Mr Alexander Mackenzie, under the auspices of the Gaelic Society of Inverness. Many of his pieces are forgotten by himself, though remembered by his neighbours. He has over fifty in manuscript. He excels in satire, and a vein of sometimes rather strong humour pervades his poems. He is a tall slender man, with plenty of beard, and still frequently dons the kilt. The following poem was composed by the Kenlochewe bard on the marriage of Sir Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Bart. of Gairloch. Appended is an English version of the song which Professor Blackie has kindly made for this book. It is a close translation:— Oran da Shir Coinneach Ghearrloch an oidhche a phos e. Chuala mi naigheachd ro thaitneach ri h-eis 'neachd, Sgeula chaidh aithris am baile Dhun-eidin, Sir Coinneach bhi seachnadh ard bhan-tighearnan Shasuinn, Sa posadh ri ainnir, cho maiseach ri te dhiu'. Nighean tighearn IlÈ tha cinnteach ro uasal, Cho fad sa theid firinn a sgriobhadh man cuairt dÌ', Eireachdail, finealta, direach, ro-stuama, Ailleagan priseil, bho shin i air gluasad. Tha uaisle nan nadur thug bar air na ceudan, "Ban-tighearn og Ghearrloch" an trath sa dha h-eigheachd, 'S cupaichean lana dha 'n traghadh le eibhneas. Tein-aighir 's gach aite, le gairdeachas inntinn, Bho iosal Strath Ghearrloch gu BraighÉ na tirÈ An tuath-cheatharn laidir dha'm b-abhaist bhi dileas, A dearbhadh an cairdeas 's an daimh nach da dhiobair. Tha i' slean 'us uaislean san uair so aig feasda, Ag innse gach buaidh a bha dualach dha'n teaghlach, Nan suidhÈ gu h-uallach an guaillean a cheile Ag guidhe bhi buan doibh, le suaibhneas 'us eibhneas. A bhan-tighearn og aluinn tha'n traths air an tir so, A dh-fhior fhuil nan Armunn bha tamh ann an IlÈ, Na Caimbeulaich laidir, bho chrioch Ar-a-Ghaidheil, Toir buaidh air an namhaid 's gach ait anns am bi iad. Tha cliu air na gaisgich dha'm b-aitreabh an tigh DigÈ, 'S priseil an eachdraidh th'air cleachdadh na sinnsear, Bu mhoralach, maiseach, an curaidh Sir Eachainn; Bha eis'neachd aig fhacal am BailÈ na rioghachd. Sir Frank, an duin' uasal, bu shuaircÈ ro choir e, Meas aig an t-sluagh air, 's bha 'n tuath air an seol leis, Sealgair na'm fuar-bheann, ceum uallach air mointich: 'S minic a bhuail e, na luath's an damh croiceach. Buaidh 'us cinneachdainn piseach, 'us ainm dhoibh, SlaintÈ 'us toileachdainn, sonas 'us sealbh dhoibh, Saoghal fada, gun ghainnÈ, gun chearb dhoibh, Gearrloch 'us Lagaidh, bhi pailt ann an airgiod. Epithalamium on the Marriage of Sir Kenneth Mackenzie, Baronet of Gairloch, and Miss Eila Campbell of Islay. I heard a piece of news last night, good news that brings no sorrow, Good news that sped on lightsome wings from castled Edinboro', That good Sir Kenneth wisely shuns an English maid to woo, But he will marry a bonnie lass of Celtic blood and true. A daughter of brave Islay's lord, a perfect lady she From top to toe, this all who speak the truth will tell to thee; Handsome she is, stately and tall, winsome and chaste and good: In all she is, and all she does, a jewel of womanhood. Among a thousand ladies she will bravely bear the bell. The Lady of Gairloch! I hear them shout with loud acclaim, While brimming cups are freely poured to her high honoured name. And bonfires blaze on all the heights, and all hearts are ablaze, From the green shelter of the strath up to the hoary braes; And all the clansmen stout and true attend with loyal pride, To prove their fealty to their chief, and greet his noble bride. Both high and low are feasting now, and telling man to man The virtues that from sire to son flowed on to bless the clan: Proudly they sit in friendly groups, and pray that evermore On them and theirs a gracious God full horn of joy may pour. The lovely lady long the pride of Islay's faithful strand, Of old heroic stock, shall now rule o'er this happy land; In west Argyll her kinsmen dwell, the clan of mighty name, Who never flinched and never failed to conquer where they came. In Tigh mor's goodly hall they sit, where deeds of great renown The blazoned story of the clan from sire to son come down: Sir Hector was a noble man, and when debate was stirred At Dingwall or at Inverness they owned his mighty word. Sir Francis was a gentleman, right courteous and polite, And all his tenants loved the lord who always loved the right; A hunter bold was he, and keen to mount from crag to crag, With wary foot, and bring to ground the fleet high-antlered stag. Good luck and joy be with the pair, favour from God and man; Health and goodwill and acres broad well planted with the clan; And length of happy days be theirs, and blessings without measure, And a fat purse to serve their need and entertain their leisure. The following are twelve verses of the song in praise of Tournaig, with an English version by Mr W. Clements Good, of Aberdeen:— Oran. On's e'n diugh an dara Maigh Bho 'na ghabh mi 'n Turnaig tamh, Air leam fein nach b'olc an cas Air a sgath ged' dheilbhinn rann. Hurabh o gun tog mi fonn, 'S toil leam fein an Coire donn, Diridh mi 'mach ris a mhaoil; 'S fallain gaoth a thaobh na meall. 'S gloirmhor obair Nadair fein, Grian a g'oradh neoil nan speur, Cuan na chomhnard boidheach reidh, 'S torman seimh aig seis nan allt. Hurabh o, &c. Turnaig aoibhinn, Turnaig aigh, Turnaig shaoibhir, Turnaig lan, Turnaig bheartach, 's pailte barr, Turnaig ghnaiseach, ghranach, throm. Hurabh o, &c. Tha gach tlachd na d' thaic'air fas, Sliabh is srath is cladach sail; D'uillt do neamhneidibh cho lan Far an snamh an dobhran donn. Hurabh o, &c. Tha do chladach clachadh, ard, Geodhach, stacach, fasgach, blath; H-uile sloc is lag is bagh Loma-lan do mhaorach trom. Hurabh o, &c. Bradain mheanmnach na d' loch sail, Iteach ballabhreac's earragheal tarr, Suibhlach luath, na chuaich mar bharc, Tigh'n on 'chuan gu tamh 'm bun d'allt Hurabh o, &c. Loch-nan-dail le chladach 'seoin, Loch-nan-lach is glaise geoidh, Iasgach pailt air bhailc nan ob, 'S gasd 'an spors do sheoid dhol ann. Hurabh o, &c. Anns gach glaic tha pailteas naoisg, Air gach stacan, coileach fraoich 'Mach na d' aonach sgaoth chearc donn. Hurabh o, &c. Coill Aigeascaig gu ceutach cluth, 'S am beil legion coileach-dubh, Sud an doire 'n goir iad moch, Seinn am puirt le'm bus-ghuib chrom, Hurabh o, &c. Cuag chuldonn anns gach ait' Seinn guggug an dluths 'nam barr, Breacaidh-beith 'sa ghlas charn, Snathadag is dreadhan donn, Hurabh o, &c. Smudan, smeorach, creothar, dnag, Sud an ceol is boidhche sgread; 'S bru-dearg ruiteach gearradh fead, Thuas air creagan os an cionn. Hurabh o, &c. Leam a b'ait bhi seal le'm ghaol, G-eisdeachd cruitearan do chraobh; Gabhail beachd air obair shaor Nadair aonsgeulaich 's gach ball. Hurabh o, &c. Song on Tournaig. Twice has the bright returning May Inspired me to poetic lay, Since Tournaig's hills first knew my tread And cast their shadows o'er my head. Hurrah, the chorus let me raise! The Corrie be my theme of praise, On whose brown ridge the heather grows, And where the healthful north wind blows. Here nature glories in her pride; O'er heaven the clouds, all sunlit, glide; Like polished shield the ocean glows, The babbling burn sings as it flows. Hurrah, &c. &c. Tournaig! thou home beloved by me! With rich green crop and sloping lea, Dotting afar each breezy steep. Hurrah, &c. &c. I ne'er can cease my praise of thee! Here hill and strath and briny sea; There streams which from the mountains glide, Where pearls abound and otters hide. Hurrah, &c. &c. High is thy shore against the storm, Yet lined with sheltered coves and warm; Whilst shell-fish fill each rocky hole Where never ocean's waves can roll. Hurrah, &c. &c. And he who gazes in the deep May see the silvery salmon sweep, With graceful curve and stately turn, To seek his food below the burn. Hurrah, &c. &c. Or we can haste to Loch-nan-Dail, Where the brown trout will never fail; Whilst flocks of duck and grey goose soar From marshy haunts upon its shore. Hurrah, &c. &c. The shaggy herd each meadow feeds, The snipe lies close within the reeds; Each step the heather-cock may rouse, Loud warning his less wary spouse. Hurrah, &c. &c. Coille Aigeascaig,—shade from the heat! Here is the blackcock's sure retreat; Yonder they crow at early day, With bent bills crooning forth their lay. Hurrah, &c. &c. Wood pigeon, mavis, and night jar, Make music sweet both near and far; Full joyously the redbreasts call, Perched on the rock high o'er them all. Hurrah, &c. &c. "Coo, coo," the cuckoo cries aloft, The chaffinch sings in tones more soft, The fieldfare, titlark, and the wren All swell the chorus of thy glen. Hurrah, &c. &c. Nor elsewhere do more clearly shine The works of God in nature's face, Harmonious in every place. Hurrah, &c. &c. Would that we two were wandering now Where these wild woods could hear our vow! Ne'er could we roam midst scenes more grand Than in this rugged northern land! Hurrah, &c. &c. Alexander Bain, who is a crofter, thatcher, and dyker at Lonmor, was born about 1849. He has composed a number of excellent poems and songs in his native tongue. He is a much-respected and very worthy man, and is a sergeant in the Gairloch volunteers. He is of middle height and good physique. Alexander Bain has composed the following elegy on the late well-known Dr Kennedy of Dingwall, who died in 1884, and who might be termed the bishop of the Free Church in the north-west Highlands. The doctor's fervid eloquence was often to be heard during sacramental services in the Leabaidh na BÀine at Gairloch. Appended is an English rendering of the elegy, mainly contributed by Mr Good:— Elegy on Dr Kennedy. Sorrow overwhelms the Highlands; Saintly Kennedy is dead! Christian souls in woe bewail him Sleeping in his narrow bed. Though the truth shines 'midst the darkness, Dimly burns the golden flame Since beneath the sod they laid him, Lovely in his life and aim. Death's dark angel hovers o'er him; Low our star of goodness falls; Wild laments are unavailing,— 'Tis the Master gently calls! Dried up is that fount of beauty, Quenched that welling stream of grace; Our sad hearts will bleed with anguish Till in heaven we see his face. All the elders, broken-hearted, Mourn their guiding star; his flock Mourn their pastor, him who helped them To confide in Christ their Rock. Bright above his many virtues Shone the seal of love divine; None can equal his brave spirit,— None such noble powers combine. Clouds and gloomy shadows gather O'er the church for evermore; Yet, though shaken are her bastions, Her foundations still are sure. Thou the sweetest branch hast stood; Eloquent thou wast, when preaching Life through Christ's most precious blood. Blameless was thy life-long journey, With the choicest goodness blest; In thy wisdom, sense, and knowledge Thou wast high above the rest. Like the sun thy light was shining, Praising Jesus day by day: Truly thou wast ever ready Through death's vale to take thy way. |