  BY ALASTAIR OG. [CONTINUED.] During the relation of the first part of the legend—that which described the atrocious conduct of Allan Dubh and his associates, the members gave evident signs of disapprobation. Norman was constantly interrupted with such exclamations as "Ubh ubh," "Oh na traillean," "Na bruidean," "Na murtairean," and various others of the same complimentary nature ("Oh the servile wretches," "The brutes," "The murderers"), but as the story proceeded, and the tide turned in favour of the revenging Mackenzies, although their own means of retaliation were almost equally inhuman, the tone of the circle gradually changed; and when Norman finished there was a general chorus of satisfaction at the final result, the only expression of regret being the death of the young and brave leader of the Mackenzies, and the escape of Allan Dubh Mac Ranuil from the clutches of his pursuers. "A capital story and well told" says Ian a Bhuidhe (John Buidhe). "I heard it before somewhere, but my version of it was not near so full as yours, and it differed in various particulars. According to mine there was a chief of Glengarry in the early part of the 17th century whose name was Angus Macdonnel, and who held a small property called Strome, in the centre of the lands belonging to the Mackenzies, in the neighbourhood of Lochalsh. The Mackenzies were most anxious to get rid of their neighbour, and finding it impossible to dispossess him of Strome by lawful means, they, during the night, seized, and, in cold blood, murdered the Master of Glengarry, who was at the time indisposed and unable to escape. "A few survivors of the Master's adherents returned to Glengarry and informed the old Chief of the death of his eldest son and heir, through the perfidy of the Mackenzies. Angus became frantic with rage and regret, and sat silent and moody, exhibiting only 'the unconquerable will, the study of revenge, immortal hate!' On the following day he sent a messenger to Ardachy to the Gille Maol Dubh, informing him that he had to perform a sacred duty to his Chief and kindred, and that for its effectual and complete discharge one possessing the four following qualifications was indispensably necessary—namely, 'Misneachd, scoltachd, treubhantas, agus maisealachd' (courage, cunning, bravery, and beauty). The Gille Maol Dubh said he knew the very man, and sent to his chief, Ronald Macranuil, whom he guaranteed to possess all the necessary qualifications. Glengarry was much pleased with Ronald's appearance and fierce disposition, and having informed him of his son's violent and untimely death said, 'I want you to revenge it, and your reward shall depend on the extent of your service. Go then, gather your followers, and heedless of place or time destroy all who bear the hateful name of Mackenzie.' "Macranuil selected the flower of the clan, marched during the night and arrived at the Chapel of Cilliechriost on the Sabbath morning, where they massacred the unsuspecting inmates as described in your version of the legend far more graphically than in mine, but they are on all fours, regarding the facts and incidents except that in mine, the Mackenzies overtook and routed the Macdonalds at Lon na fola or the 'Bog of Blood,' near Mealfuarvonie, and that it was at Ault a Ghiuthais, across a chasm four hundred feet high, with a fearful and foaming cataract beneath, that Lundi made his celebrated leap, and not in Ault-Sigh as in yours. I am, however, disposed to think your version is the most correct of the two." We shall now give the following poem composed by Andrew Fraser of Inverness, and inscribed to Sir Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Baronet of Gairloch, during his minority, to whom we are indebted for the manuscript. It corroborates Norman's version of the Raid of Cilliechriost in almost every particular, and has considerable merit of its own as an original composition:— THE RAID OF MACRANUIL—BURNING OF CILLIECHRIOST.Most respectfully inscribed to the Heir of Gairloch, &c., &c. Gathered are Glengarrie's pride On Lochlundie's mossy side, The Crantara they obey, They are met they know not why, But they bind the broadsword on; And the studded buckler shone As the evening's sunny rays Burnt in summer's orient blaze Through the silent sombre wood That lines the margin of the flood. Mark, O mark that eagle crest, Towering lordly o'er the rest, Like the tall and monarch pine Which waves its head in dark Glenlyne, When the stormy cloud is cast Above that region of the blast. Mark that forehead's fitful glow, Mark that grey and shaggy brow, Mark, O mark that dreadful eye Which glistens but on misery. Now rolling in revengeful mood O'er the thoughts of coming blood, Then casting to the glorious sky A glance of hopeless agony. Warrior of the savage breast, Fell Macranuil 'twas thy crest, 'Twas the banner of thy race Which the wondering eye might trace, As it wound by wood and brake, Rolling stream and stilly lake, As it fluttered for a while On the brow of dark Torgoil, Or descended the rough side Of the Moristone's wild tide. Silent is Macranuil's tread And his followers' stealthy speed, As they cross the lovely glen Where Urquhart's waters, flow between Hillocks where the zephyrs dwell, In the blue and fragrant bell: Groves where echo answers ever The low murmurs of the river; And the mountain top is seen Snow-speck'd in the distant scene. Mhicranuil! why that softened pace? Thou seek'st not now the wary chase? Why do'st thou and thy warriors keen So fold your plaids that nought is seen Of arms or armour, even the lance Whereon your pendant used to glance Its blazoned "Lamh dhearg" 'mid the rays Of solar light, or battle blaze, Has disappeared, and each wild look Scowls at the music of the brook, As if sweet nature seemed to scan The inmost heart of guilty man? Oh! can you in a scene so loved By all that's holy stand unmoved? Can vengeance in that heart be found Which vibrates on this blessed ground? Can that lone deep cathedral bell Cast all around its sacred spell? And yet on ruthless murder bent, Its voice to thee in vain be sent? Mhicranuil? raise thy haggard eye, And say beneath the glowing sky Is there a spot where man may rest More beautiful, more truly blest Than where the Beauly pours its stream Through nature's all-romantic Dream, Down to that ridge which bounds the south The voice of praise was heard to peal From Cillechriost's low holy aisle, And on the Sabbath's stilly air Arose the hopeful soul of pray'r: When on the pastor's thoughtful face Played something like a radiant grace; Still was each thought to heaven sent, Still was each knee in prayer bent; Still did each heart in wonder rise To something far beyond the skies, When burst, as an electric cloud Had wrapt them in a flaming shroud, The roof above, the sides around, The altar—nay the very ground Seemed burning, mingled with the air In one wild universal flare! Hark, heaven! through the lurid air Sprung the wild scream of mad despair, Those that so late did breath but love, Whose kindred hearts were interwove, Now tore away strong nature's ties Amidst her stronger agonies; Affection, frantic, burst the band That linked them often hand to hand, And rushed along the maddening tide Which rolled in flames from side to side. Eager the crowded porch to gain In hopes of safety. Ah! how vain? The demon ministers of death. From stern Glengarrie's land of heath Stood bristled round the burning fane Like hells last hopeless, hideous chain, That even the infant might not die Beneath a brighter, cooler sky, Whilst in their savageness of joy The war-pipe screams their victory. PIOBREACHD CILLECHRIOST.Ho! Clanchonich? mark the blaze Reddening all your kindred skies, Hear ye not your children's cries Welcoming Macranuil? Hear ye not the eagle scream O'er the curling, crackling flame Which flies to heaven with the name Of glorious Clandonuil? Ho! horo? the war-note swell, Burst aloud Clanchonich's wail! Hark! it is their wild farewell To Allan-du-Macranuil! Never yet did victor smile On a nobler funeral pile, Than rushes from this holy aisle In memory of Clandonuil! Never shall pale sorrow's tear Blanch the cheek that slumbers here, They have pressed a warmer bier For Allan-du-Macranuil! Never shall a footstep roam From their dreary voiceless home They have slept in one red tomb For grateful Clandonuil! The house of prayer in embers lay, The crowded meeting wore away; The quieted herdboy saw them go With downcast look, serene and slow; But never by the wonted path That wound so smoothly through the heath And led to many a cottage door By meadow-stream, and flow'ry moor, Came back a human voice to say How that meeting sped away. The Conon lends the ready ford, The Conon glitters back the sword, The Conon casts the echo wide, "Arise Clanchonich! to the raid; Pursue the monsters to their lair, Pursue them hell, and earth, and air; Pursue them till the page of time Forgets their name, forgets their crime." The sun had sunk in the far sea, But the moon rose bright and merrily, And by the sparkling midnight beam That fell upon the gladdened stream; The wild deer might be seen to look On his dark shadow in the brook, Whilst the more timorous hind lay by Enamoured of the lovely sky. Bright heaven! 'twas a glorious scene, The sparry rock, the vale between, The light arch'd cataract afar Swift springing like a falling star From point to point till lost to view, It fades in deep ethereal blue. So lone the hour, so fair the night, The scene, the green and woody height, Which rises o'er Glenconvent's vale Like beauty in a fairy tale. Here where the heavenward soul might stray, The red remorseless spoiler lay, Where holy praise was wont to rise Like incense to the opening skies: In broken and unhallowed dreams He laughs amid the roar of flames. Ha! see he starts, afar is heard The war-cry wild of "Tullach Ard." Away Mhicranuil! with thy band, Away, Clanchonich is at hand, Scale rock and ravine, hill, and dale, Plunge through the depths of Urquhart's vale, And spread thy followers one by one, 'Tis meet that thou should'st be alone. It boots not for the jerkin red, Fit emblem of the man of blood, Is singled still, and still pursued Through open moor and tangled wood. High bounding as the hunted stag He scales the wild and broken crag, And with one desperate look behind Again his steps are on the wind. Why does he pause? means he to yield? He casts aside his ponderous shield, His plaid is flung upon the heath, More firm he grasps the blade of death, And springing wildly through the air Unhesitating, bold, and young, Across the gulf Mackenzie sprung; But ah! too short one fatal step, He clears, but barely clears the leap, When slipping on the further side He hung suspended o'er the tide; A tender twig sustained his weight, Above the wild and horrid height. One fearful moment whilst he strove To grasp the stronger boughs above. But all too late, Macranuil turns With fiendish joy his bosom burns, "Go, I have given you much," he said, "The twig is cut—the debt is paid."
"Ah," says Domhnull a Bhuidhe, another of the bard's sons, "these men of Glengarry were a fine race. For real courage and bravery few in the Highlands could excel them. I remember once hearing a story of young 'Glen,' in which, perhaps, is exhibited the finest example of daring ever recorded in the annals of our country. Once upon a time Old Glengarry was very unpopular with all the northern chiefs in consequence of his many raids and spoliations among the surrounding tribes; but although he was now advanced in years and unable to lead his clan in person none of the neighbouring chiefs could muster courage to beard him in his den single-handed. There was never much love lost between him and the chief of the Mackenzies, and about this time some special offence was given to the latter by the Macdonnels, which the chief of Eilean-donnan swore would have to be revenged; and the insult must be wiped out at whatever cost. His clan was at the time very much subdivided, and he felt himself quite unable to cope with Glengarry in arms. Mackenzie, however, far excelled his enemy in ready invention, and possessed a degree of subtlety which usually more than made up for his enemy's superior physical power. "'Kintail' managed to impress his neighbouring chiefs with the belief that Glengarry purposed, and was making arrangements to take them all by surprise and annihilate them by one fell swoop, and that in these circumstances it was imperative for their mutual safety to make arrangements forthwith by which the danger would be obviated and the hateful author of such a diabolical scheme extinguished root and branch. By this means he managed to produce the most bitter prejudice against Glengarry and his clan; but all of them being convinced of the folly and futility of meeting the 'Black Raven,' as he was called, man to man and clan to clan, Mackenzie invited them to meet him at a great council in Eilean-donnan Castle the following week to discuss the best means of protecting their mutual interests, and to enter into a solemn league, and swear on the 'raven's cross' to exterminate the hated Glengarry and his race, and to raze, burn, and plunder everything belonging to them. "Old Glengarry, whom the ravages of war had already reduced to one son out of several, and he, only a youth of immature years, heard of the confederacy formed against him with great and serious concern. He (To be Continued.) FOOTNOTES:
|
|
