Duncan Macintyre (Donacha Ban) is considered by his countrymen the most extraordinary genius that the Highlands in modern times have produced. Without having learned a letter of any alphabet, he was enabled to pour forth melodies that charmed every ear to which they were intelligible. And he is understood to have had the published specimens of his poetry committed to writing by no mean judge of their merit,—the late Dr Stewart of Luss,—who, when a young man, became acquainted with this extraordinary person, in consequence of his being employed as a kind of under-keeper in a forest adjoining to the parish of which the Doctor's father was minister. Macintyre was born in Druimliart of Glenorchy on the 20th of March 1724, and died in October 1812. He was chiefly employed in the capacity of keeper in several of the Earl of Breadalbane's forests. He carried a musket, however, in his lordship's fencibles; which led him to take part, much against his inclination, in the Whig ranks at the battle of Falkirk. Later in life he transferred his musket to the Edinburgh City Guard. Macintyre's best compositions are those which are descriptive of forest scenes, and those which he dedicated to the praise of his wife. His verses are, however, very numerous, and embrace a vast variety of subjects. From the extraordinary diffusiveness of his descriptions, and the boundless luxuriance of his expressions, much difficulty has been experienced in reproducing his strains in the English idiom.
MAIRI BHĀN ŌG. MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D. My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,
My life-time love, my own!
The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie
Was bound to me alone,
By covenant true, and ritual holy,
Gave happiness all but divine;
Nor needed there more to transport me wholly,
Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.
*****
'Twas a Monday morn, and the way that parted
Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,
The troth to plight with a maiden true-hearted,
That force can never unbind.
I led her apart, and the hour that we reckon'd,
While I gain'd a love and a bride,
I heard my heart, and could tell each second,
As its pulses struck on my side.
*****
I told my ail to the foe that pain'd me,
And said that no salve could save;
She heard the tale, and her leech-craft it sain'd me,
For herself to my breast she gave.
*****
Forever, my dear, I 'll dearly adore thee
For chasing away, away,
My fancy's delusion, new loves ever choosing,
And teaching no more to stray.
I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril surveying,
All shapely from branch to stem,
My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying
To cull the fairest from them;
One branch of perfume, in blossom all over,
Bent lowly down to my hand,
And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,
To me, the least of the band.
I went to the river, one net-cast I threw in,
Where the stream's transparence ran,
Forget shall I never, how the beauty[108] I drew in,
Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.
Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection
With such a prize to my share!
My love is a ray, a morning reflection,
Beside me she sleeps, a star.
BENDOURAIN, THE OTTER MOUNT. Bendourain is a forest scene in the wilds of Glenorchy. The poem, or lay, is descriptive, less of the forest, or its mountain fastnesses, than of the habits of the creatures that tenant the locality—the dun-deer, and the roe. So minutely enthusiastic is the hunter's treatment of his theme, that the attempt to win any favour for his performance from the Saxon reader, is attended with no small risk,—although it is possible that a little practice with the rifle in any similar wilderness may propitiate even the holiday sportsman somewhat in favour of the subject and its minute details. We must commit this forest minstrel to the good-nature of other readers, entreating them only to render due acknowledgment to the forbearance which has, in the meantime, troubled them only with the first half of the performance, and with a single stanza of the finale. The composition is always rehearsed or sung to pipe music, of which it is considered, by those who understand the original, a most extraordinary echo, besides being in other respects a very powerful specimen of Gaelic minstrelsy. URLAR. The noble Otter hill!
It is a chieftain Beinn,[109]
Ever the fairest still
Of all these eyes have seen.
Spacious is his side;
I love to range where hide,
In haunts by few espied,
The nurslings of his den.
In the bosky shade
Of the velvet glade,
Couch, in softness laid,
The nimble-footed deer;
To see the spotted pack,
That in scenting never slack,
Coursing on their track,
Is the prime of cheer.
Merry may the stag be,
The lad that so fairly
Flourishes the russet coat
That fits him so rarely.
'Tis a mantle whose wear
Time shall not tear;
'Tis a banner that ne'er
Sees its colours depart:
And when they seek his doom,
Let a man of action come,
A hunter in his bloom,
With rifle not untried:
A notch'd, firm fasten'd flint,
To strike a trusty dint,
And make the gun-lock glint
With a flash of pride.
Let the barrel be but true,
And the stock be trusty too,
So, Lightfoot,[110] though he flew,
Shall be purple-dyed.
He should not be novice bred,
But a marksman of first head,
By whom that stag is sped,
In hill-craft not unskill'd;
So, when Padraig of the glen
Call'd his hounds and men,
The hill spake back again,
As his orders shrill'd;
Then was firing snell,
And the bullets rain'd like hail,
And the red-deer fell
Like warrior on the field.
SIUBHAL. Oh, the young doe so frisky,
So coy, and so fair,
That gambols so briskly,
And snuffs up the air;
And hurries, retiring,
To the rocks that environ,
When foemen are firing,
And bullets are there.
Though swift in her racing,
Like the kinsfolk before her,
No heart-burst, unbracing
Her strength, rushes o'er her.
'Tis exquisite hearing
Her murmur, as, nearing,
Her mate comes careering,
Her pride, and her lover;—
He comes—and her breathing
Her rapture is telling;
How his antlers are wreathing,
His white haunch, how swelling!
High chief of Bendorain,
He seems, as adoring
His hind, he comes roaring
To visit her dwelling.
'Twere endless my singing
How the mountain is teeming
With thousands, that bringing
Each a high chief's[111] proud seeming,
With his hind, and her gala
Of younglings, that follow
O'er mountain and beala,[112]
All lightsome are beaming.
When that lightfoot so airy,
Her race is pursuing,
Oh, what vision saw e'er a
Feat of flight like her doing?
She springs, and the spreading grass
Scarce feels her treading,
It were fleet foot that sped in
Twice the time that she flew in.
The gallant array!
How the marshes they spurn,
In the frisk of their play,
And the wheelings they turn,—
As the cloud of the mind
They would distance behind,
And give years to the wind,
In the pride of their scorn!
'Tis the marrow of health
In the forest to lie,
Where, nooking in stealth,
They enjoy her[113] supply,—
Her fosterage breeding
A race never needing,
Save the milk of her feeding,
From a breast never dry.
Her hill-grass they suckle,
Her mammets[114] they swill,
And in wantonness chuckle
O'er tempest and chill;
With their ankles so light,
And their girdles[115] of white,
And their bodies so bright
With the drink of the rill.
Through the grassy glen sporting
In murmurless glee,
Nor snow-drift nor fortune
Shall urge them to flee,
Save to seek their repose
In the clefts of the knowes,
And the depths of the howes
Of their own Eas-an-ti.[116]
URLAR. Macintyre acted latterly as a constable of the City Guard of Edinburgh, a situation procured him by the Earl of Breadalbane, at his own special request; that benevolent nobleman having inquired of the bard what he could do for him to render him independent in his now advanced years. His salary as a peace-officer was sixpence a-day; but the poet was so abundantly satisfied with the attainment of his position and endowments, that he gave expression to his feelings of satisfaction in a piece of minstrelsy, which in the original ranks among his best productions. Of this ode we are enabled to present a faithful metrical translation, quite in the spirit of the original, as far as conversion of the Gaelic into the Scottish idiom is practicable. The version was kindly undertaken at our request by Mr William Sinclair, the ingenious author of "Poems of the Fancy and the Affections," who has appropriately adapted it to the lively tune, "Alister M'Alister." The song, remarks Mr Sinclair, is much in the spirit, though in a more humorous strain, of the famous Sword Song, beginning in the translation, "Come forth, my glittering Bride," composed by Theodore KÖrner of Dresden, and the last and most remarkable of his patriotic productions, wherein the soldier addresses his sword as his bride, thereby giving expression to the most glowing sentiments of patriotism. Macintyre addresses as his wife the musket which he carried as an officer of the guard; and is certainly as enthusiastic in praise of his new acquisition, as ever was love-sick swain in eulogy of the most attractive fair one. Oh! mony a turn of woe and weal
May happen to a Highlan' man;
Though he fall in love he soon may feel
He cannot get the fancied one;
The first I loved in time that 's past,
I courted twenty years, ochone!
But she forsook me at the last,
And Duncan then was left alone.
To Edinbro' I forthwith hied
To seek a sweetheart to my mind,
An', if I could, to find a bride
For the fause love I left behind;
Said Captain Campbell of the Guard,
"I ken a widow secretly,
An' I 'll try, as she 's no that ill faur'd,
To put her, Duncan, in your way."
As was his wont, I trow, did he
Fulfil his welcome promise true,
He gave the widow unto me,
And all her portion with her too;
And whosoe'er may ask her name,
And her surname also may desire,
They call her Janet[125]—great her fame—
An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.
She 's quiet, an' affable, an' free,
No vexing gloom or look at hand,
As high in rank and in degree
As any lady in the land;
She 's my support and my relief,
Since e'er she join'd me, any how;
Great is the cureless cause of grief
To him who has not got her now!
Nic-Coisean[126] I 've forsaken quite,
Altho' she liveth still at ease—
An' allow the crested stags to fight
And wander wheresoe'er they please,
A young wife I have chosen now,
Which I repent not any where,
I am not wanting wealth, I trow,
Since ever I espoused the fair.
I pass my word of honour bright—
Most excellent I do her call;
In her I ne'er, in any light,
Discover'd any fault at all.
She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,
Without a hidden fault, my friend;
In her, defect I never found,
Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.
When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!
For money in a great degree;
Ah, George's daughter—generous lass—
Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;
She keepeth me in drink, and stays
By me in ale-houses and all,
An' at once, without a word, she pays
For every stoup I choose to call!
An' every turn I bid her do
She does it with a willing grace;
She never tells me aught untrue,
Nor story false, with lying face;
She keeps my rising family
As well as I could e'er desire,
Although no labour I do try,
Nor dirty work for love or hire.
I labour'd once laboriously,
Although no riches I amass'd;
A menial I disdain'd to be,
An' keep my vow unto the last.
I have ceased to labour in the lan',
Since e'er I noticed to my wife,
That the idle and contented man
Endureth to the longest life.
'Tis my musket—loving wife, indeed—
In whom I faithfully believe,
She 's able still to earn my bread,
An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive;
I 'll have no lack of linens fair,
An' plenty clothes to serve my turn,
An' trust me that all worldly care
Now gives me not the least concern.
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