Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see.
If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
And the talk of the clachan are we.
She 's ailing for ever—my welcome is small,
If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;
Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,
Are ready to greet my return.
Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,
I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,
I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever—
Short while would suffice me to mourn.
It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
It was not a heart pierced through with stitches—
'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
That brought me a bargain like Janet.
O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
Or a kick, if her foot is within it.
No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
The core of my heart with her bother.
For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
For a hag can you shew such another?
No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
And leave the reception for me.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see!
