I regret that I cannot quote a few more verses of the original of this very spirited yet exceedingly clannish and feeling poem, as the imitation does not take it connectedly even verse for verse; but as Ronald of the Shield, then an old man, was one of the victims of the Massacre of Glencoe,* I think the reader may feel more interested in the following imitation of the Isle of Muck bard's lament on that subject? It is a true imitation, and corroborates what has elsewhere been stated as to the absence of a vindictive or revengeful spirit from all poetry that does anything like justice to the deep feeling, but calm dignity of the ancient Gael, in his hours of sorrow and indignation. We have here no flaming roofs or eagles screaming over the hearts of the atrocious perpetrators of the Massacre even of Glencoe. But the very noblest and most generous feudalist could not even imagine anything so magnanimous as the Highland clans when most deeply suffering under the treachery and cruelty of their enemies. The original will be found in every collection of Gaelic poetry.
THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.
God, whose gospel revealeth, As thy children may daily behold, Truth, benevolence, mercy, In lessons affectingly told; In their strait, be Thou aiding To the good and the brave of the glen, Brought to grief and despairing, By a treachery rare among men.
On their orphans look kindly, Who have ever been kindly and true, Who could not, in baseness, E'en traitors and rebels pursue: Though unyielding and deadly, When their country demanded their steel, To humanity faithful, For the foes they had slain they could feel.
Had they known, when the stranger They welcomed, and hailed as a friend, That their homes were in danger— That among them he came to this end; Had they armed and been watchful, Fierce and stern as the conflict might be, Their defeat I would question, Though their foesmen were twenty to three.
'Twas not by genius and valour The band of my heart have been slain, But by boors, in aught mental More than matched by the team in their wain; But to bloodshed apprenticed, And to treach'ry and cruelty trained, They stole on their victims When by sleep all their senses were chained.
From the chosen apartments, Assigned for their nightly repose By their hosts, in their kindness, In the silence of night they arose And stole on the sleepers, Who dreamed not of treachery or strife, And delivered, in safety, The volley that robbed them of life.
How beauteous and shapely The forms that have thus been laid low, Or left, wounded and bleeding, Inhuming themselves in the snow; Men whose joy 'twas to listen At eve to the harp and the lay, Singing praises of heroes Who were courteous, and kindly, and gay.
Woe, woe to the country Whose government cruel and blind, To her best and bravest A sentence like this has assigned, And calls to her service, And makes her support and her stay Of the countryless soldier, Whose soul has no thought but his pay!
While by these, next to Heaven, Their country and king were adored; For their freedom and glory They would lay down their lives at a word. Now Albyn, dear Albyn, Thy freedom, thy glory are gone, Foreign armies coerce thee— A foreigner sits on thy throne.
Woe, woe to the pastors, Whatever their object may be, Whose preachings and treasons Have produced the dark changes we see. Now men who loved mercy, In murder God's glory behold, And rejoice at the horrors War over their country has rolled.
My heart sinks and sickens To see, as they hang on their walls, Their trophies and weapons, Whose dear presence I miss from their halls— Whose voices were music, Attuned to their mind's varied tone; Who in mirth and broad humour, And in repartee pleasingly shone.
The dirge** of their greyhounds Is solemnly heard through the glen, The deer browse and wander, The gaunt wolves rejoice in their den; Their fishing gear rusteth, While, rivers and lakelets between, The salmon are sporting With joy in their radient sheen.
Not vain or conceited Were the men who repose in the isle, Shunning danger, and boasting Their valiant achievements the while. No. Modest as daring, Their deeds spoke their greatness of mind; So they served their dear country, All, all to their worth might be blind!
Now our clansmen are gathered In the Dun, to consult and devise; But, alas! he is absent who was Eloquent, daring, and wise. The main plume in our pinion, In our birlin the helm and the oar, In Saint Mun's Isle is sleeping, And will shine in our council no more.
By the gifts of the hero, And gentleman early endowed, He, for wisdom and eloquence, Shone 'mong his race like a god; Caustic wit he thought paltry, Common sense was his forte and his plea, And with that for his country He enlisted the brave and the free.
He was tall, and unequalled For fulness and beauty of form, And when battle closed round him, Seemed growing in height midst its storm. There his great soul exulted— There his arm extended the ring, Proudly deeming his broad swords Could right all the wrongs of his king.
On homeward returning, The doors were thrown open and wide; In that mansion of plenty 'Twas his joy o'er the feast to preside; There the stranger found welcome, There the soul-stirring minstrels were prized; There the uaislain*** would gather; There none but the base were despised.
On the chess-board and tailisg, Mimic warfare they playfully tried, The chieftains kind hearted, Who in dexterous movements took pride; Not with views of aggression, To subjugate, rule, and enthral, But to fit them for action When their king and their country should call.
God, who reignest and rulest From Thy throne of pure wisdom above. Deign to look on our people In the spirit of mercy and love, To compose their dire factions, And grant that our children may see Their sovereign restored, And his government native and free.
* Among the singular escapes from the massacre, was that of the two little boys of Ronald of the Shield, Donald and Alexander, who had stolen away a few days previously, after a servant from Glenlochy, to visit their aunt, who was married to Campbell of Achahach. Donald, on his return, found his father murdered, and his home burned down and desolate. The succeeding pages will show that he was both spirited and poetic; yet where did he leave behind a line or verse breathing hatred or revenge against the English, or even against the perpetrators of this treacherous and inhuman massacre? But such will be found by the reader of Gaelic poetry to have been the uniformly dignified and forbearing character of the ancient Gael.
** The old Highland greyhound was equally remarkable for his sagacity and the strength of his attachment to his master. His howl is the most solemn and melancholy imaginable. Hence, perhaps, the reason why it has long been regarded as ominous and predictive of death or some other calamity in the Highlands. He laments his master's death by wandering over his old haunts, stopping at regular intervals, and setting up his dirge-like howl, than which it is difficult to conceive anything more touching.
*** Descent from the founder of the clan was the only mark of aristocracy among the Highlanders. All clansmen, whose pedigree was genuine, were called "uaislain," or gentlemen, and when off duty, associated with their chiefs and chieftains on equal terms. The distance between them now is of artificial feudal descent, the patriarchal being the natural and God-approving system of government.