PREFACE.

THE ELVES.

The immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but they still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the glamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men and women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with them in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears, we breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring.

The attitude of the Gael towards the supernatural, and his general outlook upon life in times gone by, was not associated with unbroken gloom; nor was he always an ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist. These attributes belong chiefly to the Literary Celt of latter-day conception—the Celt of Arnold and Renan, and other writers following in their wake, who have woven misty impressions of a people whom they have met as strangers, and never really understood. Celtic literature is not a morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is more light than shadow, much symbolism, but no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute detail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of keen artistry; and the literary style is direct and clear and comprehensible. In Highland folklore we find associated with the haunting "fear of things invisible," common to all peoples in early stages of development, a confident feeling of security inspired by the minute observances of ceremonial practices. We also note a distinct tendency to discriminate

between spirits, some of which are invariably friendly, some merely picturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others constantly harbouring a desire to work evil upon mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy of propitiatory offerings and "ceremonies of riddance," is the ethical suggestion that good wishes and good deeds influence spirits to perform acts of kindly intent.

Of fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are still prone to do in these districts where belief in them is not yet extinct, with no small degree of regard and affection. It may be that "the good folk" and the "peace-people" (sitchean) were so called that good intention might be compelled by the conjuring influence of a name, as well as to avoid giving offence by uttering real names, as if it were desired to exercise a magical influence by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from Highland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener the friends than the foes of mankind. When men and women were lured to their dwellings they rarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies appeared to have taken pleasure in their company. To such as they favoured they imparted the secrets of their skill in the arts of piping, of sword-making, etc. At sowing time or harvest they were at the service of human friends. On the needy they took pity. They never failed in a promise; they never forgot an act of kindness, which they invariably rewarded seven-fold. Against

those who wronged them they took speedy vengeance. It would appear that on these humanised spirits of his conception the Highlander left, as one would expect him to do, the impress of his own character—his shrewdness and high sense of honour, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth of heart and love of comrades, and his indelible hatred of tyranny and wrong.

The Highland "wee folk" are not so diminutive as the fairies of England—at least that type of fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers bee-like over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power they had to shrink in stature and to render themselves invisible, but they are invariably "little people," from three to four feet high. It may be that the Gael's conception of humanised spirits may not have been uninfluenced by the traditions of that earlier diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint were so long regarded as "elf-bolts." The fairies dwelt only in grassy knolls, on the summits of high hills, and inside cliffs. Although capable of living for several centuries, they were not immortal. They required food, and borrowed meal and cooking utensils from human beings, and always returned what they received on loan. They could be heard within the knolls grinding corn and working at their anvils, and they were adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. When they went on long journeys they became invisible, and were carried through the air on eddies of western wind.

At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee folk" were for several days on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity against mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and charms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil spirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in omens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote ancestors.

THE HEROES.

The heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume, figure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our Scottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are a band of militia—the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits.

The cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and Grainnè, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of their mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves," sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated.

On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.

The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose translation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the Bronze Age period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on his forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son, and bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum. Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the other, with which it has no connection.

The third great Celtic Cycle—the Arthurian—bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of "The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary inspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the future.

Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume.

Some of the short poems have appeared in the "Glasgow Herald" and "Inverness Courier"; the three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review."

CONTENTS.

Preface

The Wee Folk

The Remnant Bannock

The Banshee

Conn, Son of the Red

The Song of Goll

The Blue Men of the Minch

The Urisk

The Nimble Men

My Gunna

The Gruagach

The Little Old Man of the Barn

Yon Fairy Dog

The Water-Horse

The Changeling

My Fairy Lover

The Fians of Knockfarrel

Her Evil Eye

A Cursing

Leobag's Warning

Tober Mhuire

Sleepy Song

Song of the Sea

The Death of Cuchullin

Lost Songs

OTHER POEMS.

The Dream

Free Will

Strife

Sonnet

"Out of the Mouths of Babes"

Notes

THE WEE FOLK.

In the knoll that is the greenest, And the grey cliff side, And on the lonely ben-top The wee folk bide; They'll flit among the heather, And trip upon the brae— The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey.

As o'er the moor at midnight The wee folk pass, They whisper 'mong the rushes And o'er the green grass; All through the marshy places They glint and pass away— The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay.

O many a fairy milkmaid With the one eye blind, Is 'mid the lonely mountains By the red deer hind; Not one will wait to greet me, For they have naught to say— The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.

When the golden moon is glinting In the deep, dim wood, There's a fairy piper playing To the elfin brood; They dance and shout and turn about, And laugh and swing and sway— The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.

O we that bless the wee folk Have naught to fear, And ne'er an elfin arrow Will come us near; For they'll give skill in music, And every wish obey— The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.

They'll hasten here at harvest, They will shear and bind; They'll come with elfin music On a western wind; All night they'll sit among the sheaves, Or herd the kine that stray— The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.

Betimes they will be spinning The while we sleep, They'll clamber down the chimney, Or through keyholes creep; And when they come to borrow meal We'll ne'er them send away— The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.

O never wrong the wee folk— The red folk and green, Nor name them on the Fridays, Or at Hallowe'en; The helpless and unwary then And bairns they lure away— The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.

BONNACH FALLAIDH.

(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)

O, the good-wife will be singing When her meal is all but done— Now all my bannocks have I baked, I've baked them all but one; And I'll dust the board to bake it, I'll bake it with a spell— O, it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.

The bannock on the brander Smells sweet for your desire— O my crisp ones I will count not On two sides of the fire; And not a farl has fallen Some evil to foretell!— O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.

The bread would not be lasting, 'Twould crumble in your hand; When fairies would be coming here To turn the meal to sand— But what will keep them dancing In their own green dell? O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.

Now, not a fairy finger Will do my baking harm— The little bannock with the hole, O it will be the charm. I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms, And all the bairns I tell— O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.

THE BANSHEE.

Knee-deep she waded in the pool— The Banshee robed in green— She sang yon song the whole night long, And washed the linen clean; The linen that would wrap the dead She beetled on a stone, She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, Low singing all alone—

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill, Come back from foreign wars, His horse's feet were clattering sweet Below the pitiless stars; And in his heart he would repeat— "O never again I'll roam; All weary is the going forth, But sweet the coming home!"

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

He saw the blaze upon his hearth Come gleaming down the glen; For he was fain for home again, And rode before his men— "'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh, "Since I would leave her side; I'll never more leave Scotland's shore And yon, my dark-eyed bride."

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

So dreaming of her tender love, Soft tears his eyes would blind— When up there crept and swiftly leapt A man who stabbed behind— "'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride, This night shall be your last!" … When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide Of life came ebbing fast …

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

CONN, SON OF THE RED.

The Fians sojourned by the shore Of comely Cromarty, and o'er The wooded hill pursued the chase With ardour. 'Twas a full moon's space Ere Beltane[1] rites would be begun With homage to the rising sun— Ere to the spirits of the dead Would sacrificial blood be shed In yon green grove of Navity—[2] When Conn came over the Eastern Sea, His heart aflame with vengeful ire, To seek for Goll, who slew his sire When he was seven years old.

Finn saw In dreams, ere yet he came, with awe The Red One's son, so fierce and bold, In combat with his hero old— The king-like Goll of valorous might— A stormy billow in the fight No foe could ere withstand.

He knew The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew Clear on his horn the Warning Call; And round him thronged the Fians all With wond'ring gaze.

The sun drew nigh The bale-fires of the western sky, And faggot clouds with blood-red glare, Caught flame, and in the radiant air Lone Wyvis like a jewel shone— The Fians, as they stared at Conn, Were stooping on the high Look-Out. They watched the ship that tacked about, Now slant across the firth, and now Laid bare below the cliff's broad brow, And heaving on a billowy steep, Like to a monster of the deep That wallowed, labouring in pain— And Conn stared back with cold disdain.

Pondering, he sat alone behind The broad sail swallowing the wind, As over the hollowing waves that leapt And snarled with foaming lips, and swept Around the bows in querulous fray, And tossed in curves of drenching spray, The belching ship with ardour drove; Then like a lordly elk that strove Amid the hounds and, charging, rent The pack asunder as it went, It bore round and in beauty sprang— The sea-wind through the cordage sang With high and wintry merriment That stirred the heart of Conn, intent On vengeance, and for battle keen— So hard, so steadfast, and serene.

Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low, With musing eyes upon the foe, "Is Conn more noble than The Red, Whom Goll in battle vanquished?" "The Red was fiercer," Conan cried— "Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied, "More comely, stalwart, mightier far— What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?" Then Goll made answer on the steep, Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep— "His equal never came before Across the seas to Alban shore, Nor ever have I peered upon A nobler, mightier man than Conn"

The ship flew seaward, tacking wide, Contending with the wind and tide, And when upon the broad stream's track It baffled hung, or drifted back, With grunt and shriek, like battling boars, The shock and swing of bladed oars Came sounding o'er the sea

The dusk Grew round the twilight, like a husk That holds a kernel choice, and keen, Cold stars impaled the sky serene, When Conn's ship through the slackening tide Drew round the wistful bay and wide, Behind the headlands high that snout The seas like giant whales, and spout The salt foam high and loud

Then sighed The gasping men who all day plied Their oars in plunging seas, with hands Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent, And staggering from their benches went The sail napped quarrelling, and drank The wind in broken gasps, and sank With sullen pride upon the boards, And smote the mast and shook the cords

Darkly loomed that alien land, And darkly lowered the Fian band, For hovering on the shoreland grey The ship they followed round the bay Nor sought the sheltering woods until The shadows folded o'er the hill Full heavily, and night fell blind, And laid its spell upon the wind

The swelling waters sank with sip And hollow gurgle round the ship, The long mast rocked against the dim, Soft heaven above the headland's rim

But while the seamen crouched to sleep, Conn sat alone in reverie deep, And saw before him in a maze The mute procession of his days, In gloom and glamour wending fast— His heart a-hungering for the past— Again he leapt, a tender boy, To greet his sire with eager joy, When he came over the wide North Sea, Enriched with spoils of victory— Then heavily loomed that fateful morn When tidings of his fall were borne From Alban shore … Again he saw The youth who went alone with awe To swear the avenging oath before The smoking altar red with gore.

Ah! strange to him it seemed to be That hour was drawing nigh when he Would vengeance take … And still more strange, O sorrow! it would bring no change Though blood for blood be spilled, and life For life be taken in fierce strife; 'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped, Or break the silence of the dead.

But when he heard his mother's wail, Once more uplifted on the gale, Moaning The Red who ne'er returned— His cheeks with sudden passion burned; And darkly frowned that valiant man, As through his quivering body ran The lightnings of impelling ire And impulses of fierce desire, That surged, with a consuming hate Against a world made desolate, Unceasing and unreconciled, And ever clamouring … like wild, Dark-deeded waves that stun the shore, And through the anguished twilight roar The hungry passions of the wide And gluttonous deep unsatisfied.

II.

The shredding dawn in beauty spread Its shafts of splendour, golden-red, High over the eastern heaven, and broke Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold, Let loose their oozing floods of gold, Splashed over the foamless deep that lay Tremulous and clear. In fiery play The rippling beams that swept between The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene, Broke quivering where the waters bore The soft reflection of the shore.

The pipes of morn were sounding shrill Through budding woods on plain and hill, And stirred the air with song to wake The sweet-toned birds within the brake.

The Fians from their sheilings came, With offerings to the god a-flame, And round them thrice they sun-wise went; Then naked-kneed in silence bent Beside the pillar stones …

But now Brave Conn upon the ship's high prow Hath raised his burnished blade on high, And calls on Woden and on Tigh With boldness, to avenge the death Of his great sire … In one deep breath He drains the hero's draught that burns With valour of the gods; then turns His long-sought foe to meet … Great Conn Sweeps, stooping in a boat, alone. Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright, That shower the foam-rain pearly white, And rip the waters, bending lithe, In hollowing swirls that hiss and writhe Like adders, ere they dart away Bright-spotted with the flakes of spray.

When, furrowing the sand, he drew His boat the shallowing water through, A giant he in stature rose Straight as a mast before his foes, With head thrown high, and shoulders wide And level, and set back with pride; His bared and supple arms were long As shapely oars: firm as a thong His right hand grasped his gleaming blade, Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made In leafen shape.

With stately stride He crossed the level sands and wide, Then on his shield the challenge gave— His broad sword thund'ring like a wave— For single combat.

Red as gold His locks upon his shoulders rolled; A brazen helmet on his head Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red; And all the Fians watched with awe That hero young with knotted jaw, Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard, Surveyed their ranks with cold regard; While his broad forehead, seamed with care, Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes With pondering o'er the mysteries.