“ When on Mac Phadrick of ruddy cheeks, Wrath in battle’s hour awaked, The men who with him share the fight Are never safe amidst its blows. Grandson to Malcom of bright eyes, Whom none could leave but felt their loss, The generous, gentle, shapely youth, The readiest hand when aught’s to do. The race of Gregor stand round John, Not as a weak one is their blow; The famous race without a fault, Round him like a fence they stand. Clan Gregor who show no fear, Even when with the king they strive, Though brave Gael may be the foe, That they count of little weight. ”

“ The guileless Dyrin, Doveran’s son, Hugh, son of Garry of the powerful arm, I, myself, and Gaul the son of Smail, [10] And Daire of oaken frame, brave Ronan’s son; The armourer’s three sons, men without guile, Whose ruddy armour gleamed, adorned with gold. Now that I tell my tale to thee, Cleric that dwell’st at Port-na-minna, No man of all the Feine was known to me But one, to whom all other men must yield. But, now, do thou be seated in thy chair, Take up thy pen, we’ll number all the host, The host of brave and noble men Who came, well-ordered bands, unto the Feine. ”

“ I cannot be joyful now, I see not Mac Cumhail in life, I see not Diarmad O’Duine, I see not Caoilte Mac Ronan. No wonder though I should be sad, As I sit on this mound, Patrick. I see not the son of Luy, I see not the hero so loved, I see not Fearluth by my side, I see not the Fenian Oscar; I see not warlike exercises, I see not the noble hounds; I see not the sons of Smoil, I see not Gaul of great feats, I see not the generous Faolan, I see not with him the Feine. ”

“ Though sinful, I never man destroyed, Ne’er did I steal, O Son of God; Never did my hand slay man, For Mary’s love, answer thou me. ’Tis true, I’ve made lying refuges, Deceived by lies of men of fame, Building on others’ lie my lie, O King, shall I in this succeed? Thou who in me prayer begett’st, ’Tis no sin to follow thee; ’Twas neither righteous men nor great, But God a refuge found for me. No man in this world can me teach, But only thou, O Lord, alone, None keepeth truth but heaven’s King, To His wisdom none is like, If I am in the way of truth, My tonsure vow requires it all ”

“ That there should be in God’s Son’s heart A sinner like me, how great the tale, [159] And that there should to me be given, On my lips to have the cross of Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, sanctify as thou art wont, My two feet, and my two hands, Sanctify me of thy good will, Even my blood, and flesh, and bones. I never cease committing sin, Because that my body loves it well; May consecration come from afar, Upon my head and on my heart. Glorious great One, save thou me From every grief which me has seized, Ere I’m laid beneath the turf, May my way be plain and smooth. ”

“ Finn Mac Cumhail is my father, Who nobly leads the Feinn’s seven bands; When he his hounds lets loose to hunt, To follow him is truly sweet. Sweet. A noble tale of sweetest music, To Carn Vallar now I’ll bring; [81] That whether others hear or not, It may be heard by Mac Cumhail. Mac Cumhail once had a feast On Almhuin’s slope, of finest gold; O’er the music he presided, Finn who ever graced the feast. Brave Oscar and Diarmad were there, And good Mac Luy, warriors bold; With other two who ne’er shunned fight, Conan himself, and with him Oscar. ”

“ An ardent, white-toothed, ready youth, One who for aught he did ne’er mourned. This is the eighth day without John, Heir to M’Leod of bluest eye; Like he is in mien and strength To the great house of liberal heart. Cheerful he is, does nought conceal, Such is the fame of sharp-armed John. In battle’s day he takes the lead, Ever ready fame to win. William’s son, my foster child, Son to Janet, royal her race, Did I but hear thou cam’st from the north, All my gloom would disappear. ”

“ Whose arm in fight dealt no soft blows. There lies beneath that mound to the east Oscar, so brave, famous in deeds. Though the Clan Morn were famous men, He counted them of little weight. There lies beneath that mound to the west The man by women thought so fair, M’Ronan for his beauty famed, Beneath the mound to the west he lies. Beneath the mound that is below me Lies he so famed for ugly pate; Conan, in every virtue rich, Beneath the mound below me lies. There lies.
Gorry, let us go to Finn, A service which we do not like, To ask of him the head of Gaul, That we may lay it down to rest. ”

“ I know a little tale of Finn, A tale that we should not despise, Of Cumhal’s son, the valorous, Which our memory still preserves. Once we were a little band, At Essaroy, [76] of gentle streams, Near the coast was under sail, A currach, in which sat a maid; Fifty men stood by the King, Brave in any fight or field, Sad for them who faced their right arm, For we ruled in every land. All of us rose up in haste, Save Finn of the Feine and Gaul, To welcome the boat as it sped, Cleaving the waves in its course. ”

“ I dislike sorrow and sadness; I dislike a great house without joy; I dislike seeing a good man with a bad wife; I dislike a frown upon a prince’s face; I dislike weak drink at a high price; I dislike a noble without courtesy; I dislike war when it is peace, When nothing is allowed to pass; I dislike a rough and cruel chief; I dislike the men who cannot fight; [105] I dislike being long at a tune; I dislike the men who grudge me food; I dislike a jealous woman if unchaste; I dislike the dog who cannot kill a stag; I’m loath to go to Erin in the west, Now that Brian of the tunes is dead ”

“ Fear of the hero as he neared us Filled the bravest of them all. Now as he landed from the waves, Our famous King the question put, “Can’st thou tell me now, fair maid, Is that the man of whom thou spak’st?” “I know him well, Finn Cumhal’s son, Nor does his coming bode you good; Me he will rudely strive to seize, Despite thy strength, O noble Finn.” Then Oscar and Gaul arose, The fiercest of all in the fight, Near to the men they firmly stood, Between the giant and our chief. ”

“ Our people made this slaughter, Of these, the kings of all the world, And drank our full of vengeance. Our fierce and conquering arms Laid many a noble warrior low; Many a sword and shield Lay shattered on the strand, The strand of Fintray of the port; Many dead bodies lay upon the earth, Many a hero with a vacant grin. Much was the spoil we gathered in the fight. Patrick, son of noble Alpin, Even of the Feine themselves, none did escape The fierce and murderous fight Except two ordered bands, Nor were their bodies whole. ”

“ Skilful and just, He rules his men, His bounty wide, A bloody man, First in the schools, Of gentle blood, And noble race, Liberal, kind, Untired in fight, No prince so wise, Brown are his locks, Marble his skin, Perfect his form, All full of grace, Fierce to exact, When aught is due, In vigour great, Of fairest face, No king like Gaul. I tell thee Finn, His strength as waves In battle’s crash, Princely his gait, Comely his form, Gaul’s skill’d fence No play when roused. Ready to give, Dreadful his strength, Manly his mould, Soldierly, great, Ne’er could I tell His grace and power ”

“ Whoe’er he was could see them then, The struggle and the fight were fierce. Then did Mac Morne slay with his arm The King of Sorcha’s son, most strange! Sad was the coming of the maid, Now that the brave in fight had fallen. [25] And now that he had fallen thus, Beside the sea, a sad event, She of the land beneath the waves, With Finn and his Feine remained a year. Flann, son of Morne, in battle brave, Was killed, it is a piteous tale; None of all our men escaped, Whose body was not full of wounds, Except my noble Father, Finn, The generous friend of all distressed. ”

“ We took the heavy silver of the king, The gold, the garments, and the other spoil; Each half of Erin had its share. Holy Patrick of the relics, Shall I meet death within thy house of prayer? Cover thou my form with earth, Since thou knowest well my tale.
Ossian, since thou art wearied now, Make thy peace, that thou may’st die, Take up thy prayer and ask for mercy, Early each day call on thy God, And when, on the judgment day, thou reachest Sion, Where all men shall be gathered, May Michael, Mary, and the Son of God Take thee kindly by the hand. ”

“ As every one now follows John, Silent they can’t be at his grave. What grief did ever them o’ertake, The race of Conn ne’er honour lost. For John each man does weep, Necessity leads us to his grave; Sad is the land because of thy death, Son of the noble race from Allan. Great is our grief as thee we mourn, Few are the men that shed not tears. Sorely has it touched us all, Grievous the tale that John is dead. ”

“ But that they are out at evening, Followed close by their hounds. Dugall, thou art their fellow, John’s son of the polished blade, In whom flows the sluggard’s blood, Write thou in the Book of Poems. Write knowingly, intelligently, Write their history and their life; Don’t bring a poem on the earth, To have it read by Mac Cailein. Remember this my claim on thee, Gregor, as thou hast heard That I have as an obligation, All thine to put in the Book of Poems. Let there be nothing in this poem Of priests or of tenantry; But nothing of this band there is, Which is not in the Book of Poems. ”

“ The first day we set foot on shore In Erin’s isle, so much loved, We slew, and it is no lie, At least sixteen hundred men. These all were slain by Clan Morn, Their heroes and their chiefs; There was not a man of them all But such as their women would mourn. With that their castles we seized, We, the noble Clan of Morn, Our race did bravely then Before the men of Erin. By thy hand, hero of the Feine, There ne’er was seen, east or west, One thing to cloud my eye, But seeing the slaughter there ”

“ Now that he sleeps in his cold grave, ’Tis melancholy what men feel to tell; They cannot cease from shedding tears, Castle and cottage both in sorrow; The rising tide has swept o’er hills, So for John do mourn his comrades; Yet there’s no heaving of the sea, Not of the boisterous sea at Connal; [196] For thou art mourned, great chief of Conn, In all the borders of clan Dougall; The land for thee does seem to weep, Loud is the cry, with much distress, From the musicians of Dougall’s race, [124] The learned men, and leading bards. ”

“ A hero who shall reign supreme O’er Gael from the famous land; Noble, high-born prince of the Gael, Thou’lt in apportioned Albin reign. Hero, who’ll desert no fight, With sword, so long as right remains, Who for the Gael from Greece, subjection Ne’er suffer would at Saxon’s hand. The very roots from whence they grow, Pluck them that thou may’st us deliver; Suffer not a Saxon hence to live, After that thou overcom’st them. Burn all their women, ugly in form; Burn their children, every one ”

“ No joy without the clan Donald. Loud was the sound of their thunder, This race so wise and faithful, Though now they be reproached, There is no joy without the clan Donald. This people so great in fame, In courtesy, mind, and firmness, There is no right without them, There is no joy without the clan Donald. The son of his virgin mother, Who hath earned for us freedom from pain, Though he be faithful and true, There is no joy without the clan Donald. There is no joy. ”

“ The race of Conn are now but few, Since death has ta’en away Macdougall; No pleasure in the violin’s sounds, Nor writing poetry without him; Poetry brings no honour now, Since death has seized the son of Mary; Few are the mouths that now can tell, How commanding is her privilege, Now that on their backs are laid, Both the heads of the clan Dougall; That John’s great power I do not find Soon after losing John his father; May God preserve thy noble nature, Who wisdom learned from thy Isla [198] teacher; Horses can’t insure a triumph, Men must leave them, and depart ”

“ Though it be hard for me to part With John’s [266] son of sweetest speech, What is worst of all is this, That ne’er to his place he’ll return. Though I were from happiness far, Pursued by my foes’ reproach, Whatever good might me o’ertake, From them never would I buy. No wonder though heavy my heart, As another lord’s seen in thy place, That my whole man should be feeble, Now that my king is dead. Bitter is my pain since he left, ’Tis easy the tale to relate, ’Tis hard my great sorrow to bear, For the hero so famous who’s gone. Great is my grief, and no wonder, My mourning is true, sincere ”

“ Were the sons of Muin alive, Who knew no weakness in fight, Men would not see thy people So powerful amidst our hills. Were the sons of black Garry alive, Or Caoilte, who was ever so brave, Neither the sounds of bells or priests Would now be heard in Rath Cruachan. Were red-haired Ryno alive, And brave Caol, son of Revan, Thy books would not be so whole, Oh man, who readest the Bible. And for all thy hooked crosiers, Which have travelled over the earth, Thy staves would be in splinters, Were only brave Oscar alive. ”

“ Though pure are ye, they are not few Women quite as chaste as you.” They had been a short time thus, When they saw a maid approach, Her covering a single seamless robe, Of spotless white from end to end; The maiden of the pure white robe Drew near to where M’Cumhal sat. She blessed the king of guileless heart, And close beside him there sat down. Finn asks her to give them her tale, The handsome maid of whitest hand: “Maid of the seamless robe, I ask, What virtue’s in thy spotless veil?” ”

“ Oscar and manly Caoilte were there, And Mac Luy of ceaseless praise; Finn and white-toothed Diarmad, Of the eight heroes these were five. There were myself and Ryno and Caroll, A gentle, matchless band; Bred were we all in Banva’s soil, These were the names of the eight. When we set forth, true the tale, ’Twas with a proud and manly step. From Mac Cumhal’s fort we set out, The expedition of eight I remember. First of all we made for Albain, ’Twas with a struggle we reached it, There a king fell by Mac Cumhal, The expedition of eight I remember. ”

“ Finn himself would never hunt Without first asking leave. The hunting of Scotland, without leave, Belongs, with its spoil, to Malcom. Constant in the hunt together Are M’Gregor and his fierce men; No oftener did the blood-red hounds Enter the fort of clan Boisgne. A fighting band of chieftains Arose with him in battle’s day, Men whose dress sparkled with gold, Men who conquered in the fight. The head of clans and of huntsmen [143] Is the common fame of his race. No trial of bravery or skill Will show weakness in M’Gregor. ”

“ Bless, O Trinity, thy household, King of heaven, place of jewels; Black thy family was not formed, All by thyself in wisdom made. By thee ’twas Adam’s race was shaped The cheek like berries richly red; Thou who blessest place and people Curse them that ’gainst thee fierce contend. There is a pack of cruel hounds, Who the king’s children sorely grieve; I hear the baying of these dogs, Every glen is full of it. Such as war on Adam’s race, Since that they cannot silence keep, Joined together in their evil, Powers of the king of light them smite ”

“ From Erin princely champions, A troop with soft and ruddy hair. Not ship of all did she count swifter, None has there been nor will be, No sigh, no sorrow, and no grief, Nor is there any end of all. No ship of ships she counted swift, Full of princely men she is, Scattering gold among the bards, While round the ship resounds the sea. Many the men of sword and spear, Many men quick in fight to mix ”

“ Seldom of a feeble race it is, Among the Gael of purest fame, That inquiry of their origin is made, By the men who read in books. Firm the belief to them and me, During the evening time so dark, [138] That in the blood of noble kings Were the rights of true clan Gregor. Now that I’m by thy green dwelling, Listen, John, to thy family story: A root of the very root we are, Of famous kings of noble story. Know that Patrick was thy father, Malcom father was to Patrick. Son of black John, not black his breast, Him who feasts and chariots owned. ”

“ Ne’er did I see A braver man; Teige’s [86] daughter’s son, A powerful king; My fortune, my light, My mind’s whole might, Both poet and chief. Braver than kings, Firm chief of the Feinn. Lord of all lands, Leviathan at sea, As great on land, Hawk of the air, Foremost always. Generous, just, Despised a lie. Of vigorous deeds, First in song. A righteous judge, Firm his rule. Polished his mien, Who knew but victory. [27] Who is like him In fight or song? Resists the foe, In house or field. Marble his skin, The rose his cheek, Blue was his eye, His hair like gold. All men’s trust, Of noble mind. ”

“ No trappings for our hounds, no hounds. Long are the clouds this night above me. No rising up to noble feats, No mirthful sport as we would wish, No swimming heroes in our lakes. [4] Long are the clouds this night above me; In this great world none is like me, So sad, how sad my case! A poor old man now dragging stones. Long are the clouds this night above me, The last man of the Feine am I, The great Ossian, the son of Finn, Listening to the sound of bells. ”

“ Not braver of his age was Cuchullin, Not hardier was he than Torquil, Him of the ready, vigorous arm, Who boldly breaks through any breach. Beloved though Mac Vic Torquil is, I can’t enough his beauty praise; He who is fair as he is the brave, The key to every woman’s heart. There is no son of king or chief Of whose fame we’ve ever heard, Though we’ve had much to do with such, That better are to us than Torquil. Catherine, [262] daughter of Mac Cailen, Whose soft hand’s worthy of thy race, [148] Daughter of the Earl of Argyle, Best of the women we have found. ”