Mediaeval times
* A hundred thousand welcomes
Download 4.23 Mb.
|
* A hundred thousand welcomes. To the world their rights proclaim. Ciad's ciad, &c. Maidens ! softly touch the clàrsach, Sing your sweetest songs tu-day, Pipers ! rouse the magic chanter, Loud Cian Coila's gathering play, Clansmen ! nledge with Highland honours, Highland cheer, our heroe's name, Till tìle Highland hills re-echo Back again our Hector's fame. Ciad's ciad mìle fàilte. Miss Jessie MacLachlan, the famous Scottish vocalist, sang the above song at the London banquet given to Colonel Hector MacDonald, which was set to music by Mr Colin MacAlpin. Miss MacDonell's latest poem is " The mother land," extending to sixty-three lines, which has just been published, 1899, in the year book of the MacDonald Society. It breathes the same fervent patriotism so characteristic of many of her poems. The following quotation will give an idea of the poem as a whole. '• THE MOTHER LAND." Upon thy kindly breast once more, Heart to my heart, cheek to thy cheek, red lips Of honey, scented heather beil, and myrtle sweet and wild, Keening soft lullabys from out their mossy depths, In the sound of the swift brown burns, and the winds Lilting under the feathery fronds and the clustering leaves, Trailing away down the rocky banks where the berries grow. 0 ! but thou givest rest sweet mother land ! With thy cool delicate airs, and the songs, The old time songs of the hills, Dearghull and Naoise sang In their wattle hut by the side of the Etive loch, Cuchullin sang in the far-off isle of the mists, And Ossian sang away there by the fairy haunts of Treig, Songs of the perfect life in the land of Atlantis out by the setting sun. Miss MacDonell's last poem, published in the October number of the " Celtic Monthly," shows no falling off on her previous productions. It is in praise of the Paladin of the Soudan, " Major-General Sir Archibald Hunter, K.C.M.G., who so distinguished himself in the recent Soudan campaign, and who gained for himself not only the reputation of being one of the bravest of the brave, but a far higher and rarer quality, that of chivalry—by his mother's side a Graham, showing that he follows in the footsteps of those two knightly Paladins of his cian, Montrose and Bonnie Dundee." The first and last stanzas are quoted to give an idea of the poem. 1 Not mine the right thou gallant son, Nor yet the skill to sing thy praise; Till some more powerful hand shall wake His tuneful lyre with polished phrase. Some bard from out thine own cian Graeme, So far renowned in Scottish fame, His clansmen's deeds inverse pjrtrays, A Bister Scot her right may claim. 5 Worthy of that brave cian art thou That owned a Clavers, a Montrose, Beneath their knightly banners furled Thy name shall also find repose. Nor courtly ways with these are sped, Nor chivalry with these arc dead, So long as Scottish names disclose One with such knightly virtues bred. Our bardess is still singing away, and long may she continue to do so, a wish which, I am sure, the whole cian Donald will heartily endorse. " Gu m a fada beò thu's ceò dheth do thighe." JOSEPHINA MAIRI MACDONELL. Another member of this talented family, Miss Josephina Màiri MacDonell, deserves mention here. Besides having composed the following poems—" The Highland Soldier's Return," " Cry from Lochaber pleading for Gaelic," " My Sprig of White Heather," and "A Message to the Braes of Lochaber," she contributed two articles on Prince Rupert, one in the Celtic Monthly, illnstrated with his portrait, and one in the Cian Donald Journal, when he came over for the Queen's Jubilee. The London letter to the same journal, and the ladies' column for the London Scot, including numerous illustrations, amongst others one of Duneveg Castle in Islay, for Fraser Macintosh's " Last MacDonalds oflsla"; "The Highland Brigade," for J. MacKay, Hereford, contributed to the Celtic Monthly ; " The 79th Highlanders at Waterloo"; "The 72nd at the same battle"; "The Scots Guard at La Haye Sainte (Waterloo) or Hugoumont," "The Advance of Napoleon's Guard,"'' Wellington andsome of the Highland Soldiers after Waterloo," " An Illustration for a Fairy Legend" by MacKay of the Gaelic Society, Inverness, also in the Celtic Monthly"; three battle scenes, viz., " Harlaw," " Bannockburn," and " Inverlochy," for the MacDonald History now in the press, several coats of arms, seals, and documents for the same work. For the " Lords of Lochaber " that partly came out in the Celtic Monthly," she also did several illustrations for the Keppoch history— " Alastair Carroch at Inverlochy," " Iain Aluinn, the deposed chief," " The Escape of Sir Janes of Islay from Edinburgh Castle," "A View of Keppoch," one of " Tom Beag," of " Glen Boy," and the " Parallel Roads of Loch Treig," one for Alice MacDonell's poem, " The Recovery of the Tartan," when published in the Celtic Monthly. She also designed the invitation card for the London banquet to Colonel Hector MacDonald, and the Cian Donald illuminated address, both in the Celtic style. Being still young and full of Highland lore, we hope to see many more illustrations from her fertile pen. CRY FROM LOCHABER PLEADING FOR GAELIC. "LBAN BU DUT RI CLIU DO SHINNSIR!" Sons of the mountains awaken ! With hearts full of patriot fire, And save, ere its beauty hath perished, The language bequeathed by our sires. We are proud of our peerless " Ard Albainn,'' Of each rugged pine-crested hill; Yet, how can we say that we love her And consent that her voice should be still. For in Gaelic she breathed forth her melodies, Bards caught the soul-stirring strain; Whose echoes still play o'er heart-strings In wild notes of joy or of pain. 'Tis Gaelic alone can interpret The zephyrs that moan through her glens; Or translate the hoarse voice or the cateract Borne from the mists on her bens. 'Tis Gaelic that rings in the blue bells, And heather that circle her brow; 'Twas Gaelic that sang thro' those forests Where only the deer wander now. 'Twas Gaelic that laughed in the cottage, As they danced after days spent in toil In those homes, once the nests of contentment And now of oppressors, the spoil. The following are samples of her poetic powers, which are graceful and flowing and full of patriotic sentiment:— A MESSAGE TO THE BRAES OF LOCHABER. Backward, backward, all my longings, Thought and memory still must nee, Waking, dreaming, ever turning, Dear Lochaber, back to thee : Back to days of childhood's gambols On the sunny braes at home, Dancing to the elfin music Heard among the river's foam ; Back to days when Keppoch echoed To the music and the mirth Of loyal hearts, we learned to value At their true and priceless worth : Back to days when sorrows shadowed, Stealing round us like a pall, Hills and woods and rushing rivers, 'Twas the hour to leave them all. Then the clansmen of Lochaber Gathering round us as of old, While false friendships were so worthless Showed that they were sterling gold. Proved their leal unbought devotion, Proved our trust was not in vain, Bringing sweetness to that parting Far outweighing all the pain. Oll ! sooner shall the raven's plumage Change to white its swarthy hue, Than we can e'er forget the friendship That has proved so warm an* true. Dearer, nobler far, each peasant Dwelling 'midst those lofty hills Than e'en the mightiest men of Europe Moulding nations to their wills. And now there comes a loving message From those bonnie heathery glens— Homes of sweet pure-hearted maidens And of staunch and trusty men— Brightening o'er life's dreary pathway, Like a gleam of sunny ray Bursting through a wall of storm-cloud, Chasing all the frowns away; Telling that the tie between us Is not one of yesterday And still the chain of friendship rivets Links that bind our hearts for aye. But even here there lurks a shadow, Why so many voices stilled ? Ah, day by day in Cille Choirrill Some new grave is being filled. Kindly hearts we've known and cherished ; One by one are laid to rest ; Alas ! will ail have left Lochaber Ere we see it—God knows best. Her " Cry from Lochaber pleading for Gaelic" is also very good, containing truth that cannot be gainsaid. THE HIGHLAND SOLDIER'S RETURN. Well had thev fought in their country's cause, On many a battle-field; They stepped in each gap where a comrade fell, Till the foe was compelled to yield; In the posts of danger they ever stood Like a rock that is lashed by the wave, For under the tartan each heart that beat Was a hero's—undaunted and brave: It was they kept the Russian hordes at bay Unbroken their " thin red line "; They made Britain's power on the Spanish plain With unparalleled glory shine; Foremost their ranks in the deadly fight Ere they conquered at Waterloo; They brought rescue and hope to despairing hearts In the power of the dark Hindoo. The noblest laurels round Britain's crown Have been gained by their trusty sword, They were worthy a nations grateiul love. Yet, what has been their reward ? Homeward their longing footsteps turn, Back to their hills again. They think of the welcome that waits them there, And they reck not of all their pain ; The son will be held to the mother's heart, As she blesses her noble boy, Ani the girl he loves who has trusted long, Will soon be his crowning joy; The heather ofc dreamed of in foreign linds, Will bloom once again in their sight. And each valley and wood and bubbling burn Will bring them a new delight. Then home—to Sutherland, Ross, Strathglass, To Knoydart, the Western Isles; Their hearts were light tho' their steps were slow As they travelled the weary miles. What is the welcome that meets them there A silent and desolate vale! The blackened walls of their ruined homes That tell the pitiless tale. Where is the father, the mother dear! In God's Acre among the dead ; For thrust from their homes in the snow and hail The wet ground was their only bed. Their brothers, their sisters, the friends they loved They were borne to their native shore To live or die in the Western Wilds, But their country shall see them no more; And the antlered monarchs are browsing there, Heather shelters the nest of the bird, The badger may hide 'neath their vacant hearth But no human voice is heard. Let the free-born sons of the mountains go The space is too narrow there, The land of the fathers is for the deer. For their sons there is none to spare! Tell them that straths where hundreds have thrived Have grown sterile all in a day; And from fields that were golden with waving corn The soil has all melted away ; What matters it then tho' their arms be strong, Tho' their hearts be loyal and true ? It will bring more gold to the lord of the soil, That his tenants De rich and few; Some upstart American rents his land, And fills up his greedy purse. And he cares not tho' every coin is stamped With a people's lasting curse; His forests are bringing him longed-for wealth, Each day increases his gain, And who would weigh 'gainst the glittering gold A few starving cottagers' pain ? So each fertile valley and picturesque glen Are made desolate one by one! But Britain! these deeds wilt thou sorely rue Ere a few more sands have run. Open your arms with motherly love To each foreign vagrant that comes, To render more dense the close foetid air In congested London slums; Give them a shelter and home and food, Keep a welcome awaiting them all, Tho' the city is swarming with hard working men Who are starving within its walls. When you want brave soldiers to fight your foes Perchance you may find them there ì ('Twill be useless to seek them in Highland gUns Cleared out thro' your generous care !) And clothe them in tartan 'twere better so, It has brought, you a world-wide fame; But see if the soldiers who wear it then Will bring glory to Britain's name. And can we not hear in the wavelets That babble along on the burn ? Like soft Gaelic words of endearment That welcome some loved one's return. Each dark heaving billow that dashes Its foam 'gainst our rock-begirt shores; Bears the rhythm of old Gaelic boat songs, That measured the time for the oars. The surf round our isles sobs in Gaelic With tears it liath found o'er the main, From Highlanders cruelly driven, From lands they will ne'er see again. Ye dream not^who ne'er have been parted From home, and the friends ye hold dear; What music hath each word of Gaelic That falls on the sad exile's ear. Our soldiers on red fields of danger Hear it speak in the pibroch's wail; And they conquer or die for their couutry, With a courage that never can fail. 'Twas Gaelic that fostered the spirit, Led our heroes to do what they've done; Without Gaelie—that spirit must perish, For its life and its language are one. Ye who bravely are wresting your homesteads From oppression's merciless heel From oblivion—oh! rescue our Gaelic That destroys more than tyrants' steel. The voice of " Ard Albainn " is pleading, Shall she plead to her children in vain, Download 4.23 Mb. Share with your friends:
|