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- t Oh, Lochaber, my own Lochaber for ever. I The Uan Donald.
- Set to music by Colin MacAlpin.
Curious that the title page Didn't esi-ape the critics rage : All the notice that it claims Is that it's wronfj in all its aims ; And still we see it spreading wide, Fast gaining ground on every side. We wonder how this came to pass, Yet no ! behold Sir Hudibras ; A great brain turned topsy turvey, When of his work we take a survey. Verbs and nouns placed far asunder, As Colossus' legs where ships sail under; He spurned all rules of moods and tense, Because they're used by men of sense. From whence his words, that ill-spelt rabble, Were they used at the tower of Babel ? A Gaelic book in broad Scotch idiom, Like the hotch-potch that mortals feed on. As changeable in confoundations As the souls in transmigration ; No points or periods where they should That would be given if he could. Where'er there's doubt in prose or song, He's always sure to take the wrong ; A tortured fancy groans a sound, Like Titans fighting under ground. Who then put in his head that foible Queen Bess' ghost with Cranmer's bible. Lucre! the man pretends to scorn, His book is bought like bill-reform. The people stared with greedy look Lured by the bait that hid the hook ; What motley crew of b-b-b-bastards Were to their view on paper plastered ; Pandora's box sent out all evils. But here they're back to fight tho Devil; For this he had some credit gained Before he g >t them so well trained. His lines are all so out of measure. That none can read them now with pleasure, So very like the one that made them. That none can doubt who ever read them. To-day with something he's quite full, To-morrow he is another's tool. At times he is our Lord Protector, And now, a Peter's pence collector. A church he'll build, yet do not doubt it, Some other view will drive that out yet; A shining nature full of notion, To find perchance perpetual motion, That's found if he'd but take the trouble To look but once in his own noddle. One thing is grafted on his creed, We will not pass it without heed. So very like old Rothiemurchus, Who, on the Spey, lived near his " duchas.' Let what Bishop chose be in He's Vicar of Bray—is Rankin ; What more faults let others tell, I shall bid him now farewell * Curly headed and fair, " that is shawit Alexander sua that being the countries custome, because Highland men call it the fairest-hared and sua furthe, for this Alexander was the farest-hared man as they say of any that ever was," &c. One who could write the above on the spur of the moment must have had more in him that only required drawing out, some political excitement would have done it. Many of our best songs were produced during the Jacobite period, and it only required something of the kind to induce our author to cultivate the muses with greater success than the poem on the prayer book. This sketch would not be complete without some mention of our poet's helpmate, who was left a widow with a young family at too early an age. Mrs MacDonell, who has battled with life nobly and cheerfully, is still hale and hearty and long may she continue so. She has perhaps done more for Highland music than any other lady in the Highlands. She has preserved the best arrangements of many old Highland airs that otherwise would have perished, and improved others. Within the last thirty years she has been consulted by several airangersof Highland music, and her stamp is marked upon the majority of their choice pieces—" Cailleach Beinn na Bric," " Crodh Chailein," " Tha Dhriùchd fhèin air barr gach meangan " (a fairy song), " Och nan och mo lèir cràdh," "An nochd gur faoin mo chadal domh," " Bodaich nam brigis," " Struan Robertson's Salute," "Tha 'n cuan a' cuir eagal air clann nan Gàidheal," and several others in the " Gesto Collection of Highland Music" are her arrangements. Like the Gesto family in Skye, all her pieces are of the best, and nothing second-class is to be found in her repertoire, and'she plays them all beautifully. Though her forte lay in slow airs, marches, and pibrochs, yet she was some years ago a powerful strathspey player. The writer never heard a better exponent of " Righ nam port"—the king of reels—the reel of Tnlloch—and the prince of strathspeys, " Delvin side." It is no wonder, therefore, that such a talented couple should have a clever son and ejever daughters, but more of some of them presently. AILIS SORCHA NI' MHIC 'IC RAONUILL NA CEAPAICH. (alice clarie macdonell of keppoch.) Our famous and well-known cian bardese Miss Alice Clarie MacDonell, is the 8th and youngest daughter of Angus XXII. of Keppoch, and maintains the reputation of her cian and family, and illustrious ancestors from whomshe inherited poetic gifts of a high order. Ailis dhonn gur mòr mo ghràdh ort Gruaidh na nàire's beul an fhurain. The founder of this brave, poetic, and war-like family of Keppoch, was Alastair Carrach* third and youngest son of John, first Lord of the Isles, by his second wife, the Lady Margaret, daughter of Robert High Steward of Scotland, who in the year 1370 ascended the throne of Scotland by the title of Robert II. Several reasons have been alleged for the assumption of the surname MacDonell instead of MacDonald by this family. In Maelan's "Costumes of the Clans of Scotland," it is stated that Coll of Keppoch, the son of Gilleasbuig, who lived in the end of the seventeenth century, was the first who changed the orthography of the name to" MacDonell by the persuasion of Glengarry, Lord Aros. That's not likely, neither was any persuasion necessary, as according to the Black Book of Taymouth, his father, Archibald, signed his name MacDonell, and Donald Glas the second, signed Montrose's bond in 1665 (at Kilchuimen [Fort Augustus] to unite the loyalty of the Highlanders} as "Donald MacDonell off Keppoch." The patronymic of the family first was " Sliocdh Alistair Mhic Aonghuis," from Angus son of Alistair Carrach, down to the time of Raonull Mòr, when it became Mac-Ranald " Mac 'Ic Raonuill." Up to the time of Alastair nan Cleas, 10th Chief of Keppoch, they always signed " Mack Ranald" from the patronymic, then it was anglicised from MacDhomhnuill into MacDonell, which is nearer the Gaelic than MacDonald, which was derived from the Latin MacDonaldus, and in all subsequent documents the name and signatures are MacDonell. ■ Few families can boast of such a number of bards, both in the direct and indirect lines, and able ones too. The first of them was Iain Lom (and his son), entitled John son of Donald, son of John, son of Donald, sen of Iain Aluin, the 4th Chief, was the most famous. Then we have Donald Donn, Donald Bane of the spectre, Alexander and Donald Gruamach of the house of Bohuntin, Rev. John MacDonald, " Ni' Mhic Aonghuis òg," grand daughter of Angus òg, fifth son of Alistair nan Cleas. A daughter of Donald Glas the 2nd, and sister of the brothers Alexander and Ranald, who were murdered. Gilleasbuig na Ceapaich, his daughter Juliet, and his sons, Angus Odhar, and Alexander, and Coll, and several others, until we come down to the subject of our present sketch. Miss Alice MacDonell was educated by private tuition, and at the convent of French nuns in Northampton, finishing off at St. Margaret's Convent, Edinburgh. She gave early promise of the bardic gift by stringing couplets together, and running about the romantic Braes of Lochaber, listening to wonderful tales of battles and chivalry, weird romances, fairy tales, Ossianic poetry, and lovely Highland music, all tended to foster the poetic talent, and lay the foundation of that intense patriotism and grand martial spirit which pervades much of her poetry, and which would have satisfied even Alistair Carrach himself. Besides her numerous accomplishments, Miss MacDonell is very well read in Shakespeare, ancient and modern poetry, history, and romance. For several years some of her poems have been published in various Highland papers, but they were not published in book form until 1896, when her " lays of the heather" appeared.t a goodly-sized book of 206 pages dedicated to Prince Rupert of Bavaria, thepresent representative of theStewarts, containing 53 pieces of different lengths, and of a a martial, descriptive, and sentimental character. As might be expected her first poem is to her beloved native glen. "Lochabair gu Bràch" (Lochaber for ever), written for a historical work, entitled " Loyal Lochaber," by Mr W. Drummond Norie. t Elliot Stock, 02 Paternoster Row, London. In all thy moods I love thee, In sunshine and in storm, Lochaber of the towering bens, Outlined in rugged form. Here proud Ben JNevis snowy crowned, Rests throned amid the clouds ; There Lochy's deep and silvery wave A Royal city shrouds ; Whose waters witnessed the escape Of coward Campbell's dastard shape, Disgrace eternal reap: Whilst fair Glen Nevis' rocks resound With Pibroch Dhu' renowned; From Inverlochy's keep. Grey ruined walls, in after years That saw the great Montrose, MacDonald's, Cameron's, men lead forth To victory 'gainst their foes. Oh ! Lochaber, dear Lochaber, The rich red afterglow Of fame that rests upon thy shield, Unbroken records show. " 0, Lochabair, mo Lochabair fhèin gu bràth "ì The next is " Lochaber's sons" (the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders) in which mention is made of the ties that existed between the Camerons and the Keppochs. Allan Cameron of Erracht's mother was a sister of the gallant Keppoch of the '45, and she it was who designed the tartan of the 79th, a blending of the colours of the MacDonald and Cameron tartans. Another significant poem is to the Cian Donald, on their first formation as a society since the '45, which breathes intense patriotism throughout. Rouse ye children of MacDonald, From each far and distant shore ! Hands outstretched across the ocean Cling in fancied grasp once more. Helpers of the weak and suffering, As the knights of ancient lore ; Hearts that never knew dishonour Beat as loyal as of yore. Wake again, O great Clann Dhomhnuill !§ Let not duty call in vain : In the vanguard of the battle, Form your serried ranks again. Miss MacDonell has been as successful in her choice of titles, as in the subject of her poems, and no one can go through the work without seeing that the author is capable of still greater things, " The Highland Brigade," at the battle of the Alma, consists of 133 lines, is an excellent poem, and enough to rouse any Highlander's enthusiasm. t Oh, Lochaber, my own Lochaber for ever. I The Uan Donald. "The Bonnie Scots Greys" (second to none), is an equally fascinating poem ; " The thin, red Line," and " The passage of the Gare," are likewise well chosen. " The Rush on Coomassie," " A Soldier's vow," " The Lad with the Bonnet of Blue," II " The wearing of the tartan," " The spell of the mountains," " The plaint of the mountain stream," " Sunset," and many others are very good and reflect great credit upon the authoress, but she is not done yet. Since the " Lays of the Heather" was published the following further poems have come from her pen :— "How they won the Red Hackle" (about the 42nd); " Gillean an Fhèilidh " (the lads with the kilts); "The lassie wi' the tartan," " A Rùin," (term of endearment), " The Dream Glen," " Sea Dreams," " The Parting on the Bridge," " When Distant Hills Look Near," " Through the Zone of Fire" (Flora MacDonald), "The Doom of Knocklea," "The Taking of Abu-Hamed," " The Song of Sleep," " Never go Back," '' Friendship,"''Haunted," ''TheDargaiHeights," " Cill Charoil," " My Picture," " Parting," " On the eve," and several others not yet published. Some stanzas of one of the unpublished ones— " The Doom of Knocklea " are appended, " The Doom of Knocklea" (suggested by an incident in the Highland evictions.) Whistle ! for food in your eerie lone, Gold Eagle of Cnoc-nam-beann ! Folds there are none, but the granite stone. To steal for thy young on Cnoc-nam-beann, The thatchless roof, and the ruined wall, Will echo back to your hungry call, No song in the shelling, nor cow in the stall, To tell of the kindly haunts of men As the lonely winds sweep up the glen. Ochon! Whistle ! and cry in your haunted cave, Spirit of him who was called Knocklea, Ye stand on the brink of an open grave With the forms of the dead for company. The red deer roams on the bare hillside, No sound of life on the moorland wide Ye scattered afar in the day of your pride : Nor living nor dead, are ye lonesome then, As the wintry winds sweep up the glen And moan ? The ship went down as it left the shore, Freighted with sorrowing human lives ; The waves brought back to thy castle door Aged mothers and year-old wives. Above the wail of the tempest's shriek, Set to music by Colin MacAlpin. The curse of the strong and the cry of the weak Rose high o'er the blackened boulders peak, For the ruined hearth and the empty pen As the lone wind swept the evicted glen Of the Dead! Ye were strong as ye laughed in your cheerless mirth, For the peasant lives who had perished there ! They wished to remain in the land of their birih, Behold! how their Godhath heard the prayer ! The gloom of the rocks on thy dwelling fell. There is neither laughter nor tear in Hell! Souls of the just with their God are well, How fares it with thee in thy cursed den, When the lone winds sweep the leafless glen. O'erhead ? Whistle and cry to your hunting hounds, The white Doe lies in the bosky park, W hoop ! and away, the dead man bounds, For you are living and they are stark. Fingers point Lo their grass grown homes, Little ones weep on their own grave stones, The forest echoes give back thy groans, Till the tenantless walls are peopled again With living children and lusty men. Thy Doom ! Ware the river and haunted cave ! Ware the forests of dark Knocklea ! Ware the cursed where the pine trees wave ! Ware the torrent that tumbles free ! There evil walks in the train of night With the man accursed in the day or his might, Here men have perished in fearsome plight Who answered the cry for the aid of men That shrieks and raves thro' the wind swept glen. In gloom ! Our cian bardess has also immortalised the heroic conduct of Brigadier Hector MacDonald at Omdurman in verse and song—" Our heroe's welcome " must be familiar to most Highlanders. From the crash of cannons' roar And the flash of ringing steel, Toilsome march, and swift Bivouac, Broken by the trumpets peal. From the desert Afric s sands Long renowned in battle story; Omdurman's undaunted field Where thy name is linked in glory. Ciad's ciad mile fàilte* Dear to soldier's heart the laurels, When a glorious deed is done ; Dearer when from grim oppressions Broken chains, the wreath is won. Dearer still, when hearts that love thee, Honour in thy honours claim, When the race of Conn united |