Book Week Scotland: Carmina Gadelica

Book Week Scotland takes place this week, so we thought we'd mark it with excerpts from the extraordinary creation that is Carmina Gadelica. Although its title means 'Gaelic incantations', it is not simply a book of religious or devotional lyrics. Alexander Carmichael and, indeed, the editors of the later volumes were careful to include extra information about each 'incantation' whether it was about the reciters, the characters, the history, the language or the places involved. The plethora of detail makes Carmina Gadelica one of those books in which you will inevitably find something new and intriguing.

This first excerpt is a tale entitled 'The Cow of Blessings' or 'Bò nam Beannachd' which accompanies 'The Charm of the Wild Heifers' 'Òra na Aighean Fiadhaich' and appropriately enough mentions a book.

The Cow of Blessings, collected from Catherine MacNeill, Ceann Tangabhall, Barra.

The reciter said: When Colum Cille was dwelling in the Aoi (Iona), a poor little wretched woman came to put her trouble to him and to ask his advice, for Colum Cille was the world's head of wisdom and the head of healing of the universe.

The poor woman said, 'My man died when he was coming home from the strand of periwinkles, and my son was drowned when he was swimming to the Isle of Women to visit his mother, and I am left with three orphans without pith or power. I have a lovely little heifer, but she will not give milk for the children and she will not take to her calf, and I know not under the white sun what to do or which way to turn.'

Colum Cille said to the poor little woman, 'I have made prattlings of cows and incantations of horses in my day and in my generation. I had them in a skin book, and I had the skin book in the window. The skin book was stolen from me, and I lost the charms for cattle and the incantations for horses, and I have none of them available this day. But I will make a rune for thee, poor little woman, which thou shalt sing to they heifer, and before thou shalt have finished the rune the little heifer shall have taken to her calf. And the name of this rune is "The Charm of the Wild Heifers".' And Colum Cille sang the charm to the poor little woman with the tears streaming down his cheeks.

Colum Cille was the best at speaking and the best at singing and the best at melody that was born of woman.

The Charm of the Wild Heifers

My heifer beloved, be not alone,

Let thy little calf be before thee;

See yon bramble bush a-bending,

And bowing down with brambles.

He ho-li-vó 's a vó ri ag,

Ri ag vó, take to thy calf!

Coax thy pretty one to thyself,

Till thou sendest to the fold a herd;

Columba's tending shall be thine behind them,

He made this lilt for thyself.

Certain is the gentle proverb,

The cow of blessings is the cow of calves;

The cow of curses is the moorland cow,

That has never quenched our thirst.

Often afield is the calfless cow

Seldom within is the calfless cow,

Despised among cattle is the calfless cow, 

Refuse among cattle the calfless cow.

Head to shoulder is the calfless cow,

Foot to mountain is the calfless cow,

At the edge of the fold is the calfless cow,

Cow without profit is the calfless cow.

On crest of hill is the calfless cow,

On floor of glen is the calfless cow,

At the edge of the fold is the calfless cow,

Nor butter nor crowdie from the calfless cow.

In desert glens strays the calfless cow,

Ugly and bristling of shag is the calfless cow,

Leaper of walls is the calfless cow,

Dirt of byre is the calfless cow.

The black heifer is reconciled,

Thou wilt make lowing to thy pretty on;

Thou wilt come home with droves,

Thou will quench the thirst of hundreds.

My little black heifer thou! my little black heifer!

The same lot is mine and thine.

May thy little black calf not be lost to thee;

But mine only son beloved is beneath the sea.

He ho-li-vó 's a vó ri ag,

Ri ag vó 'a vó ri ag,

Ri ag vó 's a vó ri ag,

Ri ag vó, take to thy calf!

Bò nam Beannachd' agus 'Òra na Aighean Fiadhaich' 'sa Ghà­idhlig

References: Alexander Carmichael, Carmina Gadelica: Ortha nan Gàidheal, vol IV (Edinburgh, 1971), pp.55-59.
Image: Black cow and heifer from http://www.6666ranch.com

A Jacobite Song: The Silver Whistle

Prince Charles Edward Stuart

Many would perhaps consider one of the most popular Jacobite songs out of more than just a few as An Fhìdeag Airgid (The Silver Whistle) composed in honour of the Young Pretender. The silver whistle in the context of the song refers to a silver reed used in the pipe chanter. Alexander Carmichael collected one of the earliest recordings of this songs from the recitation of Donald MacPhee, a blacksmith from Breivig in Barra, mentioned in an earlier blog. The version given here looks slightly corrupted perhaps because Carmichael had not understood the reciter or that the reciter himself had picked up the song incorrectly or perhaps merely misremembered some of the words:

Co shein[n]eas an fhideag airgid
Hi uill uill o
Mac mo righs eir ti[ghin]n a dh Alba
O ro hu o huill o.
Air luing a mharaiche ghreanan
Ho ro hu o hu ill o
Ribenan an t si[o]da Fhrangach
Ullagan oir eir g [sic] gach ceann diu
Mo ghaol ammister ainmeil
Cha b e mac sin M Fearachar
Cha b e ogha Mairi Simason
Ga b e thrialla gu tai[gh] talla

Carmichael notes that it was taken down on 21 May 1869 and he later wrote out the piece in a transcription book in a neater hand on 16 and 17 June 1869. Perhaps the most interesting part of this recording session is the song narrative that Carmichael had the pleasure of hearing. A further note says the MacPhee had heard from a North Uist bard and catechist called An Dall Mòr that the song had been composed specifically for the Prince. The reciter then goes on to give some historical details about the actual song. It is also of interest to note that this song or rather variations of this song was later recorded from quite a few tradition bearers from Barra:

One Peter Campbell from Barra
went to Loch nan Uagh for timber. Food
was scarce in Barra – no grain but
plenty of butter cheese & flesh. They
landed a pot in a nook to boil beef
when they saw a large vessel come
ashore in the Loch. He sent a boat
ashore. A gentleman landed
from the boat under whose arms
two men went & took him outdey[?]
They asked P[eter] Campbell to take
ashore arms swords & guns. He did
so and they hid them. He was asked
what pay he charged. He told them
that if they had grain food he pref[erred]. The
boat was loaded with flour & biscuits
till he told them that they would sink
his boat. He came home to Barra
and the pot is still in Lochnanua [Loch nan Uamh].
This was the landing of P[rince] Charlie.

References:
CW150/13, ff. 5r–5v.
An Fhideag Airgid: http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/22363/1 (Flora MacNeil)
http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/93660/1 (Captain Donald Joseph MacKinnon)
http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/fullrecord/30346/1 (Nan MacKinnon)
Image: Prince Charles Edward Stuart.

Some Prophecies of the Brahan Seer

Howbeg, South Uist

Many traditional tales of Coinneach Odhar or the so-called Brahan Seer were floating around the isles when Alexander Carmichael was collecting there in the early 1870s. One typical tale, noted down on 3 January 1872, from an unnamed reciter in Gramsdale, Benbecula, tells of how the seer came by his powers of prophecy and then how he eventually threw this stone into Loch Ness. It is said that when this stone is eventually rediscovered that all his prophecies will come true. The reciter then goes on to relate a number of prophecies especially those with a connection to Uist and Barra including the presence of grey geese and white sheep; that a battle would be fought at Claddach Kyles after which the raven would drink the blood of the fallen men from the hill at Clach Mhòr a Che and about MacNeil of Barra and the ‘maor nan òrdagan mòr’ who wrote with his left hand:

Coinneach Odhar is said to have

been born at Howbeag – the son of a
widow. He dreamt & got up & dug the
sand on the strand. Twas tho[ugh]t that he got
derg[?]. He wro[ugh]t hard at this for a long time.
He then got a box & in the box a stone
& in the stone all the prophecy – buai[dh]
He kept the stone & as long as he kept
it he proph[esy]ng. He threw fr[om] him[self] the stone
in a lake at near Lochness. When
this lake is drain[ed] the stone will be
found & then many things will c[o]m[e]
to light. He heard a voice when
he was lifting the box on the strand
Prophecies – Uist (N[orth]) will be fo
gheoi[dh] ghlas us caor[aich] gheala which
is true. A battle will be fo[ugh]t at Clad[d-]
ach & the fi[th]each will drink his fill
of the blood of the slain on the top
of Clachamhor a che Passing
a lake at Oban-cinn lianacleit
he said that Lake (Dig mhor[)]
would yet be the best croce feam[ad]
in Uist. There he proph[esied] about
the Macneills of Barra & the duin[e]
mor 24 meoir, & maor nan ordagan
mora a sgri[obhadh] leis an lai[mh] chearr
This maor went to Barra to sequester
Macn[e]ill. He said a coit bheag
would yet carry all the Macdonalds
in S[outh] Uist when the whole country
was full of these.
Calum Bōdach in N[orth] Uist had
tai[bh]searac[hd] & confirmed many of C[oinneach] Odhars.
The man re[a]p[ed] Clai[dh] Chorcail & then
threw at Ioc[hd]ar] the sheaf of corn at the cow
which began eat[in]g & he left & the owner
of the sick cow was d[y]ing. C[oinneach] Odhar
is the seer me[a]nt in S[aint] Clair of
the Isles.

Clach Mhòr a' Che, North Uist

Reference:
CW90/94, ff. 9v–10r.
Images:
Howbeg / Tobh Beag, South Uist / Uibhist a Deas.
Clach Mhòr a’ Che, North Uist / Uibhist a Tuath.

Otters and Eels

Otter / Bèist D(h)ubh or Dòbhran

It is perhaps not a well-known fact about Alexander Carmichael that he planned to publish a natural history of the Hebrides. Somewhat like a few of his other plans, this project for whatever reason never saw the light of day. Every so often Carmichael took the opportunity to note down something about the beasts and creatures that he would encounter on his ‘beat’ around Uist as well as other islands. A typical example of this is a short note concerning the reproductive cycle and animal behaviour of otters and was probably taken down from the recitation of Anthony Campbell (1825–1907) who belonged to Kentangaval in Barra:

Otters bring forth end of Sep[tember] or beg[inning] of Oct[ober]
two pups – a male & female each time.
In swimming about pups go on each
side of dam. They eat muca-rua – eels
they prefer. They have the head half of the
eel & eat the tail half. They catch the
eel by the tail & allow it to drag the otter till
the eel gives up dead. The eel lives in a faic[he]
in a cairn with a clear morghan in
front & round it. Faic[he] = sloc under
a big stone in a sea cairn. The same
with the lobster.

Reference:
CW108/16, f. 6r.
Image: Otter, called Bèist D(h)ubh or Dòbhran in Scottish Gaelic.

How to Cure a Cow: Silver Water

Silver Water

A well-known cure for any ailing cow was picked up by Alexander Carmichael from John Cameron (1805–1889) in Borve, Barra. This practice, it seems, would have been widespread throughout the Highlands and Islands as well as in other parts of Scotland. Such a method was usually referred to traditionally as uisge-airgid and the silver agent was used for its apotropaic qualities in order to avert the evil-eye or droch-shùil (usually the agency to have caused the cow to fall into ill-health in the first place):

Cattle Cure – An old dairy
maid request[ed] John Cameron
Borve to go to a tobar fior
uisg nach tra'adh [traghadh] or to a
stream forming a march &
to take home water from that –
To go ere sun rise or sun
set with an eye of man
or woman to see Place
silver in the dish & sprinkle
this 3 times on the cow.

The remarkable ability of people to remember such folk-cures is demonstrated by the following example which was taken down in Easter Ross by Prof. Seosamh Watson some three decades ago:

Bha bobhla mor fiodh aca agus bhitheadh leth-chrun anns am bobhla agus, reist, bhitheadh sia sgilling anns am bobhla agus bonnan tì sgilling anns am bobhla. Bheireadh iad sin dut a dh'ol agus nan fhastadh an t-airgead ri toin am bobhla se buidsidheachd a bha ann, buidsidheachd. Nan fhastadh an t-airgead gu toin am bobhla bhitheadh fhios aca, reist, gur buidsidheachd bha deis dut. A bheil thu tuigeil? Agus nis, rachadh e tron aite.

This above narrative is given in translation as follows:

They had a big wooden bowl and there would be a half-crown in the bowl and then there would be sixpence in the bowl and a little threepenny piece in the bowl. They would give you that to drink and if the money stuck to the bottom of the bowl it would be witchcraft, witchcraft. If the money stuck to the bottom of the bowl then that witchcraft had been done on you. Do you see? Now that news would go trough the locality.

References:

CW90, f. 59v.

Watson, Seosamh, ‘Saoghal Bana-Mharaiche: Oral Accounts of Life in an Easter Ross Community’ (Part II), Béaloideas, vol. 72 (2004), pp. 99–218.

Image: Silver Water.

The Last of the Vikings

This short anecdote about the last of the Vikings in Fuday, lying just off Barra, was probably collected by Alexander Carmichael from the famous storyteller, Roderick MacNeil, known as Ruairidh an Rùma (c. 1790–1875). It is not impossible that there may well be an element of truth in saying that MacNeil of Barra’s illegitimate son wiped out the last of the Vikings in Fuday. Although the Vikings came at first to pillage the Hebrides they would eventually come to settle and marry into the local populace. It could be that this historical tale refers to the bloodier side of the Viking ‘conquest’ for it is clear to see that the King of Lochlann’s son, Barp, made himself extremely unpopular not only to the native islanders but also to the Vikings themselves. Such a legend has all the hallmarks of an assassination motivated in part by political expediency in gaining influence and control in the Hebrides:

Dùn a’ Bhairp / Dùn Bharpa, Barra

The last of the Lochlannaich lived in

Fuda[y] and were killed there. They were
killed by Mac an Amharais. He was a
an [sic] illeg[itmate] son of MacNeil – disowned
by his father, hence the name. Mac
Neil at last said to him. If thou
be my son go and kill a ghraisg ud
am Fuda[idh]. He went and left none
of them living. The Lochlannaich
at one time owned all these islands
A son of the King of L[ochlann] whose name
was Barp and who was the embodi[ment]
of all that was fierce and cruel
and murderous died. He was buried
behind Bailenacreaige and all
the Loch[lannaich] in all the islands col[lected]
and piled stones over him for fear he
should rise again to be a scourge
upon them. This was the origin
of “Dun a Bhairp” in Barra.

It may be noted that Dùn Bharpa is really a Neolithic chambered burial cairn or passage grave, located between two hills near Borve, in Barra. The scale is quite impressive at five metres in height and thirty-four metres in diameter. The capstone measures three square metres which is now split in two. Outside the cairn itself there are single upright stones that used to lean against the cairn.

Reference:

CW 114, fos. 83r–83v.
Image: Dùn a’ Bhairp / Dùn Bharpa, Barra.

Bean-Tuiream: A Professional Weeper

A rather intriguing as well as an important tradition noted down by Alexander Carmichael probably came by way of a Uist reciter. This short anecdote provides some biographical notes of a bean-tuiream, a professional weeper or keener, called Mòr Bhuidhe who hailed from Barra but travelled to Uist in order to fulfil her duties at a local dignitary’s funeral:

Mor Bhuidhe belong[ed] to Barra but us[e]d
to travel in Uist as a Bean-Tuiream
much respected. Co sin agaibh
eir na maidean said she aft[e]r she
had been a lasagaich sa tuir[ea]m
M’eudail is m’ai[ghea]r is mo run [th]u
Cha bu chùl dhuit Mac Uistean
said she when Mac Uisteans wife
was on the maidean who had been
one of the Vallay family. Cha tuirst i
fhein sin said Mac Uist[ean]

Elsewhere, Carmichael provides a more detailed account of the bean-tuiream in the second volume of Carmina Gadelica:

Gul, lament, weep. Mourning for the dead was a profession among the Celts, as in the East, and was generally done by women. ‘Bean tuiream,’ mourning woman, is the term applied to a professional weeper. ‘Tuiream’ is specially applied to mourning for the dead; ‘tuiream bhais,’ death-mourning. Similar terms are ‘seis,’ dirge, and ‘seis bhais,’ ‘seisig bhais,’ death-dirge, death-wail. In Ireland this is called ‘caoineadh,’ weeping, Anglicised ‘keening.’

Carmichael then tells of an occasion when he encountered a woman from Barra whom he does not mention by name. Presumably she would have been fairly old and so her memory of the ‘tuiream’ went as far back as the first and second decades of the nineteenth century. The description given here is rather evocative:

In 1870 the writer prevailed upon a woman in Barra to do the ‘tuiream’ as she had heard it when young. The funeral was that of a crofter at Castlebay who had died leaving a young widow and several children. As the funeral procession left the house the woman set up a plaintive cadence. At first her voice was low and tremulous, but gradually rose to a great height. The scene was striking. Below, on a tidal rock, was the castle of Ciosmal, now a roofless ruin, once the picturesque home of the Macneills of Barra, while the Atlantic waves dashed against the rocks, mingling their wailing with that of the ‘bean tuiream,’ weeping woman.

Carmichael’s entry discussing the ‘bean-tuiream’ concludes with two short humorous anecdotes:

An amusing story is told in the neighbourhood of Glen Dessary at Ceann Locharkaig, of weeping women who were paid ten shillings each for professional services at the funeral of two of General Wade’s soldiers. To a sad and mournful air they sang:–

‘Hi, ro, hi, ho!

Dh’ fhalbh na Sasunnaich,

Hi, hu, ho, hi!

’S dar a tig an t-aon la thilleas iad.’

Hi, ro, ho, ho!

The Saxon men are gone,

Hi hu, ho, hi!

And may the day never come when they shall return.

The Rev. Somerled MacMillan in his book Bygone Lochaber fleshes out a little more detail: “Two of General Wade’s soldiers had died under tragic circumstances at Kinlocharkaig. In older times it was the custom in the Highlands to employ hired mourners to “keen” for the dead, and so the English General thought he would adhere to the age-long custom. Certain MacMillan women were paid ten shillings for professional services at the funeral of the two soldiers.” It is very doubtful indeed that the keening women would have seen their money if the paymasters had understood what they were actually singing!

A Lochaber woman in Glasgow was taken to see Richard III. In the course of the play she exclaimed – ‘Ach a Mhoire Mhathair! co iad na mnathan tuiream?’ – But, Mary Mother! who are they the weeping women?

References:

CW 106, fol. 38r.

Carmina Gadelica, ii, p. 309.

Somerled MacMillan, Bygone Lochaber: Historical and Traditional (Glasgow: privately published, 1971), p. 202.

Image:

A Highland Funeral (1882), oil on canvas by Sir James Guthrie (1859-1930).

Caibeal Bhrianain in Barra

Archaeological remains, particularly those of an ecclesiastical nature, held quite a fascination for Alexander Carmichael. On 5 March 1869, Carmichael took time out of his busy schedule to jot down his observations concerning Caibeal Bhrianain at Borve Point near Craigston, in the isle of Barra:

Caibial Bhrianain with taigh eisd

eac[hd] at end. The orig[inal] entrance to the Con
fessional is thro[ugh] the chapel. The walls
of the chapel can orig[nally] be traced but those
of the Conf[essional] are up a few feet. As the door
is in the centre of the wall at east end the
altar must have stood at the west end
surely an unusual thing. The original
door was 37.4 In[ches]. At north side of door a piece
is built up and the door stands now 2½ f[eet].
A Mr Aon[gh]as mac Fir Dhaileile
is the only priest who is known to have
died in Barra and he is said to be
buried in the caibeal beag – 2 & the
taigh eisdeac[hd] at end of chapel
here at Borve.

Elsewhere, in Carmina Gadelica, some traditions were recorded about St Brendan from a smith named Malcolm Maclean (1815–1881), Kentangval, in Barra, who Carmichael later recalled as being ‘a man of quiet wit, natural intelligence, and independence of mind.’ It is a bit too long to give in full but here is the gist of the story which explains that Dòmhnall Dubh Mòr took to working on the Lord’s Day and is said to have ‘had opinions of his own about Saints and Saints’ days, in consequence of which he and the priest of St Brendan had occasional rubs, sometimes bordering on anger. The man was neighbourly and industrious, but some said sceptical and irreligious, barely observing the Sunday, and hardly even the Feast Day.’ On the feast of St Brendan, Dòmhnall decided to go ploughing instead of attending Mass. When he began to work a magic mist descended and transformed his horses and plough. This he tried three times but finally had to give up the ploughing as a bad job. Those who knew Dòmhnall rebuked him ‘for disturbing the rest of the blessed Brendan, and breaking his holy day.’ Such was the ‘curse’ laid upon him that Dòmhnall Dubh’s comely young wife ran to the priest for help. ‘Let Domhull Dubh Mor revel in his agony,’ said the priest, “till he shows by his good deed contrition for his evil ways.” But the good priest came notwithstanding, and, after administering a rebuke to Domhull Dubh, sprinkled on him the water of peace, and bade him go and give alms to the poor and the needy made in the image of God, and sin no more.’

References:
Carmina Gadelica, ii, pp. 235–38
CW 107, fol. 19r
Image:
St Brendan’s Craigston Church, built in 1857

Cumha Mhic an Tòisich – Mackintosh’s Lament II

As indicated in a previous blog, Alexander Carmichael contributed another long article to The Highlander – it seems that he was unfamiliar with brevity – about Cumha Mhic an Tòisich, or Mackintosh's Lament. His first article drew a reply from ‘A. M. S.’, or Alexander MacLean Sinclair (1840–1923), a near contemporary who hailed from Glenbard, Nova Scotia. His reply will no doubt be the subject of a subsequent blog. Sinclair published a great deal during his lifetime, works (mainly compilations of Gaelic song and poetry) such as Clàrsach na Coille (1881) and the Glenbard Collection (1890). Letters from his pen also appeared frequently in Gaelic-related newspapers and journals produced in Nova Scotia as well as those in Scotland. It is perhaps no coincidence that Sinclair was also accused of tinkering with his source material, but such accusations may be forgiven, for he, like Carmichael, brought to light much Gaelic and Highland-related material that otherwise would have been lost. It may also be added that Carmichael also furnishes a translation of Cumha Mhic an Tòisich although he admits that it was far from being perfect.

The death of the late young Mackintosh drew from the rich repository of Celtic lore at Creagory a lament for a previous young chief, which was hardly at the time to be in existence, and which perhaps no one but Mr Carmichael himself could furnish in M.S. We were desirous of having a good English version of this lament for the sake of the young widow who has such sad cause to enter into the spirit of it. There is something curious in the fact that the English version which we now have now from Mr Carmichael comes just as the birth of a daughter mingles the joys of maternity with the sorrow that the inheritance of her husband shall not pass to her offspring. Mr Carmichael writes:–

I beg to apologise to your courteous correspondent, ‘A. M. S.’ for delaying to reply to his communication in The Highlander of 27th May.
I regret my inability, at present, to enter into the interesting questions raised by “A. M. S.” though I trust to be able to do so, at some future time. I may, however, state that I entirely agree with him, that there may be music wholly independent of the words, and that much of our best Highland music has been so composed.
Nevertheless, the instances are few, I think, in which there are no words to our Gaelic airs, even to our most complicated laments and pibrochs.

Whether the music may not have been originally composed without the words, and the words subsequently added, as suggested by him, is another question, and one upon which, in the meantime, I am unable to enter. For the present, I must content myself, with giving an English translation of Mackintosh’s Lament, as desired by A. M. S.

The translation is literal–probably too much to be effective. It is very unsatisfactory, and conveys to the reader, and imperfect idea of the beauty and pathos of the original. I invariably find, however, that it is easier to be dissatisfied with a thing than to improve upon it. As will be seen, no attempt is made at rhyme, though I should much like to see the beautiful Gaelic lament adequately rendered into English.

THE MACKINTOSH LAMENT

’Tis I am the woman of sorrow,
Wearing the kertch,
Since all men have heard,
That on its crown is the favour.

Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
In the path of the garden.

The roan horse felled thee,
The roan horse raised not thee,
The roan horse felled thee,
In the path of the garden.

O! would I were there then,
Would! would! I were there then,
O! would I were there then,
I would have grasped thy hand.

A maid stricken in sorrow am I
Whom no one again will recognise,
Since this time last year,
The day the ring was placed on me.

’Tis I that am sore in anguish,
Oft the tear drops from mine eyes,
Sorrowing over the splendid youth,
The gallant rider of fiery steed.

The wine meant for thy marriage
Was spent at thy funeral;
How wept I
Betimes the gallons were being drained!

I shall not go to a wedding,
Neither to feast nor to fair;
’Twas in the early springtime
I received the sorrow that pierced me.

Stricken in grief am I,
Since in the earth they laid thee;
Carry my blessing with my heart’s fond wishes,
To the high tower of stones.

My darling on thee my lover,
Thou beauteous sapling of the clustering locks,
More fragnant than the cinnamon,
To me, is the breath of thy mouth.

Gracefully would’st thou dance
To the strains of the music;
Nor woulds’t thou bend the grass-blade,
Beneath the point of thy high shoe.

My fond love on thy sister,
The young maiden of the yellow hair;
Well beseems thee a ruddy cheek,
Coming from travelling the Brae.

The hunter of the deer thou,
And the salmon on the cascade,
The black-cock on the pointed bough,
And the white bird (swam?) woulds’t thou kill.

Rider of the prancing black steed,
The prancing black steed, the prancing black steed,
Rider of the prancing black steed,
The white steed tore thee.

Young Eon thou art felled,
Young Eon thou art felled,
Young Eon thou art felled,
In the path of the garden.

Young Eon thou art raised,
Young Eon thou art raised,
Young Eon thou art raised,
Alas! unknown to me though first at hand.

Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
Alas! and alas! thou art felled,
In the path of the garden.

The following variations with and additional verse of the poem were written on the 10th of February, last, from Christina Macdonald (?) “Cairistina Bheag”–a cottar woman at Borve, Barra. They were prefaced by an interesting introduction, part of which I quote for the sake of the vivid glance with which it illustrates the warm relationship existing in the olden times between a Highland chief and his clansmen–a relationship which to their honour be it said the descendants of the chief to whom the poem was composed still nobly perpetuate.

The Mackintosh had a foster-father (oide) of whom he sought counsel every morning. Upon a certain day the Mackintosh said to his foster-father–“What counsel to-day foster-father?” “That thou, the essence of my heart and of my reason, (a shugh mo chridhe ’s mo cheille) shalt yet find thy death from that proud prancing steed which thou now ridest under thee. “Hush! thou unsanctified carl (a bhodaich gun bheannachadh) in that thou art belied at the rate,” and pointing his pistol at the horses he shot him dead.

In substance, the rest of the introduction fairly agrees with that given in The Highlander of the 5th February last.

Och nan och leag ’ad thu,
Creach nan creach leag ’ad thu,
Och nan och leag ’ad thu,
Am bialach a gharaidh.

Leag an t-each cionnan thu
Bhreab an t-each cionnan thu
Leag an t-each cionnan thu
An ionad a gharaidh.

Maighdion ro-dhuilich,
Nach fainichear tuillidh mi;
’S mise ta muladach,
O’n la chuireadh orm faine.

’S mise bhean chianail,
O thoiseach na bliadhna
Cha gha’ainn ga m’ iarraidh
Mac iarla no stata.

TRANSLATION.

Alas! and alas! felled they thee,
Ruin of ruin, felled they thee,
Alas! and alas! felled they thee,
In the pass of the garden.

Felled art thou by the roan horse,
Kicked art thou by the roan horse,
Felled art thou by the roan horse,
In the pass of the garden.


A maiden of great grief am I;
Recognised never again shall I be;
I dwell in desolation
Since the ring was put on me.

A woman am I of loneliness,
Since they early time of the year;
Yet would I note accept the seeking
The son of an earl, nor yet that of a noble.

I have time simply to say that I trust “A. M. S.” may yet be able to reconcile this beautiful Gaelic poem, and its tradition with recorded history. Eon variously written, Ewen, Evan, and Hugh, and not John, is the name mentioned in the lament.

Apologising for the length of this paper.
                                                           ALEX. A. CARMICHAEL
                                                                      Creagorry, Outer Hebrides,
                                                                                              21st June 1876.

References:
Carmichael, Alexander, ‘Cumha Mhic-an-Toisich’, The Highlander, vol. IV, no. 165 (8 Jul., 1876), p. 3, cc. 3–5.

Macneil, Calum, ‘Carmichael in Barra’ in Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart (ed.), The Life & Legacy of Alexander Carmichael (Ness: The Islands Books Trust, 2008), pp. 44–57.

Image: Black Steed.

Cumha Mhic an Tòisich – Mackintosh’s Lament

There can be little doubt that one of the most powerful, heart-rending and beautiful laments that can be played upon the Great Highland Bagpipe is a tune called Cumha Mhic an Tòisich – Mackintosh's Lament. Carmichael had seen the obituary notice of the Mackintosh chief in The Highlander newspaper and what he read there must have piqued his curiosity so much that he wrote a couple of letters on the subject of this famous lament that later appeared in this newspaper’s columns. The traditional story behind the tune is given, as well as the lyrics taken down by Carmichael from Marion MacNeil or Mòr nighean Alasdair ’ic Ruaraidh Bhàin (1843–1927), daughter of the famous Gaelic seanchaidh Alexander MacNeil or Alasdair mac Ruairidh Bhàin (c. 1787–1881), Kentangaval, Barra.

In the interesting notice, in The Highlander, of the 25th ultimo, of the death of Mackintosh of Mackintosh, it is said:–“In the Northern Meetings he took much interest and frequently acted as one of the judges. His admiration for Highland music was great, and in connection with this, we may note that so highly did he esteem some of the old tunes that he was at considerable labour in tracting the history of some of them. “Cumha Mhic-an-Toisich,” “Mackintosh’s Lament,” was, we understand, so traced by him, and a copy of it, as supplied by him, was published by Messrs Fullarton & Co. In regard to this tune, the deceased wrote–“The tune is as old as 1550 or thereabouts. Angus Mackay in his ‘Pipe Music Book’ gives it 1526, and says it was composed, on the death of Lachlan, fourteenth laird; but we believe it was composed by the famous family bard, Macintyre, upon the death of William, who was murdered by the Countess of Huntly, in 1550. This bard had seen, within the space of forty years, four Captains of Clan Chattan meet with violent deaths, and his deep feelings found vent in the refrain–

Mackintosh the excellent
They have lifted;
They have laid thee
Low, they have laid thee.

These are the only words in existence which I can hear of.” These things are of more than passing interest. The Chief’s statement that these four lines are all he could recover of the famous piobaireachd induced me to search for something more among my own MSS., and I now give the result.

The following poem was taken down on the 25th Sep., 1872, from the singing of Mor nighean Alasdair ’ic Ruaraidh bhain, Keantangaval, Barra. Alexander Macneill, the father of this intelligent cottar girl, is an an excellent sgeulaich (storyteller), and as such, is often mentioned by Mr Campbell of Islay, in his well-known West Highland Tales.
According to my notes, written from the narration of the singer of the lament, there was a prediction prevalent amongst his clansmen that Mackintosh of the day was destined to die through the instrumentality of his beautiful black steed–a steud dubh aluinn–whose glossy skin shone as the raven’s wing, and whose flowing mane and tail waved free as the mountain mist. But whatever he felt, the Chief resolved to show to his people that he treated the prediciton lightly, and so he continued to ride his favourite notwithstanding the entreaties of his friends to the contrary.
On the day of his marriage, the spirited Chief rode his spirited black steed, which, on the way to church, became more than usually restive. The steed reared, and plunged, and curveted, and altogether behaved so wildly, that the rider, losing control over himself and his horse, drew his pistol and shot him dead.
A gille-mor, “man nearest to him,” as the old people say, handed his chief another horse and they proceed to church.
After the marriage ceremony, the gay party set out on their homeward journey. The bride and her maids, upon white palfreys, preceded, and the bridegroom and his friends followed. In passing, the chief’s roan horse shied at the dead body of the black horse, and the rider was thrown to the ground and killed on the spot. A turn in the road hid the accident from those in front, and thus the bride, unconcious of the scene of misery behind her, continued her way home, the happiest of happy brides! She is said to have composed the air and elegy–Cumha Mhic-an-Toisich–The Mackintosh Lament.
“A distressing occurrence,” I remarked, as the narrator ended her interesting introduction to the poem.
“Yes sir,” said the girl, who is a Catholic, “But it was fated to him–bha e ’n dan dha,” which brought out the latent predestinarianism which seems so ingrained in the Scottish mind of all denominations.
I know not of what family was this unhappy lady, who, if this tradition be correct, has had the honour of composing one of the most plaintive, pathetic, and touching, and withal one of the most beautiful things in the Gaelic language.
The late young Mackintosh states that Mackay in his Pipe Music says that the air was composed in the year 1526 on the death of Lachlan, the fourteenth laird, while, he himself, believes that it was composed of Huntly in 1550. The period would agree with an expression in the seventh stanza:–

             Cha lubadh tu am feornan
             Fo shroin da bhroig arda.

            (In dancing) thou wouldst not bend the grass-blade
            Beneath the point of thy high shoe.

In the time of Elizabeth and James, fashionable people in England and Scotland wore shoes curving up at the point, like those worn by fashionable Indians at the present day. In extreme cases shoes curved up to the extent of two feet. The only difficulty is to believe that a Highland chief of that period wore these high shoes. Perhaps after all these are not the shoes meant.

The Rev. Mr Macgregor, Inverness, whom I consider the purest Gaelic writer of the day, has kindly supplied me with this note:–

Tradition also relates that the afflicted widow of the Mackintosh, who came by his death as stated above, not only composed the beautiful air of the Lament, but chanted it as he moved forward at the head of the bier at her husband’s funeral, and marked the time by tapping with her fingers on the lid of the coffin. That, it is said, she continued to do for several miles, from the family castle at Daleross to the burying ground at Petty, and ceased not until these was torn away from the coffin, when it was about to be lowered into the grave. A. M’G.

Cha ’n eil saoidh gu’n a choimeas–“there is no hero without his prototype.” The versatile author of The Ingoldsby Legends gives a story–“The Grey Dolphin”–which, in one point, resembles this. A witch announces to the Baron de Shurland that his favourite dapple-grey steed is to be the means of his death. In order to belie the prediction, the doughty Baron draws his sword and cuts off the steed’s head. Three years thereafter, as the Baron returns home to Scotland, whither he had been with Edward Longshanks fighting an unrighteous war against Wallace, he sees the witch sitting on the bleached skull of his good old steed. Curiosity leads him to approach, when the witch mysteriously disappears. In his disappointment, the Baron kicks the skull, one of whose teeth enter his foot, causing mortification and death.

I regret my inability to throw further light on the subject of the following poem, which I beg to subjoin. ALEX. A. CARMICHAEL.

              Creagorry, Outer Hebrides,
                     17th Jan., 1876

CUMHA MHIC-AN-TOISICH

Is mise ’bhean mhuladach,
’Giulan na curraice.
O’n chualas aig gach duine,
Gur ann ’na mhullach bha am fabhar.

Och! nan och! leagadh thu,
Och! nan och! thogadh thu,
Och! nan och! leagadh thu,
A’m bealach a’ gharaidh!

Leag an t-each cionnan thu,
Cha do thog an t-each cionnan thu,
Leag an t-each cionnan thu,
A’n ionadh a’ gharaidh!

’S truagh! nach robh mis’ a’n sin,
’S truagh! nach robh mis’ a’n sin,
’S truagh! nach robh mis’ a’n sin,
’S bheirinn air laimh ort!

’S i maideann ro-dhabhach,
Nach fhainichear tuillead mi,
O’n taca so ’n-uiridh,
O’n la chuireadh am fainn orm.

’S mise’ tha gu tuirseach,
’S tric snidh air mo shuilean,
’S mi ’g ionndrain an fhiurain
Marcaich ur ’nan steud aluinn.

Am fion bha gu ’d bhainnis,
’S ann chaidh e gu d’ fhalair,
Gur mise bha galach,
’N am ’nan gallan a thraghadh!

Cha teid mi gun bainnis,
Gu feill no gu faidhir,
Gur ann toiseach an earraich,
Fhuair mi an t-saighead a chraidh mi!

Gur mise tha tuirseach,
O’n chuir iad ’san uir thu;
Thoir mo shoraidh le durachd,
Gu tur nan clach arda!

Mo cheist air mo leannain,
Fiuran a’ chuil chlannaich,
Gur cubhraidh o’n canail,
Leam anail do bhraghaid.

Dhannseadh tu comhnard,
’Nan seinneadh iad ceol dhuit,
’S cha lubadh tu am feornan,
Fo shroin do bhroig arda!

Mo cheist air do phiuthair,
Bean og a’ chuil bhuidhe,
Gur maith a thig dhuit rughadh
’Tighinn o shiubhal do bhráighe!

Sealgair an fheidh thu,
’S a bhric’ air an leumadh,
’S choillich dhuibh air bharr geige,
’S gu’n reubteach ’n t-eun ban leat!

Marcaiche an eich leumnaich dhuibh!
Leumnaich dhiubh! leumnaich dhuibh!
Marcaiche an eich leumnaich dhuibh!

Eodhain Oig! leaghadh thu!
Eodhain Oig! leaghadh thu!
Eodhain Oig! leaghadh thu!
An eabar a’ gharaidh!

Eodhain Oig! thogadh thu!
Eodhain Oig! thogadh thu!
Eodhain Oig! thogadh thu!
Och! gu’n fhios domh ’s mi laimh riut!

Och! nan och! leagadh thu,
Och! nan och! thogadh thu,
Och! nan och! leagadh thu,
A’m bealach a’ gharaidh!

References:
Carmichael, Alexander, ‘Cumha Mhic-an-Toisich–Mackintosh’s Lament’, The Highlander, vol. II, no. 143 (5 Feb., 1876), p. 6, cc. 1–2.

Macneil, Calum, ‘Carmichael in Barra’ in Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart (ed.), The Life & Legacy of Alexander Carmichael (Ness: The Islands Books Trust, 2008), pp. 44–57.
Image: Black Steed.

Loch Up Your Daughters!

Ancient artefacts as well as buildings held a particular fascination for Alexander Carmichael and when the opportunity arose he would ask his many informants if they knew something about them or if they had heard any stories connected with them. In a notebook (CW 90), there are not a few such items and one story which Carmichael picked up, probably taken down from John Pearson or MacPherson (1814–1885), concerns a dun in Loch Nic na Ruaidhe. On modern maps this name is given as Loch Nic Ruaidh which on first impression doesn’t make a great deal of sense. But on earlier maps this geographic feature is referred to as Loch na Nighinn Ruaidh, giving the ‘Loch of the Red-haired Girl’, which lends credence to the following traditional story:

Dun loch

nic na Ruaidh – an Ruai
Mhor a da[ugh]t[er] of Ri Loch Lea’ad
Nam Fear Mora when the loch
used to stand above this dun
W[est]side. Nic na Ruaidh was
sought by many heroes of Loch
lan & here a dun was built to
save her fr[om] them & they would
come to the “Lea’ad” op[posite] & look[ed] on
& wi[th] delight to get a look
at her even at a dist[ance] They live[d] at
Dun a Bhairp. Dun a ghlinne
Auin an Duin Lamruig an Duin

So, according to this story, the dun was built to keep a beautiful princess from her many but distant Viking admirers. In reality, of course, the dun is far older than Viking times for it can be dated back to the Iron Age. The ruin in Loch Nic Ruaidh is described as follows:

A tumbled mass of stones rising some 8ft above the water, the remains of a dun on one of the smaller islets in the North East corner of the loch, with a number of boulders, possibly the commencement of a sunk causeway, stretching out towards it from the North shore.

The site was excavated more than fifty years ago when the following description was given:

The other crannog site, on the Loch of the Red-Haired Girl, Loch nic Ruaidhe, also shows tumbled walling, a causeway leading to the dun from the shore by way of a second and larger island. Mr J. S, McRae reported the find of a worn hammer-stone at a depth of two feet from the surface while cutting peat near the shore of this lochan, in the summer of 1955

An alternative version of why the loch was given such a name is explained by the red colour of the Rowan berries found there in autumn and thus is said to have given Loch Nic Ruaidh its name but we think you’ll agree that Carmichael’s folk etymology of this place-name is far more entertaining if a bit less prosaic.

References:

CW 90 fo. 41v

Macneil, Calum, ‘Carmichael in Barra’ in Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart (ed.), The Life & Legacy of Alexander Carmichael (Ness: The Islands Books Trust, 2008), pp. 44–57.

Young, Alison, ‘Excavations at Dun Cuier, Isle of Barra, Outer Hebrides’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries, vol. 82 (1952), pp. 290–95

Image: A dun in a loch

Taken by the Fairy Host

A number of fairy traditions talk of the fairies kidnapping infants – these are the changeling stories that are fairly common – or of the fairies helping with the harvest and demanding more work, or, of course, the fairy lover. Even though they are perceived to be familiar, the fairy folk are considered to be amoral: they can either be kind or malevolent as the situation dictates. This short anecdote hails from Barra: Carmichael either recorded it from Alexander MacNeil, Alasdair mac Ruairidh Bhàin  (c. 1787–1881) from Kentangaval, or John Cameron (1805–1889) of Borve, over a two day period from 24th to the 25th September 1872. This notebook (CW90) consists of seventy-two folios. Seeing as it only contains these two dates, Carmichael must have been extraordinarily busy over these two recording sessions.

An Sluagh

2 men comi[n]g thro[ugh] Cliff at
Creag an La’uir an ta gheo[bh]
mise mo dheachain a noc[hd].
Gu de[i]m[hi]in gheo[bh] [th]u sin. Than
slu[a]gh eir faicin[n] ma
cuairt. Cait bheil ad! Siad
as shuas point[ed] to the Skye
An oi[dh]che bhios ad dol gam
thogail bi ad ri moghs nan
nach bi ri ad a maoigha
an Tha ad ri mogh a noc[hd]
thog ad a sin e & bha e snamh
san adhar 3 f[ee]t above ground
mar ian eir eilg a plap
ail. Thog ad leo e Fag e fag
e la[bhu]ir e mu dh eir[eadh] Leig ad
s e air a mhuir. Shnamh
e gu tir. Carson shir [th]u sid?
Ge bu ait[e] am bi mise
leig ad as mi mar shir
orra. Bha e na lobrach an
bog boc[hd]

Interestingly enough, Carmichael noted this about the ‘Sluagh’: Host, the spirits of the dead. Tha an sluagh a’ tighinn ’s a’ falbh, is marbh gun bhith beò, the ‘host’ comes and goes, dead and not alive. Such a definition makes a connection between the fairy folk and the dead. In addition to this short anecdote, Carmichael recorded Carraig nan Al (‘The Rock of Rocks’) from John Cameron. Carmichael also took down material from Alexander MacNeil’s wife Mary MacDonald, and from his daughter, Marion MacNeil, Mór nighean Alasdair mhic Ruairidh Bhàin, one of the earliest recordings of Craobh nan Ubhal (‘The Apple Tree’). By all appearances, MacNeil was a renowned tradition bearer for he was also recorded by John Francis Campbell of Islay and Hector MacLean. Carmichael, in a brief biographical note, provides the following snippet:

Mr Iain Campbell of Islay and, for him, the distinguished scholar Mr Hector Maclean, Islay, took down many tales from this reciter. I wrote down many more, but all three of us made little impression upon the old man’s abundant lore. I noted from him the names and characters of several score of long heroic tales, any or all of which he was ready to dictate to me. Amongst them was a very long, complete and wondrously fine version of Deirdire. Alexander Macneil said that the version of this tale which I had already taken down from his brother Iain Donn was only a fragment. Yet this fragment of the story of Deirdire has been pronounced by critics equal to any ancient or modern classic.

Perhaps there was some sibling rivalry going on between the two brothers but it remains a bit of a mystery why Carmichael did not record a ‘superior’ version of Deirdire when the opportunity knocked, even if this was only from the say-so of the tradition bearer himself.

References:

CW90, fo. 58v.

Carmina Gadelica i, pp. 42–43; ii, p. 381; v. pp. 3, 23, 323; vi. p. 128.

Macneil, Calum, ‘Carmichael in Barra’ in Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart (ed.), The Life & Legacy of Alexander Carmichael (Ness: The Islands Books Trust, 2008), pp. 44–57.

Image: Satellite Image of the Isle of Barra

Don’t Mix Your Drinks!

Of course Alexander Carmichael was not at all averse to picking up amusing little anecdotes as the following story testifies:

Calum Gobha was over
in Bearnary during the storm
of 3 Oct[ober] 1860. The peop[le] were in terror
thinking their last had come.
Ghaoil a Chaluim reach [th]usa suas
& cradh an t uisge coisrigte –
Gheo[bh] [th]u anns a chiste bhig e fhad
sa bhios sin[n]e ga’ail an urnig[h]
The peop[le] were all at their
prayers & Cal[um] went up & in sear[ch]
for the holy wat[er] he found a bot[tle] of whisky
He took a swig out of it & pu[t] to
be sprink[lin]g it over the horr[ified]
peop[le] & cattle This he rep[eated] & the
storm abate[d]. In the morn[in]g bean
Dho[mhn]uil[l] Iain (Macintire) went
to give a dram to Cal[um] her hus[band] & all
the peop[le] aft[er] their fright. The holy
water was there & the whisky was
not. Cal[um] had a sore head & unable
to rise.

One wonders if Calum followed the wisdom of the proverb latha air uisge-beatha, latha air uisge, a day on whisky then a day on water. He may have finished the whisky but there would have been plenty of holy water left in order that he could slake his thirst.

Reference:
CW90, fos. 61v–61r

Images: Glass of Whisky

Carmichael, Catholicism and the Bard

Next Monday, 25 January 2010, Dr Domhnall Uilleam Stiùbhart, Senior Researcher on the project, will give a seminar to the Scottish Catholic Historical Association about Alexander Carmichael's extraordinarily demanding collecting work between 1865 and 1878 in the Catholic islands of Benbecula, South Uist, and Barra, then as now some of the richest areas for traditional folklore in western Europe.

Using his field notebooks, we can trace in fascinating detail how Carmichael went about gathering his store, as well as get to know some of his favourite interviewees.

Dr Stiùbhart will also talk about how the Carmichael Watson project is progressing, and outline some of our plans for the future. Also, given that it will be Burns Night, Dr Stiùbhart will have to touch upon one of the more interesting conjectures made by Alexander Carmichael: Robert Burns' supposed descent from a poetically-gifted serial killer by the name of Walter Campbell who lived near Taynuilt.

All this and more at the Scottish Catholic Archives, 16 Drummond Place, Edinburgh EH3 6PL starting at 5.30pm. With refreshments!

Scottish Catholic Archives: http://www.scottishcatholicarchives.org/

 

Image: The first page of Carmichael's article on Robert Burns' Gaelic ancestry contained in Sir Patrick Geddes' Evergreen A Northern Seasonal (Edinburgh, 1895) pp. 110-115. (http://www.archive.org/details/evergreennorther01gedduoft)

Ewen MacLachlan – Dance Master, Catechist and Storyteller II

The tradition bearers of both South Uist and Barra told Calum Maclean of what they had heard about Ewen MacLachlan (c. 1799–1880) when he was collecting in the Southern Hebrides during the 1940s and 50s. For example when Maclean went to a dance in Iochdar, South Uist, he fell into conversation with Iain Ruadh MacLeòid (‘Red-haired John MacLeod’) who told him what he knew of An Dannsair Ciotach (‘the Stumpy-handed Dancer’). This John MacLeod was a good dancer and had learnt his dancing from Gilleasbaig Saor (‘Archibald MacIntyre’), a dance master from Iochdar who had in turn been taught by MacLachlan himself:

Bha mi greis a’ bruidhinn ri Iain Ruadh Mac Leòid agas thug mi tarrainn air an Dannsair Chiotach a thug na sgeulachdan do Chalum Barrach. Thubhairt Iain Ruadh gur h-e Eoghain Mac Lachlainn a b’ ainm dhà. ’S ann ’s a Fhrainng a chuala Iain a bha e ag ionnsachadh a bhith na shagart. Bha seann-duine ’s an Iochdar a dh’ eug o chionn ghoirid agas b’ ann bho Eoghain Mac Lachlainn a dh’ ionnsaich an duine seo. (IFC MS 1300, pp. 80–81)

I was a while conversing with Red-haired John MacLeod and I mentioned the Dannsair Ciotach that plied Calum MacMillan with stories. John MacLeod said that his name was Ewen MacLachlan and John had heard that he had gone to France in order to be educated for the priesthood. There was an old man in Iochdar who died recently he was taught dancing by Ewen MacLachlan.

A Barra tradition of Ewen MacLachlan was collected from Neil Angus MacDonald, a schoolmaster and noted piper:

Dubhairt Niall Aonghus gour chuala seisean a mhàthair a’ cainnt faoi’n “Dannsair Ciotach.” Rinnceóir clúmhar a bhí ann agas bhí sgoil dhamhsa aige i n-Uibhist. Eoghain na Laimhe Bige a thugaidis air. Bhí sé ‘sa Spáinn a’ foghlam de bheith ’n-a shagart agas ní raibh sé oiriúnach le bheith ’n-a shagart mar gheall ar an làmh ghórtach a bhí air. Nuair a d’ fhill sé as an Spáinn thosaigh sé a’ foghlam rinncí agas a’ bailiú sean-sgéalta. Bhí sean-fheari n-Uibhist a d’ fhoghaim rinncí uaidh agas bhí sé féin ‘n-a mhuinteóir rinnce. (IFC MS 1299, pp. 433–34)

Neil Angus heard his mother speak about the Dannsair Ciotach: a great dancer who had a dance school in Uist. He was called Eòghain na Làimhe Bige (‘Ewen of the Shrivelled Hand’) and he had been in Spain training for the priesthood but left due to his disability. After his return from Spain he started to teach dancing and to collect old stories. An old man still alive learnt to dance from this man’s tuition and who subsequently became a dance teacher himself.

Another Barra tradition, this time from the Coddy, or Iain MacPherson, from Northbay, who adds some additional detail to the previous accounts:

Dubhairtan Coddie gur innis Calum Barrach go raibh an Dannsair Ciotach air “bhanais-taighe”, bainfheis tighe, i n-Ormaicleit agas go raibh sé a’ rinnce ann. Mhúch sé an cruisgín (cruisgean) seach n-uaire le n-a chosa leis chomh maith agas bhí cumhacht na gcos. Fuair na rinncéoirí i mBarraidh agas i n-Uibhist na rinncí o’n bhfear seo. Bhí sé le bheith ‘na shagart ach b’ éigin do éirigh as mar gheall ar na làmha aige a bhith giortach. (IFC MS 1299, p. 431)

The Coddy heard from Calum MacMillan about the Dannsair Ciotach and how he had been at a wedding feast in Ormaclete in South Uist and had danced at it. This man was so good at dancing that he managed to snuff out candles with his feet seven times in a row. The dancers in South Uist and Barra were taught dancing by this man. He was going to become a priest but had to give this up because of his injured hand.

Although not a great deal has been added to our sum knowledge about Ewen MacLachlan other than reinforcing his reputation as being an able dancer, storyteller and teacher, as well as his unrealised ambition of becoming a priest, he was still remembered by some who were but only one remove from those who had actually heard the dance master recite stories or who had been taught how to dance by him.

References:
Calum Maclean’s manuscripts, IFC MSS 1299, 1300.
Image: Dancing Feet