Original Prose Writings

Of these Mr Reid, in his Bibliotheca Scoto-Celtica, gives but a scanty catalogue. He gives but a list of ten, most of them single sermons. There are several other such writings, however, which have been added since Reid’s list was made up. Among these appears M’Kenzie’s Bliadhna Thearlaich, “Charles’s year,” a vigorous well-written account of the rebellion of 1745–6. M’Kenzie was the compiler of a volume of Gaelic poetry in which the best specimens of the works of the bards are generally given, and although having ideas of his own on the subject of orthography, few men knew the Gaelic language better. We have also a volume on astronomy by the Rev. D. Connell; and a History of Scotland by the Rev. Angus Mackenzie, both of them creditable performances. It is doubtful how far these works have been patronised by the public, and how far they have been of pecuniary benefit to their authors, but they are deserving works, and if they have not proved a remunerative investment, it is from want of interest on the part of the readers more than from want of ability on the part of the writers. In addition to these have been several magazines, the contents of which have in some instances been collected into a volume and published separately. Of these are An teachdaire Gaidhealach, “The Gaelic Messenger,” edited by the late Rev. Dr M’Leod of Glasgow, and a Free Church magazine An Fhianuis, “The Witness,” edited by the Rev. Dr Mackay, now of Harris. “The Gaelic Messenger,” An Teachdaire Gaidhealach, contained a large proportion of papers furnished by the editor, Dr M’Leod. These have been since that time collected into a volume by his son-in-law the Rev. Archibald Clerk of Kilmallie, and published under the title of Caraid nan Gaidheal, “The Friend of the Highlanders.” This is an admirable volume, containing, as it does, our best specimens of racy, idiomatic Gaelic, of which Dr M’Leod was a master. It is a most interesting addition to our Gaelic literature. Besides this, Dr M’Leod produced Leabhar nan Cnoc, “The Book of the Knowes,” a school collection of prose and poetry, and several other lesser works. The Leabhar nan Cnoc is an admirable collection of fragments, well adapted for school use, and at the same time interesting to the general reader.

But the most remarkable addition that has recently been made to Gaelic prose literature is Mr J. F. Campbell’s collection of “Sgeulachdan” or ancient Highland tales. It was long known that a large amount of this kind of literature existed in the Highlands; that it formed the treasure of the reciter, a character recognised and appreciated in every small community; and that it was the staple fireside amusement of many a winter evening. Specimens of this literature appeared occasionally in print, and one of great interest, and remarkably well given, called Spiorad na h-aoise, “The Spirit of Age,” appears in Leabhar nan Cnoc, the collection already spoken of. Mr Campbell set himself to collect this literature from the traditions of the people, and he has embodied the result in four goodly volumes, which every lover of the language and literature of the Celt must prize. Many coadjutors aided Mr Campbell in his undertaking, and he was happy in finding, as has been already said, in Mr Hector M’Lean, teacher, Islay, a most efficient collector and transcriber of the tales. These tales were known among the Highlanders as “Sgeulachdan” Tales, or “Ursgeulan” Noble Tales, the latter having reference usually to stories of the Fingalian heroes. They are chiefly “Folk lore” of the kinds which are now known to pervade the world amongst a certain class as their oral literature. The Tales themselves are of various degrees of merit, and are manifestly derived from various sources. Some of them took their origin in the fertile imagination of the Celt, while others are obviously of classical origin, and are an adaptation of ancient Greek and Latin stories to the taste of the Celt of Scotland. Mr Campbell, in his disquisitions accompanying the tales, which are often as amusing and instructive as the tales themselves, traces numerous bonds of connection between them and similar legends common to almost all the European nations. He shows where they meet and where they diverge, and makes it very clear that most of them must have had a common origin. It has been maintained that many of these legends were brought to Scotland by returning Crusaders; that they were often the amusement of the camp among these soldiers of the ancient Church; and that, related among hearers of all nations, they became dispersed among those nations, and that thus Scotland came to obtain and to retain her share of them.

That Scotland felt largely the influence of the Crusades cannot be denied by any observant student of her history. Her whole political and social system was modified by them, while to them is largely due the place and power which the mediæval Church obtained under the government of David I. That Scottish literature should have felt their influence is more than likely, and it is possible, although it is hardly safe to go further, that some of these tales of the Scottish Highlands owe their existence to the wanderings of Scottish Crusaders. Be their origin, however, what it may, they afford a deeply interesting field of enquiry to the student of the popular literature of the country. In our own view, they are of great value, as presenting us with admirable specimens of idiomatic Gaelic. We transcribe one tale, making use of the ordinary orthography of the Gaelic, Mr Campbell having used forms of spelling which might serve to express the peculiarities of the dialect in which he found them couched.

Maol a Chliobain.

Bha bantrach ann roimhe so, ’us bha trì nigheanan aice, ’us thubhairt iad rithe, gu’n rachadh iad a dh’iarraidh an fhortain. Dheasaich i trì bonnaich. Thubhairt i ris an té mhòir, “Cò aca is fhearr leat an leth bheag ’us mo bheannachd, no’n leth mhòr ’s mo mhallachd?” “Is fhearr leam, ars’ ise, an leth mhòr ’us do mhallachd.” Thubhairt i ris an té mheadhonaich, “Co aca’s fhearr leat an leth bheag ’us mo bheannachd, no’n leth mhòr ’us mo mhallachd.” “Is fhearr leam an leth mhòr ’us do mhallachd,” ars’ ise. Thubhairt i ris an té bhig, “Co aca ’s fhearr leat an leth mhòr ’us mo mhallachd, no’n leth bheag ’s mo bheannachd?” “Is fhearr leam an leth bheag’us do bheannachd.” Chord so r’a màthair, ’us thug i dhi an leth eile cuideachd.

Dh’ fhalbh iad, ach cha robh toil aig an dithis ’bu shine an té ’b’òige ’bhi leo, ’us cheangail iad i ri carragh cloiche. Ghabh iad air an aghaidh, ’s ’n uair a dh’amhairc iad as an déigh, co a chunnaic iad ach ise ’us a’ chreig air a muin. Leig iad leatha car treis gus an d’ràinig iad cruach mhòine, ’us cheangail iad ris a chruaich mhòine i. Ghabh iad air an aghaidh treis, ’us dh’amhairc iad ’n an déigh, ’us cò a chunnaic iad ach ise a’ tighinn, ’s a’ chruach mhòine air a muin. Leig iad leatha car tacan gus an d’ràinig iad craobh, ’us cheangail iad ris a’chraoibh i. Ghabh iad air an aghaidh treis, ’us ’n’uair a dh’amhairc iad ’n an déigh, cò a chunnaic iad ach ise a’ tighinn, ’s a’chraobh air a muin. Chunnaic iad nach robh maith bhí rithe. Dh’fhuasgail iad i ’us leig iad leo i. Bha iad a’ falbh gus an d’thàinig an oidhche orra. Chunnaic iad solus fada uatha, ’us ma b’fhada uatha, cha b’fhada bha iadsan ’g a ruigheachd. Chaidh iad a stigh. Ciod e bha so ach tigh famhair. Dh’iarr iad fuireach ’s an oidhche. Fhuair iad sin ’us chuireadh a luidhe iad le trì nigheanan an fhamhair.

English Translation.

There was a widow once of a time, and she had three daughters, and they said to her that they were going to seek their fortunes. She prepared three bannocks. She said to the big daughter, “Whether do you like best the little half with my blessing, or the big half with my curse?” “I like best,” said she, “the big half with your curse.” She said to the middle one, “Whether do you like best the big half with my curse, or the little half with my blessing?” “I like best,” said she, “the big half with your curse.” She said to the little one, “Whether do you like best the big half with my curse, or the little half with my blessing?” “I like best the little half with your blessing.” This pleased her mother, and she gave her the other half likewise.

They left, but the two older ones did not wish to have the younger one with them, and they tied her to a stone. They held on, and when they looked behind them, whom did they see coming but her with the rock on her back. They let her alone for a while until they reached a stack of peats, and they tied her to the peat-stack. They held on for a while, when whom did they see coming but her with the stack of peats on her back. They let her alone for a while until they reached a tree, and they tied her to the tree. They held on, and whom did they see coming but her with the tree on her back. They saw that there was no use in meddling with her. They loosed her, and they let her come with them. They were travelling until night overtook them. They saw a light far from them, and if it was far from them they were not long reaching it. They went in. What was this but the house of a giant. They asked to remain overnight. They got that, and they were set to bed with the three daughters of the giant.

Bha caran de chneapan òmbair mu mhuinealan nigheanan an fhamhair, agus sreangan gaosaid mu’m muinealan-san. Choidil iad air fad, ach cha do choidil Maol a’ chliobain. Feadh na h-oidhche thàinig pathadh air an fhamhar. Ghlaodh e r’a ghille maol carrach uisge ’thoirt d’a ionnsuidh. Thubhairt an gille maol carrach nach robh deur a stigh. “Marbh, ars’ esan, té de na nigheanan coimheach, ’us thoir a’m ionnsuidhse a fuil.” “Ciamar a dh’ aithuicheas mi eatorra?” ars’ an gille maol carrach. “Tha caran de chneapan mu mhuinealan mo nigheanan-sa, agus caran gaosaid mu mhuinealan chàich.” Chuala Maol a chliobain am famhar, ’us cho clis ’s a b’urrainn i, chuir i na sreanganan gaosaid a bha m’a muineal féin agus mu mhuinealan a peathraichean mu mhuinealan nigheanan an fhamhair, agus na cneapan a bha mu mhuinealan nigheanan an fhamhair m’a muineal féin agus mu mhuinealan a peathraichean, ’us luidh i sios gu samhach. Thàinig an gille maol carrach, ’us mharbh e té de nigheanan an fhamhair, ’us thug e an fhuil d’a ionnsuidh. Dh’iarr e tuilleadh a thoirt d’a ionnsuidh. Mharbh e an ath thé. Dh’iarr e tuilleadh ’us mharbh e an treas té. Dhùisg Maol a’ chliobain a’ peathraichean, ’us thug i air a muin iad, ’us ghabh i air falbh. Mhothaich am famhar dith ’us lean e i.

Na spreadan teine a bha ise ’cur as na clachan le a sàiltean, bha iad a’ bualadh an fhamhair ’s an smigead; agus na spreadan teine a bha am famhar ’toirt as na clachan le barraibh a chos, bha iad a’ bualadh Mhaol a’ chliobain an cùl a’ chinn. Is e so ’bu dual doibh gus an d’ràinig iad amhainn. Leum Maol a’ chliobain an amhainn ’us cha b’urrainn am famhar an amhainn a leum. “Tha thu thall, a Mhaol a’ chliobain.” “Tha, ma’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo thrì nigheanan maola, ruagha.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “’Us c’uine thig thu ris?” “Thig, ’n uair bheir mo ghnothuch ann mi.”

There were turns of amber beads around the necks of the giant’s daughters, and strings of hair around their necks. They all slept, but Maol a chliobain kept awake. During the night the giant got thirsty. He called to his bald rough-skinned lad to bring him water. The bald rough-skinned lad said that there was not a drop within. “Kill,” said he, “one of the strange girls, and bring me her blood.” “How will I know them?” said the bald rough-skinned lad. “There are turns of beads about the necks of my daughters, and turns of hair about the necks of the rest.” Maol a chliobain heard the giant, and as quickly as she could she put the strings of hair that were about her own neck and the necks of her sisters about the necks of the giant’s daughters, and the beads that were about the necks of the giant’s daughters about her own neck and the necks of her sisters, and laid herself quietly down. The bald rough-skinned lad came and killed one of the daughters of the giant, and brought him her blood. He bade him bring him more. He killed the second one. He bade him bring him more, and he killed the third. Maol a chliobain wakened her sisters, and she took them on her back and went away. The giant observed her, and he followed her.

The sparks of fire which she was driving out of the stones with her heels were striking the giant in the chin, and the sparks of fire that the giant was taking out of the stones with the points of his feet, they were striking Maol a chliobain in the back of her head. It was thus with them until they reached a river. Maol a chliobain leaped the river, and the giant could not leap the river. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-skinned daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “And when will you come again?” “I will come when my business brings me.”

Ghabh iad air an aghaidh gus an d’ràinig iad tigh tuathanaich. Bha aig an tuathanach tri mic. Dh’innis iad mar a thachair dhoibh. Ars’ an tuatha ach ri Maol a’chliobain, “Bheir mi mo mhac a’s sine do’d phiuthair a’s sine, ’us faigh dhomh cìr mhìn òir, ’us cìr gharbh airgid, a th’aig an fhamhar.” “Cha chosd e tuilleadh dhuit,” ars’ Maol a’ chliobain. Dh’fhalbh i ’us ràinig i tigh an fhamhair. Fhuair i stigh gun fhios. Thug i leatha na cìrean ’us dhalbh i mach. Mhothaich am famhar dhìth; ’us as a deigh a bha e gus an d’ràinig e an amhainn. Leum ise an amhainn ’us cha b’urrainn am famhar an amhainn a leum. “Tha thu thall, a Mhaol a’ chliobain.” “Tha, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh, thu mo thrì nigheanan maola, ruagha.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chìr mhìn òir, ’us mo chìr gharbh airgid.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “C’ uine thig thu rìs?” “Thig, ’n uair bheir mo ghnothuch ann mi.”

Thug i na cìrean thun an tuathanaich, ’us phòs a piuthair mhòr-sa mac mòr an tuathanaich.

“Bheir mi mo mhac meadhonach do’d phiuthair mheadhonaich, ’us faigh dhomh claidheamh soluis an fhamhair.” “Cha chosd e tuilleadh dhuit,” ars’ Maol a’ chliobain. Ghabh i air falbh, ’us ràinig i tigh an fhamhair. Chaidh i suas ann an barr craoibhe ’bha os cionn tobair an fhamhair. Anns an oidhche thainig an gille maol carrach, ’us an claidheamh soluis leis, a dh’iarraidh uisge. An uair a chrom e a thogail an uisge, thainig Maol a’ chliobain a nuas, ’us phut i sios ’s an tobar e ’us bhàth i e, ’us thug i leatha an claidheamh soluis. Lean am famhar i gus an d’ràinig i an amhainn. Leum i an amhainn, ’us cha b’urrainn am famhar a leantuinn. “Tha thu thall, a Mhaol a’ chliobain.” “Tha, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo thrì nigheanan maola, ruadha.” “Mharbh ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chìr mhìn òir, ’s mo chìr gharbh airgid.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo ghille maol carrach.” “Mharbh ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chlaidheamh soluis.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “C’uine thig thu rìs.” “Thig, ’n uair bheir mo ghnothuch ann mi.” Ràinig i tigh an tuathanaich leis a’ chlaidheamh sholuis, ’us phòs a piuthair mheadhonach ’us mac meadhonach an tuathanaich.

They went on till they reached a farmer’s house. The farmer had three sons. They told what happened to them. Says the farmer to Maol a chliobain, “I will give my eldest son to your eldest sister, and get for me the smooth golden comb and the rough silver comb that the giant has.” “It won’t cost you more,” said Maol a chliobain. She left and reached the giant’s house. She got in without being seen. She took the combs and hastened out. The giant observed her, and after her he went until they reached the river. She leaped the river, and the giant could not leap the river. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-skinned daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my smooth golden comb and my rough silver comb.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “When will you come again.” “When my business brings me.”

She brought the combs to the farmer, and the big sister married the big son of the farmer.

“I will give my middle son to your middle sister, and get for me the giant’s sword of light.” “It won’t cost you more,” says Maol a chliobain. She went away, and reached the giant’s house. She went up in the top of a tree that was above the giant’s well. In the night the bald, rough-skinned lad came for water, having the sword of light with him. When he bent over to raise the water, Maol a chliobain came down and pushed him into the well and drowned him, and took away the sword of light. The giant followed her till she reached the river. She leaped the river, and the giant could not follow her. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-haired daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my smooth golden comb and my rough silver comb.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my bald rough-skinned lad.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my sword of light.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “When will you come again?” “When my business brings me.” She reached the farmer’s house with the sword of light, and her middle sister married the middle son of the farmer.

“Bheir mi dhuit féin mo mhac a’s òige,” ars’ an tuathanach, “’us thoir a’m ionnsuidh boc a th’aig an fhamhar.” “Cha chosd e tuilleadh dhuit” ars’ Maol a’ chliobain. Dh’fhalbh i ’us ràinig i tigh an fhamhair, ach an uair a bha greim aice air a bhoc, rug am famhar, oirre. “Ciod e” ars’ am famhar, “a dheanadh tus’ ormsa, nan deanainn uibhir a choire ort ’s a rinn thus’ ormsa.” “Bheirinn ort gu’n sgàineadh tu thu fhéin le brochan bainne; chuirinn an sin ann am poc thu; chrochainn thu ri druim an tighe; chuirinn teine fothad; ’us ghabhainn duit le cabar gus an tuiteadh thu ’n ad chual chrionaich air an ùrlar. Rinn am famhar brochan bainne ’us thugar dhìth ri òl e. Chuir ise am brochan bainne m’ a beul ’us m’ a h-eudainn, ’us luidh i seachad mar gu’m bitheadh i marbh. Chuir am famhar ann am poc i, ’us chroch e i ri druim an tighe, ’us dh’fhalbh e fhéin ’us a dhaoine a dh’iarraidh fiodha do’n choille. Bha màthair an fhamhair a stigh.” Theireadh Maol a’ chliobain ’n uair a dh’fhalbh am famhar, “Is mise ’tha ’s an t-sòlas, is mise ’tha ’s a chaithir òir.” “An leig thu mise ann?” ars’ a’ chailleach. “Cha leig, gu dearbh.” Mu dheireadh, leig i nuas am poca; chuir i stigh a’ chailleach, ’us cat, ’us laogh, ’us soitheach uachdair; thug i leatha am boc, ’us dh’fhalbh i. An uair a thainig am famhar, thoisich e fhéin ’us a dhaoine air a’ phoca leis na cabair. Bha a’ chailleach a’ glaodhaich, “’S mi fhéin a th’ ann.” “Tha fios agam gur tu fhéin a th ’ann,” theireadh am famhar, ’us e ag éiridh air a’ phoca. Thàinig am poc’ a nuas ’n a chual’ chrionaich ’us ciod e ’bha ann ach a mhàthair. An uair a chunnaic am famhar mar a bha, thug e as an déigh Mhaol a’ chliobain. Lean e i gus an d’ràinig i an amhainn. Leum Maol a’ chliobain an amhainn ’us cha b’urrainn am famhar a leum. “Tha thu thall, a Mhaol a’ chliobain.” “Tha, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo thrì nigheanan maola, ruadha.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chìr mhin òir, ’us mo chìr gharbh airgid.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo ghille maol, carrach.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo chlaidheamh soluis.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “Mharbh thu mo mhàthair.” “Mharbh, ma ’s oil leat.” “Ghoid thu mo bhoc.” “Ghoid, ma ’s oil leat.” “C’uine a thig thu rìs?” “Thig ’n uair bheir mo ghnothuch ann mi.” “Nam bitheadh tusa bhos ’us mise thall” ars’ am famhar, “Ciod e dheanadh tu airson mo leantuinn?” “Stopainn mi fhéin, agus dh’olainn gus an traoghainn, an amhainn.” Stop am famhar e fhéin, ’us dh’ òl e gus an do sgàin e. Phòs Maol a’ chliobain Mac òg an tuathanaich.

“I will give yourself my youngest son,” said the farmer, “and bring me the buck that the giant has.” “It won’t cost you more,” said Maol a chliobain. She went and she reached the giant’s house, but as she got hold of the buck, the giant laid hands upon her. “What,” said the giant, “would you do to me if I had done to you as much harm as you have done to me?” “I would make you burst yourself with milk porridge. I would then put you in a bag; I would hang you to the roof of the house; I would place fire under you; and I would beat you with sticks until you fell a bundle of dry sticks on the floor.” The giant made milk porridge, and gave it her to drink. She spread the milk porridge over her mouth and her face, and lay down as if she had been dead. The giant put her in a bag which he hung to the roof of the house, and he and his men went to the wood to get sticks. The mother of the giant was in. When the giant went away, Maol a chliobain cried, “It is I that am in comfort; it is I that am in the golden seat.” “Will you let me there?” said the hag. “No, indeed.” At length she let down the bag; she put the hag inside, and a cat, and a calf, and a dish of cream; she took away the buck, and she left. When the giant came, he and his men fell upon the bag with the sticks. The hag was crying out, “It’s myself that’s here.” “I know it is yourself that’s there,” the giant would say, striking the bag. The bag fell down a bundle of dry sticks, and what was there but his mother. When the giant saw how it was, he set off after Maol a chliobain. He followed her till she reached the river. Maol a chliobain leaped the river, but the giant could not leap the river. “You are over, Maol a chliobain.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my three bald red-skinned daughters.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my smooth golden comb and my rough silver comb.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my bald, rough-skinned lad.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my sword of light.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You killed my mother.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “You stole my buck.” “Yes, if it vex you.” “When will you come again?” “When my business brings me.” “If you were over here and I over there, what would you do to follow me?” “I would stop myself up, and I would drink until I dried the river.” The giant stopped himself up, and drunk until he burst. Maol a chliobain married the young son of the farmer.

The above is a fair specimen of these tales with which the story-tellers of the Highlands were wont to entertain their listeners, and pass agreeably a long winter evening. The versions of such tales are various, but the general line of the narrative is always the same. Scores of these tales may still be picked up in the West Highlands, although Mr Campbell has sifted them most carefully and skilfully, and given to the public those which are undoubtedly best. The following is a specimen referring to the famous Tom na h-iùbhraich, in the neighbourhood of Inverness. It was taken down by the writer from the recital of an Ardnamurchan man in Edinburgh, and has never been printed before. The resemblance of a portion of it to what is told of Thomas the Rhymer and the Eildon Hills, is too close to escape observation. These tales are valuable as preserving admirable specimens of the idioms of the Gaelic language.

Na Fiantaichean.

Fear a’ gheadain Clòimhe.

Bha fear air astar uaireigin mu thuath, a réir coslais, mu Shiorramachd Inbhirnis. Bha e a’ coiseachd là, ’us chunnaic e fear a’ buain sgrath leis an làr-chaipe. Thainig e far an robh an duine. Thubhairt e ris, “Oh, nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin.” Thubhairt an duine ris, “Oh, nam faiceadh tu m’athair, is e a’s sine na mise.” “D’athair” ars’ an duine, “am bheil d’athair beò ’s an t-saoghal fhathasd?” “Oh, tha” ars’ esan. “C’àite am bheil d’athair” ars’ esan, “am b’urrainn mi ’fhaicinn?” “Uh, is urrainn” ars’ esan, “tha e a’ tarruing dhathigh nan sgrath.” Dh’innis e an rathad a ghabhadh e ach am faiceadh e ’athair. Thàinig e far an robh e. Thubhairt e ris, “Nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin.” “Uh,” ars’ esan, “nam faiceadh tu m’ athair, is e a ’s sine na mise.” “Oh, am bheil d’athair ’s an t-saoghai fhathasd?” “Uh, tha,” ars’ esan. “C’aite am bheil e” ars’ esan, “an urrainn mi ’fhaicinn?” “Uh, is urrainn,” ars’ esan, “tha e a’ tilgeadh nan sgrath air an tigh.” Ràinig e am fear a bha ’tilgeadh nan sgrath. “Oh, nach sean sibhse, ’dhuine, ris an obair sin,” ars’ esan. “Uh, nam faiceadh tu m’athair,” ars’ esan, “tha e mòran na ’s sine na mise.” “Am bheil d’athair agam r’a fhaicinn?” “Uh, tha,” ars’ esan, “rach timchioll, ’us chi thu e a’cur nan sgrath.” Thainig e ’us chunnaic e am fear a bha ’cur nan sgrath. “Oh, a dhuine” ars’ esan, “is mòr an aois a dh’fheumas sibse a bhi.” “Oh,” ars’ esan, “nam faiceadh tu m’athair.” “An urrainn mi d’athair fhaicinn?” ars’ esan, “C’àite am bheil e?” “Mata” ars’ an duine, is òlach tapaidh coltach thu, tha mi ’creidsinn gu’m faod mi m’athair a shealltuinn duit. “Tha e,” ars’ esan, “stigh ann an geadan clòimhe an ceann eile an tighe.” Chaidh e stigh leis ’g a fhaicinn. Bha na h-uile gin diùbhsan ro mhòr, nach ’eil an leithid a nis r’a fhaotainn. “Tha duine beag an so,” ars esan, ’athair, “air am bheil coslas òlaich thapaidh, Albannach, ’us toil aige ’ur faicinn.” Bhruidhinn e ris, ’us thubbairt e, “Co as a thàinig thu? Thoir dhomh do làmh, ’Albannaich.”

English Translation.

The Fingalians.

The Man in the Tuft of Wool.

There was a man once on a journey in the north, according to all appearance in the sheriffdom of Inverness. He was travelling one day, and he saw a man casting divots with the flaughter-spade. He came to where the man was. He said to him, “Oh, you are very old to be employed in such work.” The man said to him, “Oh, if you saw my father, he is much older than I am.” “Your father,” said the man, “is your father alive in the world still?” “Oh, yes,” said he. “Where is your father?” said he; “could I see him?” “Oh, yes,” said he, “he is leading home the divots.” He told him what way he should take in order to see his father. He came where he was. He said to him “You are old to be engaged in such work.” “Oh,” said he, “if you saw my father, he is older than I.” “Oh, is your father still in the world?” “Oh, yes,” said he. “Where is your father?” said he; “can I see him!” “Oh, yes,” said he, “he is reaching the divots at the house.” He came to the man who was reaching the divots. “Oh, you are old,” said he, “to be employed in such work.” “Oh, if you saw my father,” said he, “he is much older than I.” “Is your father to be seen?” said he. “Oh, yes, go round the house and you will see him laying the divots on the roof.” He came and he saw the man who was laying the divots on the roof. “Oh, man,” said he, “you must be a great age.” “Oh, if you saw my father.” “Oh, can I see your father; where is he?” “Well,” said the man, “you look like a clever fellow; I daresay I may show you my father.” “He is,” said he, “inside in a tuft of wool in the further end of the house.” He went in with him to show him to him. Every one of these men was very big, so much so that their like is not to be found now. “There is a little man here,” said he to his father, “who looks like a clever fellow, a Scotchman, and he is wishful to see you.” He spoke to him, and said, “Where did you come from? Give me your hand, Scotchman.”

Thug a mhac làmh air seann choltair croinn a bha ’na luidhe làimh riu. Shnaim e aodach uime. “Thoir dha sin,” ars’ esan ris an Albannach, “’us na toir dha do làmh.” Rug an seann duine air a’ choltair, ’us a’ cheann eile aig an duine eile ’na làimh. An àite an coltair a bhi leathann, rinn e cruinn e, ’us dh’fhàg e làrach nan cuig meur ann, mar gu’m bitheadh uibe taois ann. “Nach cruadalach an làmh a th’agad, ’Albannaich,” ars’ esan, “Nam bitheadh do chridhe cho cruadalach, tapaidh, dh’iarrainnse rud ort nach d’iarr mi’ air fear roimhe.” “Ciod e sin, a dhuine?” ars’ esan, “ma tha ni ann a’s urrainn mise ’dheanamh, ni mi e.” “Bheirinnse dhuit” ars’ esan, “fìdeag a tha an so, agus fiosraichidh tu far am bheil Tòm na h-iùbhraich, laimh ri Inbhirnis, agus an uair a theid thu ann, chi thu creag bheag, ghlas, air an dara taobh dheth.” An uair a’ theid thu a dh’ionnsuidh na creige, chi thu mu mheudachd doruis, ’us air cumadh doruis bhige air a’ chreig. Buail sròn do choise air trì uairean, ’us air an uair mu dheireadh fosgailidh e. Dh’fhalbh e, ’us ràinig e ’us fhuair e an dorus.” Thubhairt an seann duine ris, “An uair a dh’fhosgaileas tu an dorus, seirmidh tu an fhìdeag, bheir thu tri seirmean oirre ’us air an t-seirm mu dheireadh,” ars’ esan, “eiridh leat na bhitheas stigh, ’us ma bhitheas tu cho tapaidh ’us gun dean thu siu, is fheairrd thu fhéin e ’us do mhac, ’us d’ ogha, ’us d’iar-ogha.” Thug e a’ cheud sheirm air an fhìdeag. Sheall e ’us stad e. Shin na coin a bha ’n an luidhe làthair ris na daoinibh an cosan, ’us charaich na daoine uile. Thug e an ath sheirm oirre. Dh’éirich na daoine air an uilnibh ’us dh’éirich na coin ’n an suidhe. Thionndaidh am fear ris an dorus, ’us ghabh e eagal. Tharruing e an dorus ’n a dhéigh. Ghlaodh iadsan uile gu léir, “Is miosa ’dh’fhàg na fhuair, is miosa ’dh’fhàg na fhuair.” Dh’fhalbh e ’n a ruith. Thàinig e gu lochan uisge, a bha an sin, ’us thilg e an fhìdeag anns an lochan. Dhealaich mise riu.

His son laid hold of the old coulter of a plough that lay there. He knotted a cloth around it. “Give him that,” said he to the Scotchman, “and don’t give him your hand.” The old man laid hold of the coulter, while the man held the other end in his hand. Instead of the coulter being broad, he made it round, and left the mark of his five fingers in it as if it were a lump of leaven. “You have a brave hand, Scotchman,” said he. “If your heart were as brave and clever, I would ask something of you that I never asked of another.” “What is that, man?” said he; “if there is anything that I can do, I shall do it.” “I would give you,” said he, “a whistle that I have here, and you will find out where Tomnahurich is near Inverness, and when you find it you will see a little grey rock on one side of it. When you go to the rock you will see about the size of a door, and the shape of a little door in the rock. Strike the point of your foot three times, and at the third time it will open.” He went away, and he reached and found the door. “When you open the door,” the old man said, “you will sound the whistle; you will sound it thrice. At the third sounding all that are within will rise along with you; and if you be clever enough to do that, you, and your son, and your grandson, and your great-grandson, will be the better of it.” He gave the first sound on the whistle. He looked, and he stopped. The dogs that lay near the men stretched their legs, and all the men moved. He gave the second sound. The men rose on their elbows, and the dogs sat up. The man turned to the door and became frightened. He drew the door after him. They all cried out, “Left us worse than he found us; left us worse than he found us.” He went away running. He came to a little fresh water loch that was there, and he threw the whistle into the loch. I left them.

These specimens give a good idea of the popular prose literature of the Highlands. Whence it was derived it is difficult to say. It may have originated with the people themselves, but many portions of it bear the marks of having been derived even, as has been said, from an Eastern source, while the last tale which has been transcribed above gives the Highland version of an old Scottish tradition.