The Sweet Singer of Rahoy: Dr John MacLachlan

Undoubtedly one of the greatest Gaelic bards of the nineteenth century was Dr John MacLachlan who belonged to Morvern. The following biographical sketch was recorded from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, by Calum Maclean on the 21st of January 1951:

Doctair Rath Thuaidh a theireadh iad ris an duine a bha seo. Iain MacLachlainn a b’ ainm dha. Agus Rath Thuaidhe, tha e shìos rathad Àird nam Murchan na sìos mu na h-àiteachan sin. Agus ’s e lighiche sònraichte math a bh’ ann an àm aiseadadh cloinne. Bha e an oidhche a bha seo – chuir iad fios air – a choimhead air boireannach anns an Òban. Ach bha e glè dhèidheil air mac na braiche. Agus thachair e fhèin is mac na braiche is bha tuillidh is a’ chòir aige dheth. Agus ’s ann a stad e ann am Port Rìgh. Bha seo pìos mòr far a’ chuirs’. Agus chaidh e staigh don taigh-òsda ann an sin feuch am faigheadh e drùdhag de dh’uisge-beatha. Dh’aithnich e gun robh mulad anns an taigh. Dh’fhaighnichd e an robh dad tuathal. Dh’innis iad dha mar a bha a’ chùis: gun robh bean, iad a’ feitheamh oirre is i air saothar cloinne.

“An d’fhuair iad lighiche idir?” thuirt e.

“Fhuair. Tha dithist dhiubh ann.”

"Faigh fear an taighe a-nuas an seo ’us am faigh mise bruidhinn deth.”

Cha tigeadh fear an taighe a-nuas.

Abair ris tighinn an seo glè allamh,” thuirt e.

Dh’innis e dhà mar a bha a’ chùis: am faigheadh esa’ a-staigh dhan t-seòmbar san robh am boireannach.

“O, tha dà lighiche ann.”

“Chan eil math sam bith orra,” thuirt e. “Leig mise a-staigh.”

Chaidh e a-staigh. Chuir e a-mach an dà lighiche a bha sin agus dhùin e an dorast. Dhùin e an dorast agus ann am mionadean, bha leanabh gille ann an sin. Agus bha an t-òstair cho toilichte agus bheireadh e dha rud sam bith.

“Chan eil dad a dhìth orm,” thuirt e, “ach na phàigheas am fàradh agam air ais don Òban.”

Na bu dè thug e dha, chan urrainn domh a bhith cinnteach. Ach ’s e bh’ ann gun d’fhalbh e ’an Òban. Agus bha e a’ cheart-chùis roimhe anns an Òban thar an robh aige ri dhol. Bha dà lighiche a-staigh an sin a’ feithemh air a’ bhoireannach a bha seo. Agus leis gun do chuir iad fios air fhèin, chuir e dìreach a-mach iad. Agus bha a’ cheart-chùis ann an sin. Bha leanabh gille eile ann. Agus thug an duine sin dhà fichead nòt’. Agus ghabh e sin. Dh’fhalbh e dhachaigh gu toilichte. Agus bha a’ chùis uamhasach fàbharach aig an duine sin. Cha robh mòran dhe leithid anns na crìochan airson a bhith ag aiseadadh cloinne. Turas eile teann air an Òban agus e a’ gabhail sràid a-mach. Agus thachair duine air agus e a’ caoineadh: rud a chuir mulad glè mhòr air:

“O! a dhuine,” thuirt e, “dè tha tuathal?” thuirt e.

Dh’innis e mar a bha tuathal: gun robh a bhean air saothar cloinne agus nach tigeadh an lighiche ’un a’ bhothain bhochd a bh’ aige leis gur h-e ceàrd a bh’ ann:

“Thèid mise ann,” thuirt an duine seo.

Cha robh fhios aige cò bh’ aige, ach ’s e Dotair Rath Thuaidhe a bh’ ann, Iain MacLachlainn. Agus chaidh e ’un a’ cheàrd agus bha a h-uile nithean ceart agus mar bu chòir dha a bhith. Agus bha an ceàrd cho toilichte.

“Dè th’ agam ri thoirt dut?” thuirt an ceàrd.

“Chan eil dad agad ri thoirt domh-sa. Cha ghabh mi e. Ach innsidh mi dè nì thu,” thuirt e. “Thèid thu a-màireach,” thuirt e, “aig a leithid seo a dh’uair, agus bidh mise an sin agus bidh mi a’ bruidhinn ris an lighiche eile. Agus bith thu air do sgeadachadh cho math ’s is urrainn dut ann an èididh.”

“O, chan eil aodach agam nas fheàrr na seo,” thuirt e.

“Mura h-eil, bheir mi fhìn dhut deise.”

Thug e dha deise. Thug e ’un an taighe e is thug e dhà deise. Is thàinig an duine seo ann an èididh coltas duine-uasail agus bha an dà lighiche a’ bruidhinn. Chuir e fàilte cho gasda orra agus:

“Thigibh a-staigh agus gheibh sibh drama.” – a’ chùis a dh’iarr am fear eile air: “Bidh gu math fialaidh an sin agus òlaidh am fear seo am pailteas agus òlaidh mi fhìn. Ach na leig leotha aon bhoinne òrdachadh ach na dh’òrdaicheas tu fhèin.”

Bha an ceàrd ag òrdachadh na deoch.

“O! is uamhasach coibhneil an duine thu,” thuirt an lighiche eile.

“O, seagh,” thuirt Dotair Rath-Thuaidhe, “tha e glè choibhneil. Agus òla’ tusa agus ithe’ tu na gheibh thu bhuaith ged nach rachadh tu don bhothan aige ’n raoir thar an robh a bhean airson a bhith aiseadadh cloinne,” thuirt e. “Agus ’s e th’ annad duine suarach. Is beag a bheireadh orm,” thuirt e, “agus casaid a dhèanadh agus gun rachadh lùireach an lighiche a shlaodadh dhìot uile gu lèir. ’S e rinn thu rud suarach.”

Bha duine-uasal a ghabh an t-sealg ann an Àird nam Murachan agus bha e gu math dèidheil air an t-sealg. Agus cha robh aige ach aon nighean. Dh’fhàs i gu math tinn, easlainteach truagh. Agus an àite a bhith a’ tighinn ’huige ’s ann a bha i a’ sìor-dhol air ais. Agus chuir e a dh’iarraidh ollamhachan, mar a their iad professor. Agus cha robh e a’ dèanadh feum, ach thuirt e air an turas mu dheireadh a bha e ann:

“Cuiridh mi botal air adhart an-dràsda. Agus nì am botal sin feum.”

Ràinig am botal a bha seoach, ach cha robh i ach glè bhochd a’ mhadainn sin agus iad a’ meanaigeadh a dhol ’un an t-sealg.”

“Chan eil mi a’ dol chun an t-sealg an-diugh,” thuirt e ris a’ gheamair.

“Nach eil?” thuirt e.

“Nach cuir sibh a dh’iarraidh an dotair a tha feadh seo,” thuirt e, “an Lighiche Iain MacLachlainn.”

“O!” thuirt e, “nuair nach dèanadh an àrd, feadhainn gu h-àrd an Dùn Èideann e, dè nì am fear sin?”

“Cuire’ sibhse fios air.”

Ràinig e:

"Tha mi dìreach rud beag fada,” thuirt e, “ach tha aon dòchas agam fhathast gun tig i bhuaidh.”

Agus ’s e seo: ma bheir sibh dhomh-sa cead, bheir mi dhi stuth agus caidlidh i airson trì uairean a thìm. Agus ma chaidleas i seachad air na trì uairean a thìm, caidlidh i feasda. Ach ma dhùisgeas i, bidh i ceart gu leòr. Bheir mi ’huige i. Is bidh mi fhìn an àirde,” thuirt e, “agus bidh mi ann aig an àm ’s an dùisg i. Agus cumaidh sibh an taigh sàmhach.”

’S ann mar seo a bha.

Thàinig an Lighiche agus dhùisg i ann an ceann nan trì uairean a thìm.

“Tha i ceart gu leòr agus bheir sibh dhi an stuth a tha seo.”

Dh’innis e mar a bheireadh e dhi. Agus bha iad a’ dèanadh a rèir mar a bha an Lighiche ag iarraidh orra. Ach cò thàinig an ath latha an deaghaidh seo ach am professor.

Thuirt e: “Dh’aithnich mi gun dèanadh am botal mu dheireadh feum.”

“Shin agad am botal is cha tàinig an corcas às fhathast,” thuirt a h-athair. “Agus theirg thusa a-mach thu fhèin is am botul às an seo. Na cuir do ghrùidh a-staigh tuillidh. Tha dotair againn ann an seo fada air thoiseach ort. Agus ’s e tha a’ dol a leigheas an nighean agam.”

Agus leighis e an nighean aige agus cha robh dad oirre. Is dh’fhaighnichd e:

“Cha toir thu dhomh-sa,” thuirt e, “ach rudan beag airson mo dhragh.”

Agus thug e dha ceud nòt. Agus dh’fhalbh e bhon darna ceann don bhaile as an robh e a’ fuireach agus dar a ràinig e an ceann eile aige a’ toirt an airigid seachad do dhaoine bochda na feadhainn a bha feumach, cha robh aige ach còig nothaichean dhen airigid. Bha e cho trom air an deoch air mac na braiche mar a thuirt e fhèi’:

“A Mhic na poite duibhe,

A tha na suidhe an bun a’ ghealbhain;

’S e an t-eòrna buidhe a b’ athair dhut,

’S e an atharnach do sheanamhair."

Ach bha e a’ gabhail tuillidh is a’ chòir dheth agus bha athair a’ dol ga chuir thairis a-nunn do na rìgheachdan thall. Agus chaidh e an àirde a’ mhonaidh agus rinn e òran. Bha e na bhàrd uamhasach agus rinn e an t-òran. Bha e ga ghabhail taobh an teine. Dar a chuala athair an t-òran tiamhaich a bha e a’ gabhail taobh an teine, thòisich e a chridhe cho mòr agus gun tuirt e:

“Cha tèid thu às an seo bhon a bha uiread sin de mheas agad air an dùthaich. Fana’ tu ann an seo olc air mhath mar a thachras dhut.”

And the translation may be rendered as follows:

The Doctor of Rahoy they’d call this man, John MacLachlan was his name. Rahoy is over by Ardnamurchan, over by those places. He was an extraordinarily good physician, especially during childbirth. This night was – they sent for him – to see a woman in Oban. However, he was very fond of whisky. And he and whisky met one another a bit too often. He stopped over in Portree. This was a good bit out of his way. He entered the hotel to try and get a dram of whisky. He noticed that there was sadness in the place. He asked what was wrong. They told him how things were: that there was a woman and that they were still waiting as she was in labour.

“Did they fetch a physician at all?” he asked.

“Yes. There are two of them.”

“Get the man of the house down here so I can speak with him.”

The man of the house wouldn’t come down.

“Say to him to come here and to be quick about it,” he said.

He told him how things were: and if he could get into the room where the woman was.”

“Oh, but there are two physicians.”

“They aren’t any good,” he said. “Let me in.”

He entered. He put out the other two physicians and he closed the door behind him. He closed the door and in a few minutes there was a baby boy. The hotelier was so pleased that he’d give him anything he wanted.

“I don’t need anything,” he said, “expect only if you pay my fare back to Oban.”

Whatever he gave him I can’t be sure. But whatever he left for Oban. And the very same thing faced him in Oban where he had to go. There were two physicians attending this woman. And since they knew who he was, he sent them out. And the very same thing happened. There was another infant boy. And the man gave him forty pounds. And he took that. Happily he left to go home. And circumstances were extremely favourable for him. There were not many of his like in these parts for delivering children. And one time near Oban he was wandering about. And he met a man and he was crying: something that made him very sad:

“Oh, my dear man, what’s wrong?” he asked.

He told him what was wrong: that his wife was in labour and that the physician wouldn’t come to the poor hovel he had as he was a tinker.

“I’ll go,” said this man.

He didn’t know who he had, but it was John MacLachlan, the Doctor of Rahoy. And he went with the tinker and everything was as right as it should be. And the tinker was so happy.

“What do I owe you?” asked the tinker.

“You don’t have anything to give me. And so I’ll not take it. But I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said. “You’ll go out tomorrow,” he said, “at such and such a time, and I’ll be there and I’ll be speaking with the other physician. And you’ll be dressed as well as you can in a suit.”

“Oh, I haven’t got any better clothes than this,” he said.

“If you haven’t, I’ll get you a suit.”

He gave him a suit. He took him to the house and he gave him a suit. And this man came out dressed like a gentleman and the two physicians were speaking. He gave them such a pleasant welcome and:

“Come in and we’ll get a dram.” – the very thing that the other man asked was: “Be quite generous then and this man will drink pretty much as I will. But don’t allow them to order one drop only that which you order yourself.”

The tinker was ordering the drinks.

“Oh, you’re a very generous fellow,” said the other physician.

“Oh, indeed,” said the Doctor of Rahoy, “he’s very generous. And you would drink and eat what you would get from him though you wouldn’t go to his hovel last night when his wife was about to be in labour,” he said. “You’re a despicable man. And it would be nothing to me,” he warned, “to issue a complaint against you so that you were struck off as a physician altogether. You did a despicable thing.”

There was a gentleman who went stalking in Ardnamurchan and he was quite keen on hunting. He had only one daughter. She fell ill, weak and poorly. And instead of getting better she was getting far, far worse. And he sent for a professor. But he was unable to do anything, and he said on his visit:

“I’ll send up a bottle just now. And this bottle will help.”

This bottle arrived, but she was very poorly that morning and they wished to go out stalking.

“I’m not going to the hunt today,” he said to the keeper.

“Aren’t you?” he said.

“Won’t you go and fetch the doctor here,” he asked, “Doctor John MacLachlan.”

“Oh!” he said, “if the high and mighty, those up there in Edinburgh, can’t do anything, then what good can that man do?”

“Send word to him.”

He arrived.

“I’m just a bit late,” he said, “but I still hope that she can be cured.”

And it was this: if you permit me, I’ll give her stuff and she’ll sleep for three hours. And if she sleeps longer than three hours, then she’ll never wake up again. But if she awakes, she’ll be alright. I’ll give it to her. And I’ll remain there,” he said, “and I’ll be there at the time when she awakes. And you must keep the house quiet.”

This is how things turned out.

The Physician came and she awoke after three hours:

“She is alright and you’ll give her this stuff.”

He told him who he should give it to her. And they did accordingly as the Physician asked of them. But who should arrive the very next day after this but the professor.

He said: “I knew that the last bottle would of use.”

“There’s your bottle and the cork hasn’t been removed yet,” said her father. “And be off with you and your bottle out of here. Don’t let me see your face here ever again. We’ve got a doctor here who is far ahead of you. And it is he who is going to cure my daughter.”

And he cured his daughter until there was nothing wrong with her. And he asked:

“You’ll not give me,” he said, “but a few little things for my trouble.”

And he gave him a hundred pounds. And set out from one side of town to the other where he stayed and by the time he reached the far side he had practically given away all his money to the poor and needy folk, but had only five pounds remaining to this name. He was heavliy dependant on drinking whisky as he himself said:

“O son of the black pot,

That sits on the lower hearth,

The yellow barley is your father,

And the second crop your grandmother.”

But he was drinking far too much of it and his father was going to send him overseas. And he went up to the hill and composed a song. He was a great poet and he composed the song. He was singing it by the fireside and when his father heard the plaintive song he was signing by the fire, he was affected so much that he said: 

“You’ll not leave this place as you have such a love for your native land. You’ll remain here for good or ill.”

No greater authority and no mean poet himself, Sorley MacLean was of the opinion that Dr John MacLachlan’s poetry was the best that nineteenth-century Scottish Gaelic literature had to offer. MacLachlan was born on the farm of Rahoy (Rathuidhe or Rath Thuaidhe) in Morvern in 1804. His kindred, the MacLachlans of Dunadd, originally belonged to mid-Argyll. His father sold the Dunadd farm for fishing and shooting interests. Between 1824 and 1828, MacLachlan undertook a medical degree at the University of Glasgow, and, although tempted by an offer to work overseas, he declined and returned to his native land to practice medicine there. Although he may have had the reputation of being a heavy drinker and a womaniser, his reputation as a skilled physician (especially with regard to midwifery) and his generous spirit and moral probity stood him in good stead. Some of his songs are still sung to this day reflecting that his poetic output has stood the twin tests of both time and taste. Worn out by his exertions and experiences, he died aged seventy in Tobermory, Mull, in a poor-house, in 1874. 

References:

Hugh C. Gillies (ed.), The Gaelic Songs of the Late Dr John MacLachlan, Rahoy (Glasgow: Archibald Sinclair, 1880)

SSS NB 2, pp. 179–87

Image:

Dr John MacLachlan (1804–1874)