Father John MacMillan of Barra

If it was not for one of the most catchy 2/4 marches ever to have been composed for the pipes then it is rather doubtful that Father John MacMillan of Barra, styled Maighstir Iain Dhonnchaidh, would be so well remembered. Duncan Johnstone, a famous piper and nephew of Father John, himself told the tune’s background to Neil Angus MacDonald, a fellow piper and schoolmaster from Eoligarry in Barra. Johnstone’s mother stayed in Glasgow and her next door neighbour was Norman MacDonald from Broadford in Skye, the piper who composed this well-known march. It so happened that MacMillan was down in Glasgow visiting Duncan Johnstone’s mother and MacDonald, who was a regular visitor, called in. MacDonald had just composed the tune and played it for Father John who was so taken by it that MacDonald decided to name the tune in his honour.

 

Born at Craigston, in the northern part of Barra, in 1880, MacMillan was admitted to Blairs College, near Aberdeen, in 1894 and spent the next five years there training for the priesthood. From there he proceeded to Issy and St Sulpice and was ordained by Bishop George Smith in the pro-Cathedral at Oban in 1903. After a period as an assistant at Oban, he was appointed to the charge of Eigg and the Small Isles, and later, in 1908, was appointed to Benbecula.

 

During the period of his missionary work in that island the people regarded him with deep affection. He had a special interest in every member of his flock. Always travelling on foot he visited every family, and in later years the memory of his tall stately figure was often recalled. It was there he had spent the most fruitful years of his life.

 

Following the First World War, a great many families from the Southern Hebrides emigrated to Canada on the Marloch in 1923 and were settled at Red Deer in the province of Alberta. MacMillan volunteered to emigrate along with them and remained in Canada for two years ministering to their spiritual needs. “There,” according to Compton Mackenzie, “he had a great fight with the Canadian authorities, who he felt had not kept their side of the bargain and were inflicting unnecessary hardship upon the immigrants. In the end … they managed to get rid of a ‘turbulent’ priest.”

 

On his return he was placed in charge of Ballachuilish, but after a few years he was then appointed to Northbay, Barra, and later on, in 1926, to his native Craigston, from which charge he retired through ill-health in 1943. MacMillan was remembered for his congenial personality and his almost childlike disposition:

 

His house was open to all visitors, and there were many who came from near and far. Year after year the young and old, of various creeds and callings, sought him in his island home. From him they learned much. None ever left his presence without feeling in some measure the benefit of converse with him. He had a keen sense of humour; his laughter was infectious. Rarely or never was there a biting word.

 

At the Mod in Inverness, MacMillan befriended the famous writer Sir Compton Mackenzie (1883–1972), perhaps best remembered today for his novel Whisky Galore, subsequently made into a critically acclaimed Ealing comedy. In 1933 Mackenzie moved to Barra and eventually set up home at Suidheachan in Eoligarry just beside the airport on Tràigh Mhòr. Over the years both men would enjoy each other’s company. Mackenzie based the character of Fr James Macalister who appears in Keep the Home Guard Turning (1943) and Whisky Galore (1947) on MacMillan. The Barra priest was very proud to have a fictionalised version of himself to appear in print.

 

Of the many people who visited him one person in particular was the folklorist Calum Maclean who took a lively interest in the priest who was known for his store of oral traditions. In January 1947 Maclean visited MacMillan then living in retirement in Allasdale and recorded a great deal of songs from his recitation. On another occasion in the company of Séamus Ennis (1919–1982), a renowned musicologist and expert uillean piper, Maclean visited MacMillan who was greatly pleased by the virtuosity of the Irishman’s performance. Maclean later recalled his visit to MacMillan in the following words:

 

I did return again to Barra, for one rarely fails to do that. I came at the request of Father John MacMillan … He is now almost seventy, but he still sings well and is also a veritable mine of traditional lore. It was a short visit, but in one day alone I recorded over thirty songs from Father MacMillan. One was a very beautiful song addressed to Prince Charlie, a song which tradition ascribes to Flora MacDonald. Many of Father MacMillan’s songs are now known to him alone. He heard them in Barra, Uist, Benbecula, and in Eigg over forty years ago from people who have longs since returned slowly to dust. Barra has many people of whom it can feel justly proud. Father John MacMillan is certainly one of them.

 

Due to his great interest in his own native culture, MacMillan was not slow in lending his hand to support the various organisations that were founded in order to stem the decline of the Gaelic language and heritage:

 

He took a lively interest in all movements organised for the preservation of Gaelic or of Gaelic lore. He was a bard of no mean repute, and some of his compositions continue to be sung wherever Gaels foregather the world over.

 

MacMillan composed a eulogy to Fr William MacKenzie and perhaps his most famous song is Fàilte do Bharraigh (‘Welcome to Barra’). He also wrote Mo Shoraidh le Eige (My Farewell to Eigg) and Seòlaidh Mise A-null gu Dùthaich Chaomh Mo Rùin (‘I’ll Sail Over to the Country of My Love’), another song in praise of Barra that was composed to mark his return from his sojourn in Canada. The love for the island of his birth is perhaps best seen in a piece that he composed during his autumnal years where MacMillan draws inspiration from the scenery of Barra’s western coastline in sight of his last resting place:           

                                When I draw my very last breath
                                    And throw off this mortal coil,
                                    Gathered among those who are no longer
                                    I will gain the far shore of virtues. 

 

Finally succumbing to a series of heart-attacks in 1951, MacMillan passed away in his seventy-second year, and nearly fifty years of his priesthood. Such was the affection and esteem that he held among the islanders that twelve hundred mourners attended his funeral. They came from the neighbouring islands of Eriskay, South Uist and Benbecula, and they took part in the procession led by Neil Angus MacDonald and five other pipers which wended its way through the townships of Craigston and Borve to St Brendan’s churchyard on the outer fringe of the western shore of his native island where he was laid to rest beside his ‘spiritual father’ the Rev. William MacKenzie.

 

Compton Mackenzie was much grieved by his passing and, though he could not attend the funeral because of work commitments, he wrote a fitting inscription for his dear friend:

 

Here rest all that is mortal of John MacMillan who for many years was the parish priest of Craigston. He loved alike the language of his forefathers and the conversation of his fellowmen. Out of the abundance or his vitality he gave so much to life. Priest, poet, and humanist, of all the sons of Barra none was better loved. He was born on May 11th 1880 and died on June 1st 1951. He lies at last where he wished to lie beside the ocean, and may Almighty God grant him eternal peace.

 

Reference:

Calum I. Maclean, ‘In Search of Folklore in the Western Isles’, Scotland’s S.M.T. Magazine, vol. 40, no. 6 (1947), pp. 40–44

 

Image:

Fr John MacMillan of Barra, c. 1940s

Rob Roy MacGregor

One of the perennial heroes of the Highlands is, of course, Rob Roy MacGregor, whose colourful life and exploits have inspired not a few novels such as the one penned by Sir Walter Scott and films such as the one starring Liam Neeson. The legend of Roy Rob began spreading even when he was still alive and became increasingly romanticised during the nineteenth century and afterwards. Here, for example, is a short historically-based narrative recorded by Calum Maclean from John MacDonald, Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, on the 18th of January, 1951. The story has all the hallmarks of a heroic death that befits the romantic persona that surrounds the outlaw Rob Roy:

Chuala sibh uile iom^aradh air Rob Ruadh Mac Griogair. Chaochail e anns a’ bhliadhna seachd ciad diag agus còig thar an fhichead. Agas tha e air a thiodhlacadh am Bail Cuidir ann an Siorrachd Pheair^st. Agas ’nuair a dh’fhàs e easlainteach bochd, bha fior-nàmaide dhà a chuala m’a dhéidhinn. Agus thuir^st e:

“’S fhearr dhomh a dhol a choimhead air.”

Agus dh’fhal^abh e. Agus air a thuras a’ dìreadh ’un an taighe, thug gille a bh’ aig Rob Ruadh an aire dha. Bha e ’na phìobaire an gille seo. Thuir^st e ri Rob gun robh a leithid seo a dhuine a’ dìreadh ’un an taighe:

“O, ma tà,” thuir^st Rob, “cuir or^am m’ éideadh agas làn m’ ar^amachd. Na faic(hc)eadh an duine sin mise gun m’ ar^amachd agas m’ éideadh or^am.”

Chaidh seo a dhèanadh. Agas bha esan gu math lag, breòite a’ cur air èididh. Agas
thàinig an duine a staigh. Dar a thàinig an duine a staigh, chuir e fàilte air. Agas bha iad ann an rùn mhath dha chéile. Agas dh’fhal^abh an duine. Dar a dh’fhal^abh e, thuir^st e:

“Chuir siod leithid de chùram or^am agas de dhragh agas cha bhidh mi fada beò,” thuir^st Rob. “Agas cluichidh tu ’m por^st. Agas mam bidh am por^st agat air a chluich gu cheann, bidh mise air slighe eile, air slighe m’ aineoil.”

“Ma tà,” thuir^st am pìobaire, “tha mi an dòchas,” thuir^st e, “gur h-ann colta’ ri fìrean a bhios tu, gur h-ann a’ sìor-dol an àirde a bhios tu. Agas cluichidh mi am por^st.”

Agas rinn e sin. Agas ma robh an por^st air a chluich, bha Rob Ruadh Mac Griogair mar^abh.

And the translation goes something like the following:

You’ve all heard about Rob Roy MacGregor. He died in 1735 [recte: 1734] and he is buried in Balquidder, Perthshire. When he began to feel very ill, his arch nemesis heard about it and said:

“I’d better go and visit him.”

And so he set out. On his way up to the house, one of Rob Roy’s sons saw him approaching. This lad happened to be a piper. He said to Rob that such and such a person was coming up to the house:

“Oh, well,” said Rob, “help me put my kilt and weapons. Don’t let that man see me without my weapons and kilt on.”

This was done. And he was quite weak and feeble as he dressed himself with his kilt. Then the man came in. When he did, he was made welcome. They showed good will towards one another. And when he left, he said:

“That has strained and stressed me so much that I’ll not be alive much longer,” said Rob. “And you’ll play a tune but before the tune is ended, I’ll be on my way to the stranger’s country.”

“Well,” said the piper, “I hope that’ll you’ll be like a bird on the wing and that you’ll rise up higher and higher. I’ll now play the tune.”

And he did so but before the tune was ended Rob Roy was dead.

 

The tune in question, at least according to tradition, to have been requested by Rob Roy was Cha Till Mi Tuilleadh (I’ll Return No More), or MacCrimmon’s Lament, said to have been composed by Dòmhnall Bàn MacCrimmon who was mortally wounded at the Rout of Moy in 1746.

Reference:

SSS NB 3, pp. 285–86

Image:

Rob Roy MacGregor (1671–1734)

Fairy Lore: Work, Work Farquhar!

Another piece of fairy lore recorded by Calum Maclean came by way of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber. The following was recorded a few days before being transcribed on 18th of February, 1951: 

Bha fear ann ris an abradh iad Fearchar agus gu math tric bha bruaillean glè mh
òr air a chur air agus dragh le sìdhichean a bhiodh a’ tighinn thar na robh e agus iad ag iarraidh obair, obair, “Thoir dhuinn obair.”

“Falbh,” thuirt e riutha an latha a bha seo, “agus tiormaichibh an loch a tha gu h-àrd an sin.”

“Nì sinn sin.”

Dh’fhalbh iad. Agus an ath-latha, dar a chaidh e an àirde, bha an loch tioram. Thàinig iad a-rithist thar an robh e feasgar. Thug e dhaibh obair air choreigin eile agus rinn iad sin. Agus ghabh e iongantas cho allamh agus a chuir iad crìoch air an obair a bh’ ann. Cha chreid mise nach ann a’ spìonadh fraoich a bha iad bharr a’ mhonaidh. Agus tha am monadh gorm gus an latha an-diugh. Cha d’ fhàs fraoch riamh air. Agus an sin:

“Tha iad a’ cur dragh glè mhòr orm,” thuirt e ris a’ bhean. “Agus bidh iad a-màireach cho dona is a bha iad riamh, a’ cur dragh orm ag iarraidh obair.” “Had!” thuirt a’ bhean, “nach toir thu orra sìoman a dhèanadh den ghaineamhaich a tha a sìos air a’ chladach. Dh’fhairtlich e air an Donas fhèin sìoman a dhèanadh don ghaineamhaich, ach dh’iarr e moll agus gun dèanadh e e. Chan fhaigheadh e moll agus mar sin dh’fhairtlich air. Abair sin riutha.”

Thàinig iad an ath-fheasgar a dh’iarraidh obair.

“Falbh a sìos agus dèanaibh sìoman den ghaineamhaich a tha sìos air a’ chladach.”

Dh’fhalbh iad. Thug iad treis ag obair sin ach cha robh a’ chùis a’ dol leotha. Thill iad air ais. Thuirt iad gun a dh’fhairtlich sin orra a dhèanadh ach nam faigheadh iad innear eich, mar a their iad ann am facal ciùin, laghach, sgàinteach each. Agus mar sin cha d’fhuair.

“Cha fhaigh sibh sin. Agus dèanaibh sìoman dheth a rèir an ordugh a fhuair sibh. Agus mura dèan, na faiceam tuillidh an rathad seo sibh.”

Agus dh’fhairtlich sin orra agus fhuair am bodach caoidhte ’s an sìdhichean. Agus bha Fearchar glè thoilichte. Mar a thuirt mi ruibh, cha d’ fhàs fraoch riamh air a’ bheinn an deaghaidh na sìdhichean a tarrainn. Agus dh’fhairtlich sin orra agus fhuair am bodach cuidhte ’s an sìdhichean. Agus bha Fearchar glè thoilichte. Mar a thuirt mi ruibh, cha d’fhàs fraoch riamh air a’ bheinn an deaghaidh na sìdhichean a tarrainn. Agus ’s e tè dhiubh sin Beinn Dòbhrain. Tha i gorm gus an latha an-diugh. Agus ’s iomadh facal a thuirt Donnchadh Bàn Mac an t-Saoir ma dèidhinn, ma dhèidhinn Beinn Dòbhrain:

“’S i bu bhòidhche leam—

Monadh fada rèidh,

Coille a faighte fèidh,

’S soileireach an treud

Bhios an còmhnaidh ann.” 

There was a man they called Farquhar and very often he was sorely troubled and vexed by fairies who came to him asking for work, work, “Give us work.” “Go,” he said to them this day, “and empty the loch (H1097.1) that is up yonder.”

“We’ll do that.”

Away they went and the following day, when he went up, the loch was dry. They came to him again in the evening. He gave them some other work and they did that. And he was amazed how quickly they performed that task (H1090). I rather think that they were put to pluck the heather from the moor. And the moor is green to this day. No heather grew on it ever since. And then—“They are troubling me very much,” he said to his wife. “And tomorrow they’ll be as bad as ever, troubling me by asking for work.”

“Tut!” said the wife (J155.4), “why do you not ask them to make a rope out of sand (H1021.1) that is down on the shore? The Devil himself failed (K211) to make a rope out of sand, but he asked for chaff (H1021.2) in order to make it. He could not get chaff and so failed. Tell them that.”

The following evening they came to ask for work.

“Go down and make a rope of the sand that is down on the shore.”

Away they went. They were engaged in that work for some time but they did not succeed. They came back. They said they had failed but if only they could get horse-dung, as they say—to use a gentle, polite word—sgàinteach of horses. But they did not get that.

“You’ll not get that. And make a rope of it according to the directions you have been given. And if you do not, do not let me see you around here anymore.”

And they failed to perform that task and the old man got rid of the fairies (F381.11). And Farquhar was very pleased. As I’ve told you, no heather ever grew on the mountain when the fairies had cut it. And one of the mountains is Ben Dorain. It is green to this day. And many words had Duncan Bàn MacIntyre said about it, about Ben Dorain:

“To me it is most beautiful:

The wide, smooth hill,

A forest wherein deer are found.

Bright is the throng

That is wont to be there.” 

In essence, the premise of the tale is about getting rid of the fairies and given the once widespread popularity of this fairy narrative throughout the Highlands and Islands strongly suggests that a migratory legend is at play here. In fact, the story is an international one and is classified as ATU 1174; typically in such stories an impossible task is demanded of the fairies to perform – a good example is the one given: a request to make a rope of sand – and so the protagonist by using such a ploy manages to see the back of them.

References:

Calum I. Maclean, The Highlands (Inbhir Nis: Club Leabhar, 1975)

────, ‘Fairy Stories from Lochaber’, Scottish Studies, vol. 4 (1960), pp. 84–95

SSS NB 4, pp. 311–13

Image:

A Rope of Sand