Halloween Customs

The following Halloween customs were taken down by Calum Maclean from his father, Malcolm, styled Calum Chaluim Iain Ghairbh (1880–1951), a tailor to trade, on the 29th of January 1946:

 

Oidhche Shamhna bhiodh iad a’ fàgail an taighe treud dhiùbh is dh’fheumadh iad allt crìche a ruigheachd, crìoch eadar dà bhaile, ga bith gu dè cho fada is a bhiodh e air falbh – agus bha iad a’ toirt bal^agam an urra as an allt is ga chumail nam beul is chan fhaodadh iad guth a ghràdha gus a ruigeadh iad na taighean air ais, is nan cuireadh iad a mach am bal^agam às am beul is nam bruidhneadh iad gus a ruigeadh iad na taighean, cha robh feum sam bith ann. Bhiodh iad an uair sin mun d’reachadh iad a chadal, bha iad a’ deasachadh bonnach beag coirce is ga lìonadh làn salainn is dh’itheadh iad e, nuair a bhiodh iad a’ dol a leabaidh is ged a bhiodh iad gu bhith marbh leis a’ phàthadh, chan òladh iad deoch, is bha iad a’ dèanamh dheth an uair sin, nuair a bhiodh a leithid sin de phàthadh orra gun tigeadh an gille a bha dol gam
pòsadh a thoirt deoch dhaibh, is nam faiceadh iad a leithid sin de bhruadar air an oidhche, bhiodh iad uamhasach toilichte – nam faiceadh iad an gille a b’ fhèarr leotha a’ tighinn a thoirt deoch dhaibh. Bhiodh iad a’ fal^abh Oidhche Shamhna a’ spìonadh chàil agus tuirneap. Bhiodh iad a’ dol a-staigh a’s na gàrrannan is cha bhiodh iad gan tabhairt leotha idir. Cha bhiodh iad ach gan gearradh (càl agus tuirneap).

 

Bhiodh iad uaireannan a’ tabhairt crodh an nàbaidh a-staigh am bàthaichean eile. Nuair a chuireadh iad a-staigh an crodh sin, bheireadh iad a-mach an crodh eile agus chuireadh iad iad a-staigh sa bhàthaich as an tug iad an crodh eile.

 

Bhiodh iad a’ seifteadh chearcan on dàrna bothag is gan cuir às a’ bhothag eile. Bhiodh iad a’ seifteadh bhàtaichean is gan cuir am falach. Bhiodh iad a’ cur sgrathan air mullach shimileirean gus nach fhaigheadh an ceò a-mach. Giar (gear) sam bith a gheibheadh iad mun taigh bhiodh iad gan tabhairt leis is dòcha gur h-ann an ceann eile a’ bhaile a dh’fhàgadh iad iad. Bhiodh iad a’ losgadh chnothan. Chuireadh iad dà chrò as an teine airson gille is nighean is nan deanadh iad dà bhrag is gun gabhadh iad – nan gabhadh iad aig an aon àm, phòsadh iad. Ach mura gabhadh na dhà dhiubh aig an aon àm, nam b’e an nighean a ghabhadh, phòsadh ise ach cha ghabhadh an duine i, ach nam b’e an gille a ghabhadh, phòsadh eisean ach cha ghabhadh an nighean e.

 

Bhiodh iad a-rithist a’ cur ubhall ann am ballan uisge, is tè sam bith no fear sam bith a bheireadh air an ubhall le ’m beul, phòsadh iad. Chan fhaodadh iad an tabhairt as ach le ’m beul.

 

Bha iad an uair sin a’ dèanamh stapaig uachdair ann am basaidh. Bha iad a’ cur mu chuairt an stapag agus a’ cur fàinne innte is a’ chiad tè a gheibheadh fàinne ann an spàin – ’s i a’ chiad tè a phòsadh.

 

And the translation goes something like the following:

 

At Halloween a group of them would leave the house and they would have to go to a boundary burn, a boundary between two villages, however far they had to go – and they each took a mouthful of water from the burn and kept it in their mouths and they couldn’t say a word until they got back to their homesteads. If they let the mouthful out, if they spoke before they arrived back at the homesteads, it would be of no use. They would then, before going to bed, prepare a wee oatcake and would fill it full of salt and eat it just as they were going to bed; and even if they were dying of thirst they wouldn’t take a drink, and then they used to, when they had such a thirst that a lad who they would marry would come and give them a drink. If they saw such a dream at night, they would be very pleased – if they saw the lad they like best coming to give them a drink. They used to go at Halloween to pull up cabbages and turnips. They would go into the fields but they didn’t take any away with them at all. They would just cut the cabbages and turnips down.

 

At times they would take the neighbour’s cattle into another barn. When they had put that cattle in they would then take the other cattle and they would put them in the barn from where they had taken the other cattle.

 

They would move hens from one hen-house and put them in the other. They would move boats and hide them. They used to place peat on chimney tops so that the smoke couldn’t get out. If they found any gear around about the house they would take it with them even to the other end of the village and leave it there. They used to roast nuts. They would put two nuts into the fire for a boy and a girl and if they made two cracks as they can do – and if it was made at the same time, then they would marry. But if those two didn’t [make a crack] at the same time, and if the girl’s one didn’t make a crack, she would marry but the lad wouldn’t take her, but if the boy’s one didn’t make a crack, he’d marry but he wouldn’t take the lassie.

 

They also used to place apples in a tub of water, and if a lad or a lassie managed to get one of the apples, they would marry. They were not allowed to dook for them but with their mouths.

 

They would then make cream brose in a basin. They would circulate the cream brose with a ring was placed in it and the lassie who found the ring with a spoon would be the first one to be married.

 

As can be seen these customs represent old seasonal rituals that have been grafted onto medieval saints’ days and continue to survive as secularised celebrations. Halloween or Oidhche Shamhna (from Samhain, a liminal transition indicating summer’s end and winter’s beginning or the dark half of the year) was one of the most important of the four quarter days in the medieval Gaelic calendar and was celebrated throughout Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. Traditionally, Halloween (All Hallows’ Eve) falls on the 31st of October, and usually involves youngsters guising or dressing up in costumes and entertaining for treats, engaging in mischief-making, as well as young girls performing divination to find out about their future spouses.

 

References:

IFC 1026: 235–37

 

Image:

Halloween Turnip

The Eagle of Loch Treig

A once popular story told at ceilidhs in Brae Lochaber was one about the eagle of Loch Treig. A version of the tale was taken down by Calum Maclean from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge on the 20th of January 1951:

 

Bha cailleach mhòr ann am Beinn a’ Bhric ris an abradh iad Cailleach Beinn a’ Bhric. Tha a’ bheinn seo gu h-àrd aig ceann shuas Loch Trèig. Bha de bhuaidh aice air a h-uile beothach mun cuairt dhith agus gun robh i a’ toirt orra bruidhinn. Agus ’s ann an sin a thòisich a’ chèilidh. Tha iad a’ bruidhinn oirre gus an latha an-diugh, air a’ chèilidh. Thàinig geamhradh uamhasach fhèin dona. Agus thuirt i riutha aon oidhche a bha seo:

 

“Feumaidh sibh falbh,” thuirt i, “agus a h-uile duine sgarbh a thoirt à creag dhà fhèin. Chan urrainn duine fuireach beò nas fhaide an seo. Agus tha am bainne a’ falbh far na h-aighean ged a bha mise gan leigeil is a’ toirt daoibh a’ bhainne. Chan eil e ann tuillidh. Agus chan eil iad a’ seasamh boisean dhomh ged a tha mi a’ muidheadh Dòmhnall mac Fhionnlaigh an t-Saighead orra, agus dar a nì mi sin, tionndaidh an gealagan air an t-sùil leis an eagal.”

 

Ach dh’fhalbh iad is rinn iad dhaibh fhèin mar a thuirt i. Agus an aon bheothach a dh’fhuirich leithe ’s e an Iolaire. Thuirt an Iolaire:

 

“Chan uarrainn domh seo a sheasamh nas fhaide. Feumaidh mi falbh.”

“Feumaidh,” thuirt i, “agus latha math leat.”

 

Dh’fhalbh an Iolaire sìos do Loch Trèig—Coire Mheadhoin agus a-staigh Bràigh Allt nam Bruach agus a’ Chaorannaich gus an tàinig i gu Drochaid Ruaidh, Bun Ruaidh:

 

“A bheil thu an seo, a Ghobhair Duibh?” thuirt i ris. ’S e sin Gobhar Dubh nan Allt air a bheil am broilleach geal.

 

“Tha.”

 

“A bheil forfhais agad air geamhradh riamh cho dona seo?”

 

“Chan eil. Ach cha robh mi ach nam isean glè bheag às deaghaidh mo mhàthair,” thuirt esan, “agus chan eil forfhais agam air. Ach tha fiadh thall an Coille Innse na chrùban aig bun craobh dharaich is mar a bheil eòlas aige-san.”

 

Chaidh i null far an robh am fiadh.

 

“Chan eil,” thuirt am fiadh, “forfhais agam-s’ air. Ach b’àithne dhomh caifeanach a bha gu h-àrd ann am Bothan Choire na Ceanna. Cha robh ach na mo laogh glè bheag agus bha e a’ ruith feadh an lochain agus an t-sùil às.”

 

Ràinig i shuas:

 

“A bheil forfhais agad,” thuirt i, “air geamhradh riamh a bha cho dona seo?”

 

“Tha,” thuirt e.

 

“O! ma-thà, tha mi glè thoilichte à do naidheachd. Agus mar sin thàinig an seòrsa againn beò as an droch gheamhradh sin agus bidh earbsa againn gun tig sinn às an fhear seo.”

 

“Thig,” thuirt e. “Agus bha mise ga mo chluich fhìn taobh lochain ann an seo. Droch gheamhradh a bh’ ann, agus bha e air adhart ann an June, dar a chuir pios den deigh an t-sùil asam.”

 

“O! nach robh e dona.”

 

“Bha.”

 

“Thèid mi an àird don iarmailt,” thuirt i, “feuch a bheil mo neart a’ cumail fhathast.”

 

Chaidh i an àirde. Dar a bha i a’ fàgail talamh dè leum air cùl a’ sgèith aice ach dreathann donn.

 

“Tha mi a-nis gu h-àrd san adhar is chan eil beothach a thèid nas àirde na mise.”

 

“Tha mi fada fos do chionn,” is e a leum.

 

“O! ablaich,” thuirt i. “Ma tha thusa beò, chan eagal duinne. Latha math leat.”

 

Is dh’fhalbh i leis an tamailt is cha do stad i gus an do ràinig i a’ Mhaingir thall taobh Loch Airceig. Agus theireadh iad Creag na h-Iolaire rithe far an d’fhuirich i na crùban ann an sin gus an do chuir i dhith an sgìos. Agus gheibh iad aois mhòr, an iolaire:     

 

   Trì aois cù, aois each,

               Trì aois each, aois duine,

               Trì aois duine, aois fìr-eoin

               Trì aois fìr-eoin, aois craobh dharaich.

 

And the translation goes something like the following:

 

A great hag lived at Beinn a’ Bhric (‘The Speckled Mountain’) and she was called Cailleach Beinn a’ Bhric. This mountain is situated at the south end of Loch Treig. She had such a hold upon every creature that she could even made them speak. That is how the ceilidh began: they still talk about her to this day. An extremely bad winter came and she said to them one night:

 

“I must go,” she said, “and everyone will have to take to their own shelter in the rocks. No one can stay alive here any longer. The hinds have gone dry even though I have been milking them. There is not a drop left. And they will not stand for me any longer even though I threaten them with Donald son of Finlay of the Arrows [the hunter-bard Dòmhnall mac Fhionnlaigh nan Dàn] so that their eyes turn white with fright.

 

They set off and they made for themselves as she had instructed. But there was one creature that stayed with her: the Eagle. The Eagle said:

 

“I can’t stand this any longer – I must be off.”

 

“Yes, you must,” she said, “and a good day to you.”

 

The Eagle went up to Loch Treig – to Coire Mheadhoin to the Brae of Allt nam Bruach and then to Caorannaich until she reached Roybridge, at Bunroy:

 

“Are you there, Black Goat?” she said to him. That is the Black Goat of the Burns with the white chest.

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“Do you recall a winter as bad as this?”

 

“No, but I was just a young goat running after my mother and I don’t recall [a winter as bad]. There is a deer over in Coille Innse lying at the foot of an oak tree and he’ll know for sure.”

 

She went over to where the deer was.

 

“No,” said the deer, “I don’t recall [a winter as bad]. But I know a swallow up at Bothan Choire na Ceanna and though I was but a very small calf he was swimming through the loch with only one eye.”

 

She went up there.

 

“Do you recall,” she said, “a winter as bad as this one?”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

“Oh, I am very pleased to hear your story that our kind has managed to survive a winter as bad as this and that we will be able to take courage to survive this one.”

 

“Yes,” said he, “and I was playing at the side of this loch. It was a bad winter even though it was late June when a piece of ice took my eye out.

 

“Oh, wasn’t that bad.”

 

“Yes, it was.”

 

“I shall take to my wings up into the sky,” said she, “to see if I can’t yet keep up my strength.”

 

She flew up into the sky but as she took off a brown wren jumped on the back of her wing.

 

“I am now higher in the sky and no other creature can go higher than me.”

 

“I am far higher above you,” [he said] as he took a leap.

 

“Oh, rotter,” said she. “If you are alive then we needn’t be afraid. Good day to you.”

 

And she left him there because she was humiliated and she didn’t stop until she reached Maingir over on the other side of Loch Arkaig. And they call this place Creag na h-Iolaire (‘The Crag of the Eagle’) where she stayed until she had regained her strength. The eagle gains a great age:

 

               Thrice a dog’s age, age of a horse,

               Thrice a horse’s age, age of man,

               Thrice a man’s age, age of the eagle,

               Thrice an eagle’s age, age of the oak.

 

The last  phrase has become a proverbial saying and the above story in an international tale known as ‘The Legend of the Oldest Creatures (AT 221 [ATU 221])’. This was better known to the reciters simply as Iolaire Loch Tréig. A version collected by Donald C. MacPherson, in the nineteenth century, has been reprinted on numerous occasions. This version is clearly a more literary production, as it seems to have been “touched up”, compared with the examples given in oral tradition. Three versions were collected from John MacDonald, Archibald MacInnes and Charles Cameron respectively. The versions recited by the latter two follow closely the one given by Donald C. MacPherson. The version given by John MacDonald adds the single-motif narrative of the ‘election of a bird-king’, i.e. the wren appears from underneath the eagle's wing to gain a higher altitude which is also meant to represent superiority. 

 

It would, no doubt, come as a surprise to John MacDonald if, at the time of the recording, he was told that the story of ‘The Oldest Creature’ probably originated in India sometime in the fourth century. Whether he would have been interested, sceptical or plain unbelieving is another matter. However, the resemblance to the Buddhist story, entitled Tittira Jataka, where the animals dispute their ages and similarly where a search is made for an independent criterion in order to settle the dispute is so striking that it can be no mere coincidence:

 

Long ago there were three friends living near a great banyan-tree, on the slope of the Himalayan range of mountains—a partridge, a monkey, and an elephant. They were wanting in respect and courtesy for one another, and did not live altogether on befitting terms.

 

But it occurred to them, “It is not right for us to live in this manner.  What if we were to cultivate respect towards whichever of us is eldest?” “But which is the eldest?” they asked; until one day they thought, “This will be a good way of finding out.” So the monkey and the partridge asked the elephant, as they were sitting altogether at the foot of the banyan tree: “Elephant, dear, how big was the banyan-tree at the time you first knew it?” “Friends!” said he, “when I was little I used to walk over this banyan, then a mere bush tree, keeping it between my thighs; and when I stood with it between my legs its highest branches touched me underneath. So I have known it since it was a shrub.”

 

Then they both asked the monkey in the same way. And he said: “Friends! when I was quite a little monkey I used to sit on the ground and eat the topmost shoots of this banyan, then quite young, by merely stretching out my neck. So that I have known it from my earliest infancy.”

 

Then again the two others asked the partridge as before. And he said: “Friends! there was once a lofty banyan-tree in such and such a place, whose fruits I ate and dropped the seeds here. From that this tree grew up; so that I have known it even before the time when it was born, and I am older than the either of you.”

 

Thereupon, the elephant and monkey said to the clever partridge: “You, friend, are the oldest of us all. Henceforth we will do all manner of service to you, and pay you reverence, and make salutations before you, and treat you with every respect and courtesy, and abide by your counsels.  Do you in future give us whatever counsel an instruction we require.”

 

Thenceforth the partridge gave them counsel and kept them up to their duty, and himself observed his own. So the three kept the five commandments; and since they were courteous and respectful to one another, and lived on befitting terms with each other, they became destined for heaven when their lives should end.

 

Such a tale was clearly used as a didactic aid in this Buddhist version and differs from the Lochaber ecotype in this respect. However, the common motif is clearly present: the search for an independent criterion. The tale itself appears both in Welsh and Irish traditions: it appears in ‘Culhwch and Olwen’, one of the oldest tales contained in the Mabinogion; and also, under the title of ‘The Hawk of Achill’, in an early sixteenth century Irish manuscript written in Leinster.

 

The Lochaber version of the tale, given in An Gàidheal, tells of how an eagle travelled to discover an older creature than herself, and was sent by an old wren to a still older blackbird which had made a hole in an anvil by cleaning its beak on it, which sent the eagle to a still older stag, which sent her to a still older trout, which had become blind when his eye froze to a rock on the coldest night. Jackson rightly points out, “...that the Eastern motif of the Oldest Animals was modified in the British Isles into a new form which appears in strikingly similar guise in Wales, Ireland and Scotland.” In fact, Jackson goes onto suggest, “...that the Lochaber version is very likely the most primitive, since the point of the quest here, to find and older animal, is closer to the Oriental story than any of the others are.”

 

References:

Abrach [D. C. MacPherson], ‘Iolaire Loch Tréig’, An Gàidheal, no. 11 (January 1873), pp. 285–86 [Published with English translation in Somerled MacMillan, Bygone Lochaber: Historical and Traditional (Glasgow: Privately printed, 1971), pp. 196–98]

T. W. Rhys Davids (trans.), Buddhist Birth Stories, or Jataka Tales, vol. I. (London: Routledge, 1880), pp. 312–14

Kenneth H. Jackson, The International Popular Tale and Early Welsh Tradition (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1961)

Eleanor Hull, ‘The Hawk of Achill or the Legend of the Oldest Animals’, Folklore, vol. XLIII (1932), pp. 384–85

SSS NB 1, pp. 48–51

 

Image:

Iolaire / Eagle

Traditions of John MacCodrum – III

Another humorous anecdote concerning John MacCodrum and another famous bard, namely Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair, was taken down by Calum Maclean from Angus MacLellan, (1879–1949), styled Aonghas mac Iain ’ic Chaluim and also Aonghas mac Anne Bàine, Griminish, Benbecula, on 10th of January 1947: 

 

Thàinig an siud Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair air chuair^st a dh’Uibhist. Thàinig e gu h-àraid mu thuath, agus bha e ag iarraidh stiùireadh air taigh MhicCodrum, am bàr^sd eile. Thachair feareigin ris ach cha do dh’aithnich iad a chèile. Cha robh fhios aig Alasdair gur h-e MacCodrum a thachair ris idir, agus thuir^st e mar seo:

 

“Am bidh thu cho math,” or’ esan, “agus gu stiùir thu mi air taigh MhicCodrum.”
“De ’n colas an taighe a th’ aige?”

 

“Well,” ors’ an duine, “taigh MhicCodrum,” ors’ esan, “is an dala taobh air a thughadh is an taobh eile gun tughadh idir dheth.”

 

Chum Alasdair roimhe. Rinn e siubhal mòr mun d’fhuair e an taigh. Bha e a' dèanamh gum biodh ceann dheth gun tughadh agus ceann eile air a thughadh. Ach ’s e bha Mac Codrum a’ ciallachadh, an taobh a-staigh dheth bha e gun thughadh idir, is bha an tughadh air an taobh a-mach.

 

Tha iad ag ràdha gum bheil Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair, ga brith a bheil e fior neo nach eil, nach eil oidhche deug sa bhliadhna nach eil e a’ fal^abh air a mhàgan ò Bheinn Chàrsabhal chon na Fadhlach a Deas aig Beinne na Faoghla. Ga brith gu dè am breitheanas na am peanas a chuireadh air, tha seann-sean^achas ag innse gum bheil e mar sin, agus tha daoine ann a tha ag ràdha a chunnaic e agus a bha e a’ bruidhinn riutha: agus tha feadhainn ann a dh’innis e dhaibh mar a thachradh dhaibh, agus mar a dh’innis e dhaibh ’s ann a thachair dha na daoine sin, ga brith gu dè an seadh a th’ ann.

 

And the translation goes something like the following:

 

Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair (Alexander MacDonald) came on a trip to Uist; he came north and he wished to be directed to MacCodrum’s house, the othe poet. He met a man but they didn’t recognise one another. MacDonald had no idea that he had met MacCodrum, and he said:

 

“Would you so good,” he asked, “as to direct me to MacCodrum’s house?”

“What does his house look like?”

 

“Well,” said the man, “MacCodrum’s house is thatched on one side and doesn’t have any thatch on the other.”

 

MacDonald kept on. He travelled a great distance before he found the house. He thought that one side of the house wouldn’t have thatch but the other side would. But what MacCordum meant that the inside wouldn’t be thatched and the thatch was on the outside.

 

They say that Alexander MacDonald, whether this is true or not, that ten times a year he can be seen crawling from Ben Carsaval to the South Ford in Benbecula. Whatever judgment or punishment they inflicted on him, the old stories tell us this was so, and folk say that the saw him and that he spoke with them: and a few were told what happen to them, and that what was told to them indeed happened to them, in whichever way this happened to be.

 

The first anecdote shows MacCodrum trying to outwit the other with his sharp mind and, it might be supposed, is rather a tame version of poetic flyting. The next one contains a very definite supernatural element and claims that Alexander MacDonald’s ghost could be seen and allegedly spoke with folk and would offer predictions, some of which turned out to be true. Other sources claim that it was not Alexander MacDonald’s ghost but rather that of his brother, Lachlan, who was resident in South Uist for many years.

 

References:

NFC MS 1053: 79–80

William Matheson (ed.), The Songs of John MacCodrum: Bard to Sir James MacDonald of Sleat (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1938)

 

Image:

Hebridean Blackhouse

Traditions of John MacCodrum – II

A few other humorous anecdotes about John MacCodrum were collected by Calum Maclean from Angus John MacLellan, who belonged to Griminish, Benbecula, on the 10th of January 1947. Angus John MacLellan (1879–1949), styled Aonghas mac Iain ’ic Chaluim and also Aonghas mac Anne Bàine, was renowned for his historical tales. Maclean remembers MacLellan as “a slightly-built but very active man nearing seventy years of age. He was very alert mentally and a tireless worker. He was well-read and retained practically everything he read. He could read both Gaelic and English. He could turn his hand almost to any craft. He was a stone-mason, joiner, cartwright, cobbler and shopkeeper as well as being a crofter.” Angus MacLellan received much of his repertoire from John Gordon MacIntyre, who hailed from the Howmore district of South Uist and lived latterly at Griminish, Benbecula. Maclean remarked in an obituary notice that MacLellan “was certainly one of nature’s noblemen.” By the time of his death, Maclean had recorded over one hundred items from him and had also begun to take down his life-story:

 

Seo agaibh beagan bhriathran ma dheidhinn geiread nam bàir^sd a bh’ ann o shean. Chan eil bàir^sd an-diugh ann, on a dh’fhal^abh an t-seann-fheadhainn, agus tha a’ bhuil sin ann, an seorsa bàr^sdachd a thathar a’ dèanamh an-diugh cha bhàr^sdachd i. Tha beagan naidheachd an seo ma dheidhinn Bàr^sd MacCodrum. Bha e air fastadh aig a’ Mhorair Dhòmhnallach, nuair a bha an Ceann a Tuath aige, agus bhiodh e a’ gabhail cuair^stean dhan Eilean Sgitheanach mar bu trice. Thachair dhaibh gun d’ fhuair iad cuireadh gu ruige Dùn Bheagain agus bha mar bu trice a bha, bha an deoch a’ dol gu pailt.

 

Bha e na mhasladh do dhuine sam bith èirigh on bhòr^sd gus an togte air fal^abh e le gillean frithealaidh, a bha deiseil air an cùluibh airson an togail do sheòmbar, agus nuair a thigeadh iad uc(hc)a fhèin a-rithist bha iad a’ suidhe air n-ais gus an olte an casg a bh’ air fhosgladh. Ach, co-dhiù, thuit MacCodrum air a dhruim agus, co-dhiù, leis na bha san taobh a-staigh dheth dhen deoch ’s ann a thionndaidh a stamag. Thàinig bàr^sd MhicLeòid ma chuair^st agus theann e air gàireachdaich, nuair a chunnaic e bàrd MhicDhòmhnaill air a dhruim agus thuir^st e mar seo: 

 

Bàr^sd MhicDhòmhnaill air a dhruim,

A’ cuir as a chionn a chòrr,

Is ga b’e thug dhà-san a dhìol,
Thug e biadh a choin MhicLeòid.

 

Dh’fhosgail MacCodrum a shùilean agus sheall e air bàr^sd MhicLeòid agus fhreagair e mar seo e:

 

Is ailis è sin air MacLeòid,

’S ann bu chòir a bhith ga chleith,

Mura faigh a chuid chon a lòn,

Ach na nì luchd-òil a sgeith.

 

Bha am fear eile air a ghearradh le geur-chainnteas agus nach b’ urrainn dhà an còrr a ghràdha ris.

 

Thachair dhà turas eile a bhith a’ dol gu ruige Muile, do MhacCodrum, agus nuair a dh’acraich iad aig cìdhe a bh’ ann, thàinig na Muilich a-mach:

 

 “Cò às a thug sibh an t-iomradh?” ors à-san.

 

“Thug às na gàirdeannan,” orsa MacCodrum.

 

“Gu dè seòrsa dhaoine a th’ annaibh?” ors’ am Muileach.

 

“Tha sinn ann,” ors’ esan, “pàir^st o thuath is pàir^st o thighearna.”

 

Thachair dhà a bhith turas eile a’ dol ro Fadhail a Tuath eadar Beinne na Faoghla agus Ceann a Tuath Uibhist, agus gu dè as na lathaichean a bha sin ach muc mhòr a thàinig gon a’ chladaich, muc-mhara. Bha mòran dhaoine a’ dol ga coimhead agus choinnich an duine a bha seoach MacCodrum.

 

Well, cha do shaoil e mòran nach ann a’ coimhead air a’ mhuic a bha e, agus thuir^st e mar seo:

 

“An ann on mhuic a thàini’ tu, a dhuine?” ors’ esan.

 

“Dearbha fhèine, chan ann,” ors’ esan, “ach o thè a b’ fhèarr na do mhàthair-sa.”  

 

Cha d’fhuair e a-mach riamh cò am fear a thachair ris, agus bha e a’ cuir dragh air. Bha e gu math geur an duine a bh’ ann ga brith cò e. Bha iad an siud tuath a Chinn a Tuath a’ leigeil locha àraid a bh’ ann gu muileann airson gu faigheadh e uisge gu leòr airson bleith samhraidh a bh’ aig an tuath. Bha na daoine cruinn uile gu lèir a’ leigeil an locha, ach bha MacCodrum, cha robh e ann. Suas ma mheathon latha ràinig MacCodrum agus chaidh cuideigin a-nunn far an robh e le dram agus:

 

“Seo agad, Iain,” ors’ an duine a shìn dha an dram, “seo agad drùdhag de bhùrn Loch Hàstainn,” an loch a bha iad a’ leigeadh. Dh’fheuch MacCodrum an dram agus sheall e air an duine is thuir^st e mar seo:

 

Gum beannaicheadh Dia bùrn Loch Hàstainn

Mas a math an t-àileadh,

Is seachd fèarr a bhlas,
Is ma tha e mar seo gu lèir,
Is mòr am beud a leigeil às.

Fhuair Iain dheth. Fhuair e mathanas às an ùine a dh’fhuirich e air fal^abh on locha, o chionn bha car de dh’eagal aig a h-uile duine a dhol ann an cainnt ri Iain MacCodrum.

 

Thachair dha turas eile a bhith às an Eilean Sgitheanach. Cha robh fhios aca cò é às an taigh, às an deach e a-staigh, agus shuidh e gu dìblidh an dala taobh dhen taigh. Dh’iarr bean an taighe:

 

“O! bheiribh greim bidhidh dhan t-srainnsear.”

 

Agus fhuair e sin. Fhuair e drùdhag bhainne ann an soitheach air choreigin agus pìos arain.

 

Tha mi a’ tuigsinn nach robh am bainne ro-phailt as an t-soitheach agus gu dè thàinig an rathad an t-soithich as an robh am bainne ach cuileag agus laigh i ann. Thuir^st MacCodrum ris a’ chuileig mar seo:

 

“O chreutair leibidich,” ors’ esan, “carson nach eil thu gad bhàthadh fhèin ann an àite às am faoda’ tu grunnachadh?”

 

O! thuig  bean an taighe math gu lèor gun robh e a’ talach air na fhuair e a bhainne.

 

“Tuilleadh ann dhan duine! Tuilleadh ann dhan duine,” orsa bean an taighe.

 

“Tha gu leòr airson an arain de dh’annlann agam mar-thà,” ors’ esan; agus:

“Is dòcha,” ors’ ise, “gur sì-se MacCodrum.”

 

“Tha iad ag ràdha gur mi,” ors’ esan.

 

“Tha iad ag ràdha gun a chaochail Mac ’icAilein,” ors’ ise.

 

“Mar do chaochail,” ors’ esan, “rinn iad an eucoir thìodhlaic iad e.”

 

Agus sin agaibh beagan dhe na briathran geura a bh’ aig MacCodrum ga thoir^st seachad, nuair a bha e na bhàr^sd. Bha e sin cho ainimeil ri gin a bha an Gàidhealtachd na h-Al^aba riamh.

 

And the translation goes something like this:

 

Here you have a few words by way of the poets’ wit of yore. There are no such poets now as there were long ago and that’s telling for the poetry composed today is not poetry. There are a few stories about John MacCodrum. He was in the service of Lord MacDonald of Sleat when he owned North Uist and he would often take trips over to the Isle of Skye. It so happened that they received an invite to go to Dunvegan and as was often the case there was plenty of drink.

 

It was a complete affront for anyone to rise from the table until they were carried away by the attendants who stayed at the rear in order to lift them to their rooms and if they came to themselves they would then sit back until the cask that had been opened was drained. But, in any event, MacCodrum fell over on his back and with the amount he had drunk his stomach was upset. MacLeod’s bard turned around and he began laughing when he saw MacDonald’s bard on his back and he said:

 

Lord MacDonald’s bard on his back,

He who is throwing up in excess,

The one who gave him his problem,

Is now giving MacLeod’s dogs a feed.

 

MacCodrum opened his eyes and looked at MacLeod’s bard and answered him thus:

 

That’s an insult to MacLeod,

That should be hidden away,

The dogs wouldn’t get their food,

If the drinkers didn’t puke.

 

The other man was so cut to the quick with such a witty riposte that he was unable to say anything else.

 

Is so happened that on another trip he [MacCodrum] was in Mull and when they anchored at the harbour the Mull folk came out:

 

“From where did you row?” they asked.

 

“By use of the arms,” answered MacCodrum.

 

“What kind of folk are you?” asked a Mullman.

 

“We are,” he replied, “partly peasant and partly noble.”

 

On another occasion he was going over the North Ford between Benbecula and North Uist and it so happened that a whale had beached itself on the shore. Many folk went over to see it and this man met MacCodrum.

 

Well, he didn’t think much about going over to view the whale and he said:

 

“Were you borne from the whale, man?” he asked.

 

“Indeed, not,” he replied, “but from one far better than your own mother.”

 

He never found out to whom he had been talking and this troubled him. He was quite sharp-witted whoever he was. They were in the northern part of North Uist and they were draining this loch for a mill so that they could get enough water for the summer milling. All the local folk had gathered together to drain the loch apart from MacCodrum who was not present. Around midday, MacCodrum appeared and someone came over to where he was and offered him a dram:

 

“Here you are, John,” said the man handing him a dram, “a dram from made of Loch Hastainn’s water,” – the loch which they had been draining. MacCodrum tasted the dram and looked at the man and said the following:

 

May God bless Loch Hàstainn’s water

If it’s bouquet is good,

Then it’s taste is seven times better

And if it’s all like this

It’s a great pity to drain it.

 

John got off with it. He was forgiven for his absence from staying near the loch for everyone was afraid of John MacCodrum’s sharp tongue.

 

It so happened that he was again in the Isle of Skye. No one knew who he was in this house – the house which he entered, and he sat down rather dejectedly at the other side of the house.

 

The goodwife said:

 

“Oh, bring the stranger some food.”

 

He got that. He got a little milk in a bowl and a piece of bread.

 

I understand that there wasn’t much milk in the bowl and whatever came by way of the bowl but a fly and it became stuck. MacCodrum addressed the fly as follows:

 

“Oh, abject creature,” he said, “why are you trying to drown yourself in a place where you can only paddle?”

 

Oh, the goodwife knew full well that he was complaining about the amount of milk he got.

 

“Give more to the man! Give more to the man,” exclaimed the goodwife.

 

“I’ve got enough bread already for supping,” he explained; and:

 

“Maybe,” she said, “you’re MacCodrum.”

 

“They say that I am,” he replied.

 

“They say that Clanranald has died,” she said.

 

“If he hasn’t,” he said, “then they’ve made a grave mistake by burying him.”

 

And there you have the sharp witticisms of John MacCodrum, the poet. He was just as famous as any of the others in the Scottish Highlands.

 

References:

NFC MS 1053: 72–77

William Matheson (ed.), The Songs of John MacCodrum: Bard to Sir James MacDonald of Sleat (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1938)

 

Image:

Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye / Caisteal Dhùn Bheagain, An t-Eilean Sgitheanach