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