10. Marriage
MacMillan
relates the background of how he came to marry his wife. The local priest
persuaded him to marry his sweetheart before she had an opportunity to leave
the island. MacMillan says that he greatly appreciated the advice that the
priest gave him and that it had been a good decision to marry his sweetheart.
MacMillan explained that she was also a MacMillan, Peigi nighean Aonghais Mhòir. They moved into MacMillan’s parents’
house. MacMillan relates that his own mother was a MacDonald who was from
Benbecula and she died at seventy-five. MacMillan says that she was a good
singer and had scores of old songs. His father belonged to Barra folk and never
left Uist once he moved there. He died at the age of eighty-eight.
10. Pòsadh
A’
bhean a bh’ agam an-diugh ann a sheo agus ’s e boireannach anabarrach fhèin
gasda a bh’ ainnte na nighinn. Agus bha i glè òg air mo shon-sa. Cha robh i ach
ceithir bliadhna fichead nuair a phòs mise i. Agus bha daoine a’ smaointinn
nach pòsainn idir, a chionn nach robh annam ach duine aotrom nach robh a’ dol a
phòsadh gu sìorraidh. Ach ghabh mi nòisean dhen nighinn a bha seo ach agus i
glè, glè òg. Bhithinn a’ tarraing aiste an-dràsta is a-rithist ach mu dheireadh
is mu dheoghaidh rinn sinn na cumhnannan airson pòsaidh. Agus ’s ann o dhaoine
anabarrach fhèin math a bha i. Bha mi a’ smaointinn nach pòsainn i cho luath is
a bha mi a’ smaointinn. Ach bha mi oidhche an dèidh a bhith a’ coimhead oirre
air an rathad agus chuala mi fuaim bicycle
a’ tighinn as mo dheaghaidh. Bhiodh e suas dìreach mu mheadhan-oidhche. Sheall
mi is thug mi an aire dhan bhicycle
math gu leòr a’ tighinn as mo dheaghaidh. Agus rug an seo am bicycle orm agus cò bha sin ach an
sagart a bh’ againn as an àite.
“Seadh,
Aonghais,” ors’ esan, “cò às mar seo?”
“O!”
orsa mise, “bha mi air tighinn air cuairt.”
“O!
seadh,” ors’ esan, “bha mi a’ cluinntinn gum bheil thu a’ tighinn air cuairt.
Tha mi a’ cluinntinn,” ors’ esan, “gum bheil thu gu math tric air a’ chuairt
sin cuideachd.”
“A
bheil?” orsa mise.
“Tha.”
Well, bha mi fhìn is an
sagart gu math mòr aig a chèile, an sagart a bha seo agus: “Seadh,” ors’ esan,
“a bheil dùil agad,” ors’ esan, “feum a dhèanamh dhan nighinn?”
“Well,” orsa mi fhin, “athair,” orsa mi
fhìn, “tha làn dhùil ’m feum a dhèanamh dhith.”
“Well, tha làn chòir agad pòsadh as a’
mhionaid,” ors’ esan, “gun a bhith air an obair a tha sineach. Agus tha e a’
dèanamh marbhadh mòr ort,” ors’ esan, “gu nach eil thu a’ smaointinn sìon dheth
agus mar is luaithe a nì thu e,” ors’ esan, “’s e dha do phrothaid e.”
“O!”
ors’ mi fhìn, “tha mi a’ dol ga dhèanamh gun teagamh,” orsa mi fhìn, “ach chan
eil dùil ’m a dhèanamh an-dràsta idir.”
“Cùine
tha dùil agad a dhèanamh?”
“Well,” orsa mi fhin, “tha e fainear
dhomh,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha e fainear dhomh,” orsa mi fhìn, “bliadhna eile a leigeil
leis an nighinn.”
“Chan
eil i ach òg. Chan eil i,” orsa mi fhin, “ach ceithir bliadhna fichead. Nam
biodh i còig air fhichead,” orsa mi fhin, “bhiodh i an uair sin,” orsa mi fhin,
“aig gliocas math.”
“Well,” ors’ esan, “gabh mo chomhairle,”
ors’ esan, “agus pòs an nighean cho luath is a ghabhas dèanamh. Tha clann an
latha an-diugh,” ors’ esan, “nuair a gheibh iad suas,” ors’ esan, “a dha is a
trì is a ceithir is a còig air fhichead,” ors’ esan, “bi iad airson falbh às an
seo,” ors’ esan. “Ach ma smaointich ise air falbh,” ors’ esan, “pòs thusa i
agus chan fhalbh i idir.”
“An
e sin ri ràdha,” orsa mi fhin, “gum pòs sinn as a’ mhionaid?”
“Well,” ors’ esan, “pòs cho luath is a
ghabhas dèanamh,” ors’ esan. “Na leig gu còig bliadhna fichead idir i,” ors’
esan.
“Very well,” orsa mi fhìn, “tha mise
ceart-a-coma,” orsa mi fhìn, “ged a dhèanamaid suas ar n-inntinn,” orsa mi
fhìn, “air pòsadh, ar n-èigheach as an eaglais Didomhnaich-sa a’ tighinn,” orsa
mise. “Agus,” orsa mise “bi ise deònach gu leòr,” orsa mi fhìn, “agus a
cuideachd cuideachd.”
Seo
mar a bha. Bha an sagart còmhla rium-sa riamh gus an tàine sinn an taigh.”
“Well,” ors’ esan, “Aonghais,” ors’ esan,
“bi a h-uile sìon ceart,” ors’ esan.
“Bi,”
orsa mi fhìn. “Thèid mise far a bheil an nigean a-màireach, feasgar
a-màireach,” orsa mi fhìn. “Innsidh mi dhith” orsa mise, “gum bi sinn a’
rèiteach rithe, mi fhìn is i fhèin, Dihaoine a tha gar nionnsaigh.”
Seo
mar a bha. Chaidh mi a choimhead air an nighinn an làr-na-mhàireach, an tè a
th’ agam an-diugh, agus dh’innis mi dhith gum biodh rèiteach ann Dihaoine a bha
gar ionnsaigh. Dh’innis mi dhith facal air an fhacal mar a thuirt an sagart.
Agus thachair sin. Phòs mi fhìn is an nighean agus gu dearbha cha robh
aithreachas riamh orm. Cha tàinig facal riamh idir eadarainn on latha a phòs
sinn gon an latha an-diugh. Agus tha mi glè thoilichte as a’ chomhairle a thug
an sagart orm. ’S ann às an Uachdar a bha i agus ’s e an aon sloinneadh a bh’ oirre
agus a bh’ orm fhin, NicGilleMhaoil. ’S e Peigi nighean Aonghais Mhòir às an
Uachdar a chainte rithe.
Bha
mo mhàthair an uair sin, nuair a phòs mi a-staigh. Bha iad anabarrach fhèin
toilichte an tè a phòs mi. ’S e bana-Chrìosdaidh[1] a bha nam mhàthair, de
bhoireannach beannaichte. Agus ’s e Crìosdaidh a bha nam athair cuideachd de
dhuine math agus bha e anabarrach fhèin toilichte mar a thionndaidh mise suas.
Cha b’ e siud a’ chiad tè a bh’ agam idir ach ’s e sin an tè a bh’ air a cuir
a-mach dhomh. ’S e bana-Dòmhnallach a bha nam mhàthair an toiseach agus nuair a
phòs i m’ athair, tha fhios agaibh, ’s e NicGilleMhaoil a bh’ innte. Agus ’s
ann shuas mu dheas pìos mòr, ’s ann a phòs iad. Thàinig i a Bheinne na Faoghla
agus rinn i dachaigh dhi fhèin agus dhà fhèin ann am Beinne na Faoghla. Cha do
ghluais sinn riamh à Beinne na Faoghla fhathast is tha mi cinnteach nach gluais
a h-aon againn. Bha mo mhàthair trì fichead is a còig deug a’ bàsachadh. Bha i
cho fallain is a ghabhadh e a bhith fad na h-ùine riamh ach gun do ghabh i
bochdainn ann a shiudach. Agus a’ bhochdainn a bh’ oirre ’s e tuiteam a rinn i
agus leum an t-sròn aice agus chaill i mòran, mòran faladh ri linn an t-sròn
aice a leum. Cha mhòr nach do thràigh i air fuil. Ach bha i bliadhnaichean beò
as a dheaghaidh sin. Agus ’s ann innte a bha a’ bhana-òranaiche nach cuala sibh
riamh a leithid, de sheann-òrain a bh’ ann a linn, chan ’il ’ios againne gu dè
an linn a bha iad na m’ athair cuideachd. ’S ann a mhuinntir Bharraigh a bha m’
athair agus cha do ghluais e riamh à Uibhist aon uair is gun tàinig e a-nall
ann. Agus bha e ceithir fichead agus a h-ochd deug a’ bàsachadh. Cha robh air
m’ athair ach bàs nàdarra agus ’s e bàs nàdarra a fhuair mo mhàthair cuideachd.
10. Marriage
The
wife that I have today here is a very fine woman. And she was very young for
me. She was only twenty-four years of age when I married her. And folk thought that
I would not marry at all because I was only a giddy man that was never going to
get married. But I took a fancy to this lassie and she was very, very young. I
used to pull her leg now and again but latterly (and at last) we got engaged to
get married. And she belonged to a very fine family. I thought I wouldn’t marry
her quite as soon as I had first thought. But one night after I had been to see
her I was on the highway and I heard the noise of a bicycle coming after me. It
would’ve been nearly midnight. I looked and I noticed the bicycle well enough
coming after me. And the bicycle reached me and who did it happen to be but the
local priest.
“Aye,
Angus,” he said, “where did you come from like this?”
“Oh!”
I said, “I was going for a walk.”
“Oh!
aye,” he said, “I had heard that you were going for a walk. I hear that you
quite often go for a walk too.”
“I
do?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Well,
I and the priest were quite friendly, this priest that was there and:
“Aye,”
he said, “do you expect that you’ll have a need for the lassie?”
“Well,”
I said, “father, I fully expect that she’ll do.”
“Well,
you have every right to marry this very minute,” he said, “without working on
that. And it’s really killing you that that aren’t thinking anything of it and
the quicker you do then the better off you’ll be.”
“Oh!”
he said, “I’m going to do it without any doubt whatsoever but I don’t expect to
do it just now at all.”
“When
do you expect to do that?”
“Well,”
I said, “it’s my intention to let a year go by courting the lassie.”
“She’s
only young and she’s only twenty-four years of age. If she had been
twenty-five,” I said, “she would then have reached good wisdom.”
“Well,”
he said, “heed my advice and marry the lassie as quickly as you can. Children
today when they reach about twenty two, three, four or five wish to leave this
place and before she thinks of leaving you’ll marry her and she won’t leave at
all.”
“Is
that to say,” I asked, “that we should marry this very minute?”
“Well,”
he said, “marry as quickly as you can. Don’t let her reach twenty-five years of
age at all.”
“Very
well,” I said, “I don’t mind at all that you have made up our minds to marry
and the banns in the church were proclaimed for this coming Sunday,” I said,
“and she’ll be willing enough and her relations to boot.”
This
is how things turned out. The priest kept me company until we reached home.”
“Well,
Angus” he said, “everything will be right.”
“Yes,”
I said. “I’ll go to see the lassie tomorrow, tomorrow afternoon. I’ll tell her
that we’ll get engaged, myself and herself, this Friday coming.”
This
is how things turned out. I went to see the lassie the next day, the wife that
I have today, and I told her that we’d be engaged this coming Friday. I told
her word for word what priest has said. And that happened. I married the lassie
and indeed I’ve never regretted it. Not one word has ever came between us since
the day we married until this very day. And I am very pleased with the advice
the priest gave me.
She
was from Uachdar and she had the same surname as I have, MacMillan. She was
called Peggie daughter of Big Angus from Uachdar.
My
mother was then, when I married, still staying at home. They were very pleased
with the woman whom I married. My mother was a woman who was a devout and
upright. And my father was also an upright, good man and he was terribly
pleased by the way I turned out. She was not the first woman that I had at all
but she was the woman that was destined for me. My mother was a MacDonald at
first but when she married my father, you know, she became MacMillan then. And
it was down south a good bit where they were married. She came from Benbecula
and she made a home for herself and himself in Benbecula. We have not moved
away from Benbecula yet and I’m sure that not one of us ever will. My mother
was seventy-five when she died. She was as healthy as could be all that time
but she finally took ill. And the illness caused her to fall and she broke her
nose and she lost a lot, a lot of blood as she had a broken nose. She almost
lost all of her blood. But she was many years alive after that. And she was
such a singer that you have never heard to like of, old songs from previous
centuries and we don’t know where they were from, nor did my father know. My
father belonged to Barra folk and he never moved out of Uist once he came over.
And he was eighty-eight years of age when he died. My father died a natural
death and my mother also died a natural death as well.
Reference:
NFC
1180, pp. 301–548
Image:
Angus
MacMillan, Benbecula, 1930s.
[1]
The literal meaning is, of course, a Christian but it means an upstanding, moral
person of good character.
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