Duncan MacDonald’s Life Story–I [His Family and Relations]

A previous blog offered a summary of Duncan MacDonald’s life story. It may be divided into quite a few sections of varying lengths. Here is offered the first part (NFC 1180, pp. 112–29) where MacDonald related to Calum Maclean a little about his own family history and background. The opportunity has been taken to modernise the Gaelic orthography and also to offer a translation.

A-nist ’s ann anns a’ Cheann a Tuath a chaidh mo shin-sheanair a bhreith agus ’s e, a bheirte ris, Iain Mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Tharmaid. Agus dh’ionnsaich e an tàilleireachd. Bha bràithrean eile aige cuideachd ach a thaobh na ceàirde a dh’ionnsaich esan bhiodh e air falbh on taigh daonnan ag obair agus thàinig e mu dheireadh gu ruige an Ceann a Deas a thàilleireachd gu Fear a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch, gu ruige Geirinis, air neo na Gearraichean – ’s e bu bhicheanta a bheirte ris an aite an uair sin. Agus gu dè ach a theann e ri dèanamh suas ri nighean Fir a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch, nigean air an robh Catrìona mar ainm. Agus nuair a chuala a h-athair seo ghabh e fearg mhòr a thaobh carson, bha e ag ràdha a bha de dh’ aghaidh aig an tàillear na dh’ fheuchadh ri dèanamh suas ri an nighinn-sa. Agus ’s e an rud a bh’ ann chuir e gille air falbh air each marcrachd dhan Cheann à Tuath, far a robh am ministear a bh’ ann a dh’fhaighneachd dè na daoine bhon tàinig an tàillear agus fios a chuideachda air fad. Dh’fhalbh an gille agus ràinig e an Ceann a Tuath far an robh am ministear. Agus thug am ministear dhà cunntas air na daoine on tàinig an tàillear agus nuair a thill an gille leis a’ bhrath a bh’ ann an sineach gu Fear a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch agus a chunnaic e sgrìobhte ma choinneimh e eachdraidh sinnsireadh an tàilleir.

“A-nist,” os e fhèin ris an tàillear, “ged a bhiodh mo nighean-sa air tighinn dhachaigh ’ugam an ceartair à Dùn Èideann air a h-ionnsachadh,” os e fhèin, “mura bha còir aig a leithidean a bhith, gheobha’ tu bhuam air làimh i,” os esan, “airson fear sam bith eile a dh’ iarradh i a chionn,” os e fhèin, “’s ann a tha annad mo dhearbh charaid fhìn.”

Agus ’s ann mar seo a bha. Phòs an tàillear agus Nighean Fir a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch, mar a bheirte rithe Catrìona a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch. Agus thog iad teaghlach cuideachd.

Mo Sheanair

Agus thog iad teaghlach cuideachd. Bha tiùir ghillean ann, fear dhiubh a bha Donnchadh mar ainm air agus fear eile air a robh Tarmad agus fear air an robh Dòmhnall. Agus bha dithis nighean anns an teaghlach a bharrachd air an triùir ghillean. Agus chaidh Dòmhnall gu ruige Èirinn. Agus phòs Donnchadh – sin mo sheanair às a’ Ghearradh Fhliuch. Agus bha Tarmad pòsda cuideachd. Ach chan eil sgeul an-diugh na fada ron diugh air duine a thàinig bhuaithe.

Ach, co-dhiù, bha Donnchadh seo, mo sheanair fhìn agus a’ chiad phòsadh a rinn e – Agus chaidh Domhnall gu ruige Èirinn agus cha robhar a’ cluinntinn guth air. Agus chualas an sin gun a phòs e. Agus cò an tè a phòs e ach nighean do Seumas Flanagan, a bha na shaor geal. Agus nuair a rinneadh forfhais fhuaradh a-mach gur h-ann air an t-sràid chùil ann an Èireann a bha iad a’ fuireach. Agus na daoine a bh’ ann san àm bha iad riaraichte gu leòr sin a chluinntinn. Cha tug iad fainear idir gura h-iomadh stràid chùil a bh’ ann an Èirinn agus gum biodh e glè dhoirbh an duine a lorg ann leis na bha do dh’ fhiosrachadh an siud ma dheidhinn. Agus a-nist mo sheanair fhìn, Donnchadh, fear dhen triùir ghillean, phòs e glè òg agus bha dithis nighean aige on chiad mhnaoidh, agus an tè, a phòs e ’s e nighean le Maol Domhnaich ann am Beinne na Faoghla a bh’ ann. Agus bha dithis nighean aige on phòsadh a bh’ ann an sin agus dh’eug a’ bhean air. Agus ann an ceann ùine às a dheaghaidh sin phòs e an dàrna h-uair agus ’s e an tè a phòs e an-dràst’, nighean Dhòmhnaill Ruaidh Òig ’ic an t-Saoir, a bha a’ còmhnaidh san àm air an Druim Mhòr, àite ris an can iad a’ Bhuaill’ Bhuidhe, far a bheil an-dràsta far an Droma air a thogail le clachan nan tobhtaichean as an robh na daoine nuair a bha iad a’ fuireach ann. Agus cha robh e an uair sin nuair a phòs e an darna h-uair ach còig bliadhn’ deug air fhichead a dh’ aois, agus ’s e m’ athair fhìn a dh’innis sin dhomh-sa agus bha dithis nighean aige as an teaghlach a bh’ ann a shineach, dà Chatrìona a bh’ ann mar ainm orra agus bha triùir ghillean aige, dà Iain agus Dòmhnall agus b’e Dòmhnall, m’ athair fhìn. Agus a-nist ’s e a’ màl a bh’ air mo sheanair ann an Gàirinis – bha fear a’ Ghearraidh Fhliuch an uair sin marbh fada roimhe sin agus bha an Siosalach air tighinn agus air Gèirinis a ghabhail na thac agus bha an oighreachd air a creic ris a’ Ghòrdanach agus ’s e am màl a bh’ air mo sheanair agus air a h-uile fear eile a bha as na Gearraichean an uair sin, air fearann an t-Siosalaich, leith-obair. Tha sin a’ ciallachadh nuair a bheireadh tu trì latha ag obair do dh’ fhear a’ bhaile, bhiodh trì latha eile dhen t-seachdain agad dhut fhèin agus bha sin mar sin a cheann gu ceann na bliadhna. Agus ’s e Iain a bh’ air a’ mhac bu shine a bh’ aig Donnchadh agus thòisich e ri obair sa bhaile nuair a thàinig e gu ìre. Bhiodh e trì latha ag obair aig fear a’ bhaile agus trì latha eile a-staigh agus bhuail e seo bochdainne e gu math òg agus lean gun a dh’eug e leithe agus cha robh e ach bliadhna air fhichead nuair a dh’eug e. Agus bha mo sheanair an uair sin a’ freastail an fheadhainn a b’ òige ach bha Iain eile ag obair aig a’ mhuillear ann an Togha Mòr agus ’s ann a dh’fheumadh e Iain a bh’ ann a thoirt dhachaigh. Agus cha robh am muillear airson gu falbhadh Iain bhuaithe idir, ach ’s e an rud a dhèanadh e ri mo sheanair, bheireadh e dha leth-cruiteadh a bh’ aige ann an Snaoiseabhal agus an imprig a dhèanamh à Gèirinis aige ’uige sin. Agus ’s ann mar seo a bha. Dheònaich mo sheanair falbh à Gèirinis an uair sin agus a dhol suas gu deas gu ruige Snaoiseabhal. Ach cha robh robh am fearann ach beag agus bha e fada on chladach agus bha e doirbh do dhuine beò-shlaint’ a dhèanamh ann. Agus cha robh m’ athair fhìn an uair sin ach deich bliadhna a dh’ aois. Bhiodh sineach ann an 1844. Agus dh’fhalbh Iain a bh’ air a’ mhuillear agus a fhuaradh a leth-cruiteadh a bh’ ann a Snaoiseabhal air a shàilleamh, bha e a’ falbh aig gach duine ag obair. Agus bha m’ athair an sin air tighinn gu ìre agus ’s e a dh’fhan as a leth-cruiteadh còmhla ri mo sheanair. Agus bhiodh tè dhe na h-ingheannan air falbh ga cosnadh as gach àite agus phòs tè eile dhiubh. Phòs tè dhiubh agus an tè a phòs, cò phòs i ach fear ris an cainte Alasdair mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Dhòmhnaill ’ic Iain, fear dhe na Dòmhnallaich agus dlùth-charaide do dh’ Fhear Bhòrnais agus ’s e sin màthair Màiri sin a tha a’ toirt seachad nan òran agus nan naidheachdan air Snaoiseabhal agus bha i a-niste seachad air ceithir fichead bliadhna. Agus Iain seo a bhruidhinn mi air agus a fhuaradh a leth-cruiteadh air a shàilleamh nuair a thàinig e gu aois pòsaidh phòs e fhèin. Agus ’s ann à Loch Baghasdal a chuir e suas taigheadas agus bha mac leis beò fhathast agus teaghlach mòr ghillean aige ann an Dalbrog agus bha iad nan deagh sgoileirean a h-uile duine dhiubh. ’S e sin clann Dhòmhnaill ’ic Iain ’ic Dhonnchaidh ann an Dalbrog. Agus phòs e sin m’ athair nuair a thàinig e fhèin gu aois pòsaidh agus cò an tè a phòs e ach nighean Nìll ’ic Iain Bhàin, tè a Chlann Eachainn a mhuinntir Shnaoiseabhal. Agus rugadh an teaglach dhaibh uile gu lèir air Snaoiseabhal. Agus nuair a thàinig iad air aghaidh bha iad a’ gearain air an fhearann a bhith beag, agus bha fearann beag aig iomadach duine as an àm. Ach an seoach nuair a bha mi fhìn suas a sia bliadhna fichead dè ach a chaidh tac Pheighinn nan Aoireann a bhristreadh agus cruitean a dhèanamh air. Agus bha sinn deònach gu leòr tè dhe na cruitean fhaotainn. Agus dh’eug mo sheanair mu thuairme 1866. Cha robh mo sheanair na dhuine cho àrd agus gun canadh duine gun robh e cho foghainteach ri m’ athair idir. Ach bha e na dhuine iseal, garbh. Agus bha m’ athair fhìn ag innseadh dhomh gun cuireadh e a-mach na h-ochd foidean deag mònadh o treisgeir, gu sgoradh e an darna fear ann an earball an fhir eile far a’ phuill mhònadh. Agus is minig a chunna mi daoine a’ feuchainn air an sin agus cha rachadh iad an t-seacha(?) ris na h-ochd foidean deug. Bha gu leòr a naoidh na a deich. Agus bha e na chlachair cuideachd, ach ’s e clach thiorm a bha a’ dol san àm. Agus sin an dòigh san robh m’ athair fhìn na chlachair às a dheaghaidh. Agus bha mo sheanair fuathasach, fuathasach math air na sgeulachdan. Bha mòran sgeulachd aige agus bha sgeulachdan aige nach do dh’ionnsaich m’ athair idir cuideachd agus roinn mhòr de dh’ òrain nach do dh’ionnsaich e agus nam biodh e air an ionnsachadh, bhiodh iad againn ann an seo an-dràsta. Agus ’s ann aig mo shin-seanair a chuala mo sheanair a h-uile facal cruthaichte dheth na bh’ aige. Bha a-nist na h-òrain agus na sgeulachdan a’ leantail a-nuas a ghlùin gu glùin san teaghlach chon an latha an-diugh.

A-nist nuair a dh’eug mo sheanair bha m’ athair air fhàgail ann a shiud leis fhèin. Bha a bhràthair eile pòsda ann an Loch Baghasdal. Agus nuair a thàinig sinn air aghaidh – bha mi dìreach suas an sin bliadhna fichead san àm an deach Fearann Phèighinn nan Aoireann a-mach is a rinneadh cruitean air. Agus bha sinn ann de theaghlach còignear, mise agus fear air an robh Niall, ’s e bu ghiorra dhomh ann an aois agus fear eile air an robh Iain agus dh’eug e agus bha an ath fhear air an robh Dòmhnall Iain agus dh’ionnsaich am fear sin an t-saoirsneachd agus phòs e cuideachd an Uibhist agus nuair a bhrist a’ chiad chogadh a-mach thogadh air falbh e agus chaidh a mharbhadh aig Loos agus am fear a b’òige ’s e Iain a bh’ air cuideachd agus chaidh am fear sin e fhèin dhan chiad chogadh agus thug e galair às a thug am bàs dha ann an 1946. Agus a-nist nuair a chuir m’ athair airson na cruiteadh ann an Peighinn nan Aoireann bha mòran ainmeannan a-staigh air a son agus nuair a chuireadh croinn orra cha tàinig cruit air m’ athair idir agus am fear air an tàinig a’ chruit, a fhuair sinn a-rithist, dh’ eug e aig a’ cheart am an Glaschu le cancer a bh’ air a’ bheul aige. Agus fhuair an uair sin fear eile a mhuinntir Shnaoiseabhal aig an robh teaghlach, fear Donnchadh Seonston, fhuair e a’ chuirt a bh’ ann an sin. Agus chaidh e sìos agus theann e ri togail taighe agus thog e taigh beag, cnapach, ann a dhèanadh an gnothach dha fhèin is dhan teaghlach gus am faigheadh iad taigh ceart a thogail. Ach tha a h-uile coltas gun robh sealladh aige nach robh aig duine eile, gum faicheadh e taidhbhs’. Agus chunnaic e dà chistidh-laighe air muin a chèile ann an ceann na tobhtadh agus ghabh e an t-eagal gur h-e a theaghlach fhèin a bha a’ dol a bhàsachadh agus thuirt e nach tigeadh esan dhan àite idir airson a theaghlach a chall mar seo ann agus san spot uarach chàirich e a’ chruirt dhachaigh chon a’ bhàillaidh. Agus ghabh am bàillidh an rud cho dona an uair sin agus dh’fhalbh e agus sgrìobh e gu m’ athair on a bha teaghlach ghillean aige fhèin agus chomhairlich mise agus mo bhràithrean eile a dhol far an robh e agus còradh ris mun chuirt agus a gabhail agus seo a rud a chaidh a dhèanamh agus chaidh sinn an uair sin gu ruige Peighinn nan Aoireann. Agus chuir sinn ceann air an tobhtaidh a rinn am fear eile agus thog sinn taigh eile ann cuideachd an uair sin. Agus a thaobh a-nist agus gun robh Dòmhnall Iain mo bhràthair na shaor, bhiodh e ag obair air saoirsneachd san taigh a bh’ ann a shin agus tha beachd agam glè mhath air an dà chiste-laighe fhaicinn aon fheasgar sonraichte ann an ceann na tobhta a’ feitheamh ri falbh an làr-na-mhàireach agus sin agad an taidhbhse a chunnaic am fear a fhuair a’ chruit romhainn. Bha i air tighinn air a cois. Bha sinn a-nist ann am Peighinn nan Aoireann air a’ chruit agus theann sinn air togail an uair sin taigh ceart agus ann an 1910 bha an taigh ullamh againn agus sinn na bhroinn agus taighean a-muigh cuideachd deiseil againn agus bha sinn comhladh ann an sin.

Rugadh mise ann an 1882 ann a Snaoisbeabhal aig bruaich Abhainn Ghèadaraidh, faoda’ mi a ràdha. Agus nuair a bha mi a’ freasdal còig bliadhna na glè bheag a barrachd chaidh mo thoirt a sgoil gu ruige Staoinibrig. Agus bha an sin dà mhìle mòintich againn ri choiseachd eadar an dachaigh againn is an taigh-sgoile. Cha robh aon cheum de rathad for cois agus a bharrachd air cion an rathaid, bha Abhainn Ghèadaraidh agus cha bu bheag i a’ ruith, eadar sinne agus an taigh-sgoile agus iomadach uair bhiodh i làn tuil agus cha ghabhadh i tighinn tarsaing oirre gu h-àraid aig cloinn agus cha ghabhadh aig fireannaich mhòra iomadach uair leis an tuil agus nuair a bhitheamaid a’ tighinn dachaigh feasgar às an sgoil dh’fheumadh ar n-athair ar coinneachadh daonnan aig an abhainn agus nuair a bhiodh an tuil ro-mhòr bheireadh e oirnn cumail a-mach air an taobh air an robh sinn agus esan air an taobh eile mar coinneamh gus a ruigeamaid an rathad mòr mile eile on taigh. Sin far am faigheamaid tarsaing air an abhainn aig drochaid an rathaid mhòir agus m’ athair mar coinneamh fad an t-siùbhail air an taobh aige fhèin eagal agus gu feuchamaid tarsaing oirre na gu rachadh ar bàthadh. Agus a’ bhana-sgoilear a bha san sgoil nuair a chaidh mise innte ’s e tè Miss MacColl, NicColla, tè a mhuinntir Pheairt agus Gàidhlig gu leòr aice. Agus ’s ann ann an Gàidhlig daonnan a bhiodh i a’ bruidhinn ris a’ chloinn. Agus bhiodh i gar cur chon an teine cuideachd gar garadh. Agus ’s e bana-Phròsdanach a bh’ innte cuideachd agus cha robh latha nach toireadh i oirnn a bhith a’ gabhail ar n-ùrnaigh ann am Beurla a bha sinn a’ gabhail ar n-ùrnaigh daonnan “Our Father”. Agus seo nuair a bha mi suas an sineach air an treas leabhar dh’fhalbh NicColla. Bha i air fàs na boireannach sean, lapach co-dhiù agus mun d’fhuireas an sin an ath-bhana-sgoilear ’s e nighean a mhuinntir Bheinne na Faoghla a thàinig agus a bha gar n-ionnsachadh, nighean Dhòmhnaill Bhàin a’ Ghriosaiche a bheirte rithe. Tha mi a’ smaoineachadh gur h-e Nic a’ Phearsain a bheirte rithe. Agus bha i sin ann treis gus an d’fhuaradh tè eile. Agus ’s e bana-Èireannach a thàinig an uair sin, tè Miss Mulcahay. Agus cha robh facal aice sin ach Beurla agus sin a’ bhana-sgoilear a bha gam ionnsachadh-sa riamh tuilleadh fhad ’s a bha mi às an sgoil gus an robh mi ceithir bliadhna deug cha d’fhuair mise an còrr ionnsachaidh tuilleadh. Dh’fhàg mi an sgoil. Agus ’s e a bhana-sgoilear a bh’ ann a shin a thug orm tòiseachadh ri dol dhan Aifrinn agus ’s i thug fainear dhomh tòiseachadh air ionnsachadh nan ceist agus a neo-ar-thaing nach robh mi glè mhath air ionnsachadh nan ceist. Bha mi cho math agus gum bithinn a’ faighinn duaisean airson a h-uile sìon a bhith agam air mo theangaidh. Leughainn agus sgrìobhainn Beurla nuair a dh’fhàg mi an sgoil. Ach ’s ann bhon uair sin a dh’ionnsaich mi leughadh Gàidhlig agus roinn dhìth a sgrìobhadh cuideachd. Agus fhad ’s a bha mi a’ dol dhan sgoil cha robh peansail sgliat is cha robh peansail riùlaidh, cha robh pàipear air an dèante sgrìobhadh, cha robh leabhar a dh’ fheumte a leughadh, cha robh sgliat nach fheumte a cheannach. Agus mura biodh bonna-sia aig duine airson dà shlat peansail sgliat a cheannach dh’fheumadh e ugh circe a bhith aige. Agus cha robh biadh na deoch ri fhaighinn ann an taigh-sgoil an uair sin. Dh’fheumadh am pìos a bhith nad phòca agad a’ falbh agus cha b’ e an càs e ach a’ fàs mòna ann nad achlais a h-uile latha. Agus cha dèanadh am fàd beag an gnothach. Bha feadhainn ann uaireannan a bhiodh a’ dèanamh dà leth air an fhàd, ach cha dèanadh sin feum idir ach am fàd a bhith slàn gu ruige agus gu feumte iomadach latha sa mhadainn am fàd a chur ar a bheulaibh air an trustaidh aig a h-uile duine agus gum faiceadh a’ bhana-sgoilear gun robh am fàd aca. Agus cha robh bròg, cha robh stocainn ma chas duine a bha a’ dol innte fad na h-ùine a bha mise innte na mam chasan-sa na bu mhutha ach ron bhoglaich agus ron mhòintich agus nuair a thigeadh an reòdhadh a’ falbh cas-ruisgte air uachdar agus a h-uile clach a ruigte a’ toirt treis air dannsa air a h-uachdar gus an gabhadh na casan blàths agus ag amharc feuch dè cho goirid is a bha an ath-chlach dhuinn agus a’ ruith is a’ ruaig ga h-ionnsaigh gus treis eile a thoirt oirre. Agus nuair a ruigte an taigh-sgoile is a rachte na bhroinn, bhiodh na casan blàth gu leòr air an lobhtaidh an uair sin. ’S ann ann an èibhleadh a bha a’ chuid bu mhutha dhe na sgoileirean air an còmhdach an uair sin agus bha gu leòr dhiubh a bha seann-seacaid le n-athair orra agus bha i a’ dèanamh seacaid agus èibhleadh dhaibh agus gu leòr air an robh seacaid le am màthraichean. Agus glè bheag a bha san sgoil air an robh ceap na bròg. An fheadhainn a bha goirid dha na taighean an taobh shuas dhen taigh-sgoile rachadh iad dhachaigh gu dìnnear ach cha tàine sinne riamh dhachaigh gu Snaoiseabhal gar dinnear, a chionn bha na t-astar ro fhada agus dh’fheumamaid an gnothach a dhèanamh leis a’ phìos a bhiodh nar pòca agus mar bu trice pìos de dh’ aran eòrna agus nam biodh gu leòr dheth ann bhiodh a’ chùis math gu leòr dheth ann bhiodh a’ chùis math gu leòr agus nuair a rachamaid dhachaigh air an oidhche gheibheamaid biadh agus ghabhamaid an uair sin gu toilichte e. Ach tha mi a’ smaointinn gur h-e glè bheag a bha sinn a’ gabhail mu falbhamaid sa mhadainn. Cha bhiodh dad a chàileachd againn dhà. Agus a-nist aig àm a’ phlèidhe san sgoil nuair a bhiodh muinntir nam bàiltean mun cuairt a’ buain mhònadh, bitheamaide a’ buain mhònadh, fear agus pìos sgliat aige a’ gearradh mhònadh agus fear ga caitheamh a-mach bhuaithe. Agus ann an àm an treabhaidh bhìte a’ tionndadh an talamhaine le pìos de sgliat a’ dèanamh treabhadh air an aon rud. Agus bhiodh an sineach sinn ag iomain a-null toiseach a’ gheamhraidh le camain agus le buill agus bhìte a’ faighinn nan caman as an tom-eala ’s e a bheirte riutha conas agus cha bhiodh duine uair sam bith gun chaman agus bhìte a’ cladhach riamhaichean a’ chaoil duibh agus gheibhte uaireannan deagh chamain às na riamhaichean a bh’ ann a sin, ga chlachadh às le spaid. Agus bhìte, na gillean bu mhutha a bha san sgoil bhiodh iad a’ dol nan ceann-stiuc agus a’ roinn nan sgoileirean eile uiread is uiread air gach taobh agus bhìte ris an sin fada a’ phlèidhe agus uaireannan eile bhìte a’ dèanamh cluichd ris an cainte Milleadh nam Fiadh agus bhathar a’ roinn nan sgoileirean air gach taobh is dà cheann-stoc a cheart cho math. Agus bhìte uaireannan eile ri spèileadh le ball agus le draibhear agus bhiodh na daoine air an roinn air gach taobh a cheart cho math. Agus an sin as an àm as an robh an Land League ag obair, bha sgoileirean a’ tighinn à Ormaicleit, clann a’ mhanaidseir a bh’ ann agus clann eile le grèidhear a bh’ ann. Agus a thaobh agus gun robh tacksman ann an Ormaicleit, bha muinntir nam bailtean againne gu math diumbach dheth agus ’s e an rud a bhiodh ann bhathar a’ dèanamh blàr phloc agus bha muinntir Ormaicleit agus muinntir nam bailtean tuathach an aghaidh a chèile agus bha iad a’ gabhail dhà chèile ann a shin leis na pluic agus iomadach uair a chuirte muinntir Ormaicleit, ma rachadh am plèidhe a-staigh, an ìre a bhith aig na dachaighean leis na pluic. Agus bhìte an uair sin a’ tilleadh dhan sgoil agus O! bhiteadh a’ bhana-sgoileir fuathasach, fuathasach diumbach cho salach is a bhìte a’ tighinn, daoine air an gannrachadh le poll ga shradadh air a chèile, agus bhìte a’ dochann roinn dhiubh cuideachd ach ged a bhiteadh cha robh sin a’ dol a bhacail a’ blàireadh a-màireach a-rithist.

 Bhitheamaid iomadach uair a’ dol a thaighean a bha goirid dhan taigh-sgoile gar garadh fhèin fad a’ phlèidhe agus tha deagh bheachd agam air seana-bhoireannach a bha dlùth dhan taigh-sgoile ann a shiud agus O! a dhuine ’s ann aice a bha an seann-seanchas. Bhiodh i a’ bruidhinn air daonnan agus ga brith ciamar a dh’èirich do dh’ iomadach duine eile a bh’ ann bha mise ag èisdeachd math gu leòr ris agus tha cuimhne agam air roinn dheth chon an latha an-diugh cuideachd. Peinidh Mhòr a chainte ris a’ chaillich. Bha i pòsda aig Alasdair mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Aonghais Ruaidh. 

And the translation goes something like the following:

Now, my great-grandfather, Iain mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Tharmaid (John son of Donald, son of Norman), was born in North Uist. He learnt to be a tailor. He had other brothers as well. Regarding his trade he was always moving from house to house in order to find work and, eventually, he came to South Uist and found tailoring work from the tacksman of Gearraidh Fliuch, in Gerinish, or na Gearraichean as it was commonly called back then. He got very close to the tacksman of Gearraidh Fliuch’s daughter, called Catriona. Her father was greatly angered when he heard about this as he thought the tailor had such a nerve to try and court his daughter. It so happened that he sent a servant on horseback to North Uist where there was a minister there and to ask about from which folk the tailor came from and everything else about his kin. The servant set off and reached North Uist where the minister was. And the minister gave him an account of the folk from whom the tailor was descended and when the servant returned with the message to the tacksman of Gearraidh Fliuch and he saw it written down before him the history of the tailor’s ancestry.

“Now,” he said to the tailor, “though my daughter has come home to me soon enough from Edinburgh after being educated as it was the right thing to do, you would get her hand (in marriage) from me rather than any other man who would want her for you are my true friend indeed.”

And this is how it was. The tailor married the daughter of the tacksman of Gearraidh Fliuch, as she was called Catriona Gearraidh Fliuch. And they brought up a family as well.

My Grandfather

And they brought up a family as well. There were three lads, and one of them was called Duncan and another was called Norman, and there was another called Donald. There were two girls in the family in addition to the three boys. Donald went to Ireland. Duncan married – that’s my grandfather from Gearradh Fliuch. Norman was also married. There’s no sign nowadays or even before this about any of his offspring.

At any rate Duncan was here, my own grandfather and he had his first marriage – but Donald went to Ireland and no word was heard about him until he got married. And his wife was the daughter of James Flanagan, who was a carpenter. It was found out that he was staying in a back street in Ireland. Those who were alive at the time were happy to hear this. They had no idea that there were many such back streets in Ireland and it would be very difficult to find anyone with only a little knowledge over there about them. And now my own grandfather, Duncan, one of the three boys, married very young and had two daughters with his first wife, one of the daughters of Ludovick from Benbecula. And he had another two daughters from another marriage after his first wife died.

He remarried after this for the second time and the woman he married was a daughter of Young Donald Ruadh Macintyre who stayed at that time in Druim Mhòr, in a place called a’ Bhuaill’ Bhuidhe. He was only thirty-five years of age when he married for the second time, and my own father told me that he had two daughters from this marriage, so in all he had two daughters both called Catriona, and three boys, two Johns and one called Donald and Donald was my own father. And, now, the rent my own grandfather had to pay in Gerinish – the tacksman of Gearraidh Fliuch was long dead and by then the Chisholm had come and taken over the tack of Gerinish and the estate was sold to a Gordon and my grandfather’s rental, as was all the others in na Gearraichean then, was on Chisholm’s land, half-work. That means that you worked three days for the tacksman you then three days of the week to work for yourself and that’s how it was from one end of the year to the other. Duncan’s eldest son was called John and when he came of age he started to work in the township.  He’d work three days for the tacksman and then another three and he was struck down by illness when he was quite young and it persisted and he died of it when he was only twenty-one years of age. And my grandfather then looked after the youngest ones and the other John was working for the miller at Howmore and the other John had to be brought back home. And the miller didn’t want John to go at all, and so what he was prepared to do for my grandfather was that he’d give him half a croft in Snishival so that he’d move from Gerinish to him. And that was what happened. My grandfather was willing to move out of Gerinish then to go up to the south of Snishival. But there wasn’t much land and it was far away from the shore and it was difficult to make a living there. My father was only ten years of age then which would have been in 1844. And so John left the miller and got the half-croft in Snishival for that and he was going to everyone for work. And my father was then growing up and he stayed along with my grandfather on the half-croft. And one of the daughters would go to earn in any place and another one of them married. One of them married and who did she marry but a man called called Alasdair son of Donald son of Donald son of John [Alexander MacDonald – father of Donald MacDonald, a child prodigy], one of the MacDonalds who was closely related to the Tacksman of Bornish and that was Mary’s mother who gave the songs and stories about Snishival and she is now more than eighty years old. And this John, whom I was speaking of, got the half-croft because he came of marriageable age and so he got married. He built a house in Lochboisdale and he had a son who is still alive and he has a large family of boys in Daliburgh and they are all good scholars. The family in Daliburgh are called (clann Dhòmhnaill ’ic Iain ’ic Dhonnchaidh) the children of Donald son of John son of Duncan. And my father married, when he came of age, a daughter of Niall son of Fair-haired John, one of the MacEachens who belonged to Snishival. All their family was born in Snishival. And as they flourished, they complained that the amount of land they had was too little though many people had only a little land in those days. That was when I was about sixteen years of age and the tack of Peninerine was broken up and made into crofts. We were willing enough to get one of these crofts. My grandfather died around 1866. My grandfather was not a tall man and people said that he was not as powerful as my own father at all. He was, in fact, a small, stout man. My own father told me that he would throw out eighteen peats sods from a foot-plough, and that he would split the second one at the tail-end of another from the peat bank. And there’s many a time I’ve seen men trying to do that but they couldn’t manage up to eighteen peats. It was enough for them to manage nine or ten. He was a stonemason as well, and in those days they used dry stones. And likewise my own father followed him and became a stonemason. My grandfather was very, very good at telling stories. He had lots of stories and some of these my father never learnt at all as well as great many songs that he never learnt and if he had done so we would now have them. It was from my great-grandfather that my grandfather heard every single word that he had in his repertoire. The songs and stories in the family went from generation to generation to the present day.

When my grandfather died my father was left there alone. His other brother was married in Lochboisdale. And as time went on, when I was only twenty-one years of age, the Peninerine lands were made into crofts. And there was five of a family, myself and another called Neil who was nearest in age with me and another called John who died and there was another one called Donald John who learnt to be a joiner and who was married in Uist and when the First World War broke out he enlisted and was killed at Loos and the youngest one was called John too and he went to fight in the first world war and the disease which he caught then eventually killed him in 1946. And when my father went for a croft in Peninerine there were a lot of names put down for it and when a plough was put on it and so the croft did not come to my father at all and the one who got the croft, that we got already, died at the same time in Glasgow from cancer of the mouth. And then another man from Snishival who had a family, Duncan Johnston, got the croft. And he went down and he began to build a house and he built a small, sturdy one that would do for him and his family until they got a proper house built. And it appears that he could see things [second sight] that nobody else could see; he could see ghosts. And he saw two coffins lying on top of one another at the end of the ruin and he took such a fright that he thought his own family was going to die. He said that he was not going to take the place for he would lose his family and he immediately gave the croft back home to the bailiff. And the bailiff took the affair so badly that he went and wrote to my father as he had a family of boys and he advised me and my other brothers to go and broker some agreement about taking over the croft and this was done and we went over to Peninerine. And we finished off the ruin that the other man had begun and we also built another house then. And because my brother Donald John was a joiner he used to work at carpentry in the house and I firmly believe that the two coffins that had been seen on that particular evening at the end of the ruin were awaiting to be shifted the following day and that was the vision that the man had seen before we had got the croft. It had come in connection with this event. We were now in Peninerine on the croft and we started then to build a proper house and by 1910 the house was finished and we were living in it and the house outwith was also finished and so we were all together.

I was born in 1882 in Snishival at the bank of the Geadarry river, I may say. And when I was around five years of age or a little older I was taken to school at Stoneybridge. And we had two miles over the moor to walk between our house and the schoolhouse. There was not one step of way that had a road and in addition to the lack of a road there was the Geadarry river and it was not a small running river, between us and the schoolhouse there were many times it was in full spate and it could not be crossed over especially by a child and many time a big men couldn’t cross over with such a spate and when we came home from school in the afternoon our father would have to always meet us at the river and when the spate was too big he would make us keep going out on the side on which were and he would be on the other side opposite us until we’d reach the highway another mile from the house. That is where we would get across the river at the bridge on the highway and my father was opposite all the way on his own side for fear that we would try and go across or that we would drown. And the schoolmistress in the school when I went there was a Miss MacColl and she belonged to Perthshire folk and she had plenty of Gaelic. And she used to always speak Gaelic to the children. And she used to put us by the fire as well to warm us. And although she was a Protestant there was not a day that went by when she did make us say our prayers and we always used to recite the “Our Father” in English. And it was when I was up to my third book that MacColl left. She had grown into an old, weak woman in any case and before the next schoolmistress was a lassie from who belonged to Benbecula folk who came and taught us, she was called nighean Dhòmhnaill Bhàin a’ Ghriosaiche (daughter of Fair-haired Donald the Cobbler). I think she was called MacPherson. And she was there for a while before another woman replaced her. And she was an Irish woman who arrived then, Miss Mulcahay. And she only spoke English and she was the schoolmistress who taught me thereafter while I was still attending school until I was fourteen years of age when I didn’t receive any more education. I then left school. And it was that schoolmistress who made me start to attend Mass and she made start to learn the Catechism and thankfully I was very good at learning the Catechism. I was so good that I’d get prizes for everything that I had learnt by heart. I could read and write English by the time I left school. And it was after that that I learnt to read Gaelic and a bit of writing as well. And while I was going to school there was no slate pencil, no ruler pencil, no writing paper, there was no book that had to be read, and there was no slate that had to be bought. And if no one had six pence to buy slate pencils then they would have to have a hen’s egg. There was neither food nor drink at the school back then. You’d have to a have a piece in your pocket and it was no hardship that you had to have a piece of peat in your oxter every day. And a little bit of piece would not do. There were a few who sometimes would divide a peat in two but that would be no use at all as it has to be full and every day in the morning the peat were gathered together at the front that everyone had to take so that the schoolmistress could see their peat. And no one had shoes or stockings who went to school all the time that I was there and neither did I have any either but through bogs and manure and when the frost would come leaving bare-footed on top of it and every stone that was reached dancing a while on top until the feet were warmed and looking to see how near the next stone was near us and running and getting on it and staying a while on it. And when the schoolhouse was reached and entered inside, the feet would be warm enough on the floor then. Most of the scholars wore the kilt then and enough of them wore their old fathers’ coats and they made a jacket and kilts from them and many of them had their mothers’ jackets. And there were very few in the school had either a cap or shoes. Those who where near the houses on the upper side of the schoolhouse would go home for dinner but we never went home for our dinner to Snishival because it was too distant and so we had to make do with a piece that would have in our pockets and usually this was oatcake and if there was enough it would do well enough and when we’d go home at night we’d get good food and we’d eat it happily then. But I think it was very little we were taking before we’d leave in the morning. We wouldn’t have had the appetite. And now at playtime in the school when township folk would be around cutting the peat, we’d cut peat, a man who had a piece of slate and he’d cut peat while the other threw it from him. And at ploughing time when the earth was turned with a piece of slate which would plough in just the same way. And then there we’d be playing shinty at the start of the winter with a shinty stick and a ball and the shinty sticks were got from the tom-eala(?) and it was called conas [perhaps referring to struggle or conflict, i.e. play] and no one would be without a shinty stick and the thing black roots were dug up and sometimes good shinty sticks were made out of these roots, digging it out with a spade. And the biggest lads in the school they would go in a headstock and the scholars were divided equally on each side and we would be playing that for long enough and sometimes we used to play a game called Milleadh nam Fiadh (‘Destroying the Deer’) and the scholars were divided on each side of the two headstocks likewise. And some other times there was sliding with a ball and drive and people were divided on each side likewise. And at the time the Land League were working, the scholars coming from Ormiclete, the manager’s children and the grieve’s children. And because the tacksman was in Ormiclete, the folk of our townships were annoyed about it and the thing that used to be done was a peat fight – and the Ormiclete folk and the folk of the northern townships were rivals – and they used to fight one another with peats and many times Ormiclete folk were put back, if the play went in, nearly to their own homes with the peats. And we would then return to school and Oh! the schoolmistress would be terribly, terribly annoyed with how dirty we were coming in, folk who had been wallowing in mud and throwing peat on one another, and some of them would have been punished as well, and although they were, that didn’t put a stop to a fight on the morrow again.

We would often times go to the houses near the schoolhouse to warm ourselves during playtime and have a good opinion of an old woman that lived close to the schoolhouse there and Oh! man she had may old traditions. She always used to talk and whatever happened to many of the other people I was listening attentively enough and I remember some of it to this very day as well. The old woman was called Big Penny. She was married to Alasdair mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Aonghais Ruaidh (‘Alexander son of Donald, son of Red-haired Angus’).

Reference:

NFC 1180, pp. 111–256

Image: 
Duncan MacDonald, 1951, Peninerine, South Uist, taken by Dr Werner Kissling. By courtesy of the School of Scottish Studies Archives, University of Edinburgh

An Ossianic Tale

One of the greatest storytellers that Calum Maclean ever encountered was Angus Barrach MacMillan who belonged to Griminish in Benbecula. With a phenomenal memory, MacMillan could recite one of the longest tales ever recorded in Western Europe. Such was his powerful memory he could with relative ease recite a tale after only one or two hearings. Here, for example, is a fairly well-known Ossianic tale, that Maclean recorded from MacMillan and later transcribed word for word on the 16th of June 1950.

The tale is usually referred to as Mu Shealg Dheireannach Oisein (‘Concerning Ossian’s Last Hunt’), or as Oisean an dèidh na Fèinne (‘Ossian After the Fingalians), giving rise to the proverbial meaning of the last survivor of the Fianna, and centres on Ossian’s hunting exploits. Briefly, the story relates that Ossian is invited to his son-in-law’s feast and seeing a deer-shank, Patrick asked whether he had ever seen one as large. Ossian, by now blind and infirm, fingered the shank and said he had once seen a blackbird’s shank far bigger. On hearing this, Ossian’s daughter, throws the book full of Fingalian lore, that Patrick had collected, into the fire. Ossian, in order to show that he was actually telling the truth, invited Patrick to follow him so that he could relate the events. After a few encounters, they rested on a hill for the night, and the next day Ossian raised the hunting hallo after the appearance of a Fenian hound, Biorach mac Buidheig, who pulled down seven full-grown stags. This hound was not sated by the hunt, and so went mad, and thus could not be restrained and was eventually killed by Ossian. Ossian then proceeded to eat his way through the caught venison, but his son-in-law drew away a shank, seeing that Ossian was unlikely to leave any remnant. Even after such a feast, Ossian’s hunger was not fully satisfied, and he resented his son-in-law who took away the shank (as the full amount would have restored Ossian to his former self). They set out to return home, whereupon his son-in-law, apparently on his mother’s advice, intended to kill Ossian by pushing him over a cliff. Ossian landed on a rock, found his lost fairy ring which restored his sight, after which he returned home triumphantly with the ‘lost’ shank which proved the truth of his tale. Though this summary does not do any justice to the tale, it reflects the importance of the hunt in narrative storytelling. Despite its mythological tone, it relates Ossian’s ‘Last Hunt’ in order for a feast of venison to restore Ossian to his former strength and powers. It is evident that this story was also known in Argyll. St Patrick castigated Ossian for exaggeration¾as the saint used to put Ossian’s descriptions of the Fianna into writing¾when he heard about the bone of a huge deer, in the marrow-hole of which the bone of an ordinary deer could turn, and thus he thought the old warrior’s stories were mere invention ‘and in his indignation he threw the writings into the fire.’ This tale may then represent the creative tension between the Christian belief of truth-telling, in contrast to the alleged Pagan practice of propounding lies using the hunt as a means of conveying this very message. And yet, if this is indeed the case, Ossian, and not St Patrick, triumphed in the end, at least, in this instance.

What is perhaps most striking about the follow narrative is how faithfully the story has survived the vagaries of oral transmission (although there are some variations as would be expected) and it gives much credit to the narrator who knew many more such stories and was ever willing and ready to be recorded because he knew well their intrinsic value:

Oisean

Ach mu dheidhinn Oisean a bha seoach, b’ e seo Rìgh na Fìnneadh. Agus bha nighean aig Oisean agus phòs mac Rìgh Lochlann i. Well, b’ e Oisean an duine bu làidire a bh’ air an t-saoghal uile gu lèir. Cha robh duine ann cho làidir ris. Cha robh sìon a dh’fhios aig neach sam bith dè an neart a bh’ ann na cà robh an neart ann. Ach fhuair an nighean mun cuairt air co-dhiù gus an d’fhuair i a-mach cà robh an neart ann. Well, bha fhios aig an nighinn air agus theann Rìgh Lochlann air fhaighneachd dhan nighinn
an robh fhios aice cà robh an neart na h-athair, ann an Oisean, Rìgh na
Fìnneadh. Bha e airson cuir as dhan Fhinn agus fhad ’s a bhiodh Oisean beò, cha robh rathad air an Fhinn a chuir às.

“Tha fhìos agam-sa,” ors’ ise, “cà bheil,” ors’ ise, neart m’ athar,” ors’ ise, “ach
chan eil math dhomh innseadh gu bràth,” ors’ ise, “air neo ’s e sin a’ mhionaid
mu dheireadh dhe m’ shaoghal,” ors’ ise, “ma gheibh m’ athair a-mach e.”

“Bheir mi bòidean dhut,” ors’ esan, “nach fhaigh neach sam bith a-mach e,” ors’ esan, “bho m’ bhriathran-sa. Agus innis dhomh e.”

“Well, air na bòidean sin,” ors’ ise, “innsidh mi dhut càil neart m’ athar,” ors’ ise. “Tha neart m’ athar,” ors’ ise, “as a’ ghruaig aige mu chlipear m’ athair mar a
chlipear sìby-se ann a sheo, cha bhi e nas làidire na duine cumanta. Ach fhad
’s a bhios a’ ghruag air,” ors’ ise, “cho fad ’s a tha i,” ors’ ise. “chan eil air
an t-saoghal,” ors’ ise, “na nì an gnothach air.”

“Glè mhath,” ors’ esan, ”chan fhaigh duine eile a-mach sin,” ors’ esan, ”ach mise.”

Ach, co-dhiù, fhuaireadh Oisean dhan phailios aig Rìgh Lochlann agus bhathar gu
math coibhneil ris agus tha e coltach leam nach robh rathad air leagail le
deoch, gun òladh e a’ Chriosdachd. Theannadh air le deoch co-dhiù fad na h-oidhcheadh. Chuir an sineach, nuair a bha Rìgh Lochlainn a’ fàs stupid e
fhèin le deoch is e a’ cumail cuach air a’ chuaich ri Oisean, bha Oisean
cho fresh is a bha e riamh, chur e mu dheidhinn gu rachadh iad a laighe
agus gun caidleadh iad, chuir e na borbairean air ghleas nuair a gheibhte
Oisean na chadal sound, a’ ghruag a ghearradh dheth cho lom agus a dhèanadh
siosar e. Bha na borbairean air am bonn fad na h-oidhche gus an d’fhuaireadh
Oisean gu trom na chadal sound. Ghearradh dheth a’ ghruag agus leigeadh craiceann
a chinn ris agus cha robh sgeul air sa mhadainn. Nuair a dh’èirich Oisean
is a dhùisg e dh’fheuch e làmh air a cheann. Cha robh aige ach craiceann lom.

“Ah! well,” ors’ esan, “is bochd mar a dh’èirich dhomh,” ors’ esan. “’S e gnothach mo
nighinn a tha seo,” ors’ esan.

Cha robh fhios aig neach eile air ach i fhèin. Chan eil comas air. Thionndaidh an uair sin Rìgh Lochlann air an nighinn agus sgiùrsadh iad agus chuireadh dhan a h-uile h-àite bu mhiosa na chèile iad. Agus cha b’ fheàrr Oisean na fear eile aca.

“Well,” orsa Rìgh Lochlann, ors’ esan, “tha thu fo chommaunda a-nist,” ors’ esan.

“Tha deagh-sheansa gum bheil,” ors’ esan, “ach nam b’ e an-diugh an-dè,” ors’ esan,” cha bhithinn idir ann,” ors’ esan. “Ach tha mi a-niste ann. Rud sam bith a thogras
tu a dhèanamh,” ors’ esan, “faoda’ tu sin a dhèanamh,” ors’ esan. “Chan fhèarr mi,” ors’
esan, “na fear eile.”

“O! bidh thu air do dheagh-chumail agam-sa,” ors’ esan, “na dheaghaidh sin fhad ’s a
bhios tu beò,” ors’ esan.

Ach, co-dhiù, bha iad a’ cumail air an seo·ach a’ bruidhinn agus:

“Seadh, a-nist,” ors’ esan, “’s fhèarr dhut innseadh dhomh,” ors’ esan, “gu dè an t-euchd a rinn na Fianntaichean,” ors’ esan, “o bha thu nad Rìgh orra?”

“Mu dheidhinn an euchd a rinn na Fianntaichean,” ors’ esan, “tha e glè dhoirbh a
chreidsinn. Ach chan eil e doirbh idir a chreidsinn,” ors’ esanl, “ma thèid thu a-staigh
as an t-seanchas. Innsidh mise dhu’-sa,” ors’ esan, “mar a dh’èirich dha na Fianntaichean o chiad latha a theann iad,” ors’ esan, “gon an latha an-diugh.”

Theann e air innseadh mu na Fianntaichean agus an euchd a bha iad a’
dèanamh agus bha e a’ sìor-thoir’ dhà naidheachd a h-uile latha mun deidhinn, Oisean dhan Rìgh. Ach latha dhe na lathaichean agus thàinig Rìgh Lochlann a-staigh dhan rùm as an robh Oisean agus lurga mhòr daimh aige.

“Am faca tu,” ors’ esan, “cràimh riamh,” ors’ esan, “as an Fhinn,” ors’ esan. “bu mhutha,”
ors’ esan, “na an cràimh a tha sin.”

Bha Oisean dall ach cha robh e bodhar idir.

“Cia dhomh nam làimh e,” ors’ esan.

Dh’fheuch e e:’

“O!” ors’ esan, “chan eil nothing an seo,” ors’ esan. “Chunna mise lurga lon-dubh,” ors’ esan, “a rachadh an cnàimh sin a-staigh gun suathadh as a’ smior-chailleach aige,
a smior a bha sa chnàimh, rachadh e a-staigh,” ors’ esan, “gun suathadh ann.”

“Ha, ha,” ors’ esan, “chan eil mi a’ creidsinn,” ors’ esan, “as an fhìrinn idir,” ors’ esan. “Chan eil agad ach na tula-bhreugan as à h-uile sìon a dh’ innis thu dhomh riamh,” ors’ esan, “agus cha chreid mi idir, idir ann a shin,” ors’ esan, “gu fac’ thu lurga loin-duibh,” ors’ esan, “a rachadh an cnàimh mòr garbh a tha sin,” ors’ esan, “a-staigh,” ors’ esan, “dhan smior chailleach aige.”

Na rinn e suas dhe na leabhraichean a thaobh na Fìnneadh, ghabh e sìos agus
shrad e dhan teine iad as a’ chidsin as an robh e. Bha searbhanta as an taigh agus chunnaic i ’n tòrr phàipeirean a shrad an Rìgh dhan teine agus rug i air agus tharraing i a-mach e. Agus chaidh mòran, mòran a ghnothach na Finneadh na theine agus leugh ise pàirt dheth. Agus leis an tàmailt a chuir an Rìgh air Oisean agus gun robh e a’ smaointinn gun robh e breugach:

“An-dà, nam biodh mo fhradharc agam-sa,” ors’ esan, “dhèanainn fìrinn dhe m’ sheanchas,” ors’ esan. “Ach chan eil rathad agam air sin a dhèanamh dheth,” ors’ esan, “agus gun fradharc agam.”

Agus an latha sin chaidh e suas dhan bhedroom agus shìn e e fhèin as an leabaidh. Agus bha e ag ùrnaigh ri Chruthadair, ma falbhadh e far an t-saoghail gum faigheadh e iarratas agus gum b’ e sin an t-iarrtas a bha e ag iarraidh, gun dèanadh e fìrinn dhen t-seanchas a thuirt e ris an Rìgh. B’ e sin a thoir’ far an robh an lon-dubh a’ fantail fon chreig. Agus dh’iarr e air Dia am fear bu mhiosa bha san Fhinn a chuir ’uige aig meadhan-oidhche a-nochd agus an cù bu mhiosa agus gun toireadh iad sin far an iarradh esan an toirt. Chaidh iad a chadal an oidhche sin uile gu lèir agus chaidh iad far an robh Oisean airson a shuipearach a ghabhail.

“Cha ghabh mi idir i,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi air a leithid a thàmailt a ghabhail,” ors’ esan, “gun robh mi breugach aig an Rìgh agus gun aon fhacal breugadh agam ga ràdha ris. Chan eil mi a’ dol a ghabhail greim bidhidh an seo,” ors’ esan, “gus an dèan mi fìrinn dhe m’ sheanchas.”

Dh’fhalbh iad sìos agus chaidh iad a chadal uile gu lèir agus bha esan ag ùrnaigh ri Chruthadair am fear bu mhiosa a bha san Fhinn a thoir’ ’uige, gum b’ e sin Caoilte agus an cù bu mhiosa a bh’ aca gun dèanadh e fìrinn dha sheanchas a-màireach. An sin aig meadhan-oidhche dh’fhosgladh an rùm:

“Tha sinne air tighinn,” ors’ an cù.

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan. “Tha mi glè thoilichte,” ors’ Oisean. “Bidh mise a’ falbh còmh’
riubh. Cuiribh umaibh,” ors’ esan, ”agus,” ors’ esan, “bidh sinn a’ falbh.”

Chuir am fear sin uime agus dh’fhalbh iad

“Thèid sibh a-nist,” ors’ esan, “is cuma’ sibh,” ors’ esan, “gon a leithid seo a ghleann
agus bheir sibh gu a leithid seo a tholman mi.”

“Bheir.”

Dh’fhalbhadh leis. Rànaigeadh dìreach an gròban a thuirt e.

“Tha sinn aig an tolman,” ors’ am fear a thàinig còmhla ris:

“Glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “ma-thà,” ors’ esan. “Thalla sìbh-se a-nist,” ors’ esan, “agus cuiribh a-nuas na fèidh,” ors’ esan, “agus cuirbh sibh air an truck iad,” ors’ esan. “Cuiribh sibh naoidh naoidheannan,” ors’ esan, “taobh ri taobh,” ors’ esan, ”agus feucha’ mise an t-sleagh orra.”

Seo mar a bha.

Theann iad air. Dh’fhalbh an cù agus am fear bu mhiosa a bha san Fhinn agus chuir iad na naoidh naoidheannan air aghaidh ach ’s e h-ochd a bha sa rank mu dheireadh air am beulaibh:

“A bheil iad uileag ann?” ors’ esan.

”Tha,” orsa fear na Fìnneadh.

Chaith e an t-sleagh agus mharbh e na h-ochd.

“Mharbh sibh a h-ochd,” ors’ esan.

“Cà bheil an naoidheamh fear?” ors’ esan.

“O! cha robh e ann,” ors’ esan.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “bruichibh na h-ochd,” ors’ esan, “agus bheiribh dhomh-sa iad agus,” ors’ esan, “leigidh mise fhaicinn,” ors’ esan, “do Rìgh Lochlann a-màireach,” ors’ esan, “gun robh an fhìrinn agam.”

“Bheiribh ugam-s’,” ors’ esan. “Cuiribh mi,” ors’ esan, “gon an tolman glas a chì sibh ann a shin," ors’ esan.

Chuireadh a dh’ionnsaigh an tolmain a bha seo e:

“A bheil mi aige?” ors’ esan.

“Tha, ors’ am fear-frithealaidh.

Rug e air an tolmadan a bha sin agus thug e spìonadh air agus cha tàinig e idir. Rug e an sin a-rithist air agus cha mhòr nach tàinig e. Rug e air a-rithist agus spìon e as an
riamhaich e agus bha coire mòr, mòr ann a shin fon talamh deiseil airson rud a chur ann.

“Dè,” ors’ esan, “a tha gu h-ìseal as an toll?”

“Tha coire mòr,” ors’ esan.

“Glè mhath,” ors’ esan, ”ma-thà. Feannaibh na fèidh,” ors’ esan, “agus bheiribh dhomh-sa nam dhòrn iad,” ors’ esan, “agus cha bhi mi fada ga feannadh. Càiriibh dhan choire iad,” ors’ esan, “agus bheir sibh dhomh-sa uile gu lèir iad.”

Chàireadh dhan choire iad agus chuireadh teine mòr riutha agus a h-uile fear mar a bha bruich, bha Oisean ga ithe. Bha ochd dealgan as a’ mhionach aig Oisean. Nam faigheadh e a leòr, b’ e sin fiadh air a h-uile dealg, gheibheadh e a neart mar a bha e riamh. Cha robh air an t-saoghal uile gu lèir a dhèanadh an gnothach air. Chuireadh e leis fhèin fodha an saoghal gu lèir. Theann e air na fèidh agus dh’ith e seachd agus bha dealg eile às aonais:

“Càite,” ors’ esan, “a bheil am fiadh eile?” ors’ esan.

“O! dh’ith mi fhìn is an cù e,” orsa fear na Fìnneadh.

“O! dh’ith thu fhèin is an cù e,” ors’ esan.

“Ach nam biodh fhios agad,” ors’ esan, “gu dè bhiodh gu math dhut,” ors’ esan, “cha robh thu air beantail dha,” ors’ esan. “Cha robh còir agam-sa air innseadh dhut. Tha mise,” ors’ esan, “cho dona is a bha mi riamh. Ach chan eil comas air,” ors’ esan. “Cuiribh mise gon an tolpadan,” ors’ esan, “a thog mi far a’ choire chòir,” ors’ esan, “a rinn biadh dhuinn iomadh latha,” ors’ esan, “nach dèan dhuinn e gu bràth tuilleadh. Agus falbhaidh sibh leam,” ors’ esan, “gu dh’ ionnsaigh a leithid seo a chreigeadh,”  ors’ esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “bheir sibh gon na creigeadh a tha sin mi aig a leithid seo a dh’àite.”

Dh’fhalbhadh le Oisean agus ràinigeadh a’ chreag mhòr a bha seo agus:

“Tha sinn air a ruighinn,” ors’ esan.

“Cò an taobh,” ors’ esan, “a tha thu air mo chur?”

Dh’innis e:

“O! tha thu air an taobh cheart,” ors’ esan.

Chuir e a làmh a-staigh fon chreig a bh’ ann a shin agus thug e lon-dubh a-mach às an sineach agus b’ e sin an lon-dubh a bha sgràthail. Dh’fhalbh e agus rug e air dhà chois
air agus spìon e às a chèile e:

“Thalla,” ors’ esan. “Nì seo fhèin an gnothach,” or’s esan. “Ithe sibh-se an còrr,” ors’ esan.
“Tha an Fhinn ullamh,” ors’ esan, “co-dhiù,” ors’ esan.

Dh’ith an cù agus an gille an còrr dhan lon-dubh agus:

“Falbhaidh sibh a-nist leam-sa,” ors’ esan, “agus cuiridh sibh mi,” ors’ esan, “gu crìochan,” ors’ esan, “Rìgh Lochlann,” ors’ esan, “agus bidh sinn suas,” ors’ esan, “eadar a naoidh is a deich a dh’uaireannan sa mhadainn.”

Dh’fhalbh iad leis agus bha an lurga aige na dhòrn.

“Tha sibh a-nist,” ors’ am fear-frithealaidh, “tha sibh,” ors’ esan, “air crìochan Rìgh
Lochlann.”

“Dè fhad ’s a tha mi a-staigh orra?”

“Tha sibh mu fhichead slat,” ors’ esan, “a-staigh orra.”

“O! glè mhath,” ors’ esan, “nì sin an gnothach,” ors’ esan.

“Thigibh a-nist a-null far a bheil mi,” ors’ esan, “agus gum pàigh mi sibh, thu fhèin,”

ors’ esan, “agus an cù agus beiribih air làimh orm.”

Thàinig iad a-nall le coibhneas far an robh e agus rug e air a’ chù air cùl na h-amhaich agus rug e air a’ ghille air cùl na h-amhaich.

“Well,” ors’ esan, “chan eil teagamh,” ors’ esan, “gum bidh mòran saoghail agam-sa an seo,” ors’ esan, “ach bidh sibh-se a’ falbh romham,” ors’ esan.

Rug e orra agus bhuail e na cinn aca ri chèile agus mharbh e as an t-seasamh bonn iad. Ach, co-dhiù, bha e a-nist ann a shin air na crìochan. Nuair a dh’èirich iad sa mhadainn, cha robh sgeul air Oisean. Agus thuig an nighean math gu leòr nach fhaighte a bheò na a mharbh ri mhaireann. Bha i anabarrach fhèin brònach, duilich agus bha an Rìgh e fhèin duilich.

“Well,” ors’ ise, “leis an tàmailt a ghabh e dhuibh-se,” ors’ ise, “’s e dh’fhàg seo mar
seo.”

“A! well,” ors’ an Rìgh, ors’ esan, “am facal a thuirt e rium-sa bha e glè dhoirbh a
chreidsinn,” ors’ esan, “agus cha chreid mi fhathast e,” ors’ esan, “gu rachadh an
cràimh sin a-staigh ro smior an lon-dubh dhe na bha san Fhinn.”

“O!” ors’ ise, “mura biodh e cinnteach ann,” ors ise, “cha chanadh e e.”

“Well,” ors’ esan, “chan eil fhios ’m,” ors’ esan.

“Ach feumaidh sinn,” ors’ ise, “coimhead a-mach air a shon,” ors’ ise, “brith cà faigh sinn a bheò na a mharbh.”

Chuir iad mu dheidhinn gu rachte a dh’ iarraidh Oisean brith cà faigheadh
iad e co-dhiù a gheibhte a bheò na a mharbh. Ach bha an nighean fhèin a-muigh as an àm agus chuala i eugh agus b’ e sin an eugh:

“Well,” ors’ ise, “ma tha e air an t-saoghal uile gu lèir,” ors’ ise, “’s eugh m’ athar
a tha siud, Oisein.”

“Dè tha thu ag ràdha?” orsa Rìgh Lochlann.

“Tha eugh m’ athar an siud,” ors ise. “Tha e neònach leam,” ors’ ise, “nach cluinn sinn fhathast i. Nì e eugh trì uairean,” ors’ ise.

Chualas a-rithist e:

“Tha e ann cinnteach,” ors’ ise, “agus feuma’ sinn stràcadh,” ors’ ise, “air a rèir.”

Chuireadh air falbh daoine gu math luath le pònaidhean agus bha Rìgh Lochlann
agus an nighean air thoiseach. Ach chualas an sin a-rithist i an treas eugh:

“‘S e th’ ann cinnteach,” orsa Rìgh Lochlann.

“O! ’s e gu dearbha,” ors’ ise. “Dh’aithnich mi eugh,” ors’ ise, “a’ chiad uair a chuala
mi e.”

Ràinigeadh Oisean.

Bha an cù agus am fear bu mhiosa a bha san Fhinn air an t-eanchainn a
chuir asta air a bheulaibh agus lurg an lòin duibh aige na dhòrn:

“Tha thu ann a sheo,” ors’ esan, “brith ciamar a chaidh thu ann.”

“Tha fhios agam taghta math,” ors’ esan, “gu diamar a chaidh mi ann,” ors’ esan, “agus
an fheadainn a thug ann mi,” ors’ esan, “chan innis iad sgeul dhuibh-sa,” ors’ esan, “ri d’ mhaireann. Agus,” ors’ esan, “leis,” ors’ esan, “mar a chuir thu mun cuairt mi,” ors’
esan, “dèan an rud a thogras tu rium. Ach tha mi airson fìrinn a dhèanamh dha m’ sheanchas,” ors’ esan. Cha d’fhuair neach eile breug riamh orm,” ors’ esan.

“Seo dhut,” ors’ esan, “lurg an lòin duibh,” ors’ esan. “Tha an spòg air,” ors’ esan, “gus
an tuig thu,” ors’ esan, “gur h-e lurg an lòin duibh a th’ ann,” ors’ esan. “Faigh an cnàimh mòr,” ors’ esan, “a bha bòst agad às,” ors’ esan. “Thèid e a-staigh ’s a-mach,” ors’ esan, “as a’ smior-chailleach aige,” ors’ esan.

Fhuair Rìgh Lochlann an cnàimh. Chan fhaca e riamh a leithid. Chum e aige riamh e, gus an d’ràinig e am pàlas agus fhuair e lurg an daimh. Rachadh e a-staigh suas is sìos ann gun suathadh ann.

“Well, Oisean,” ors’ esan. “tha an fhìrinn agad,” ors’ esan, “agus tha mi glè dhuilich,” ors’
esan. “An fhìrinn a bha thu ag innseadh dhomh mu dheidhinn na Fìnneadh,” ors’ esan
“chaidh a losgadh,” ors’ esan. “ach ’s fhèarr dhuinn a-nist," ors’ esan, “teannadh as
ùr.”

Dh’innis Oisean dhut aon uair i. Chan eil e mar fhiachaibh air a h-innseadh an dala
trip.

“Chan eil agad,” ors’ esan, “ach cum romhad mar a bha thu,” ors’ esan, “ach tha Oisean fìor,” ors’ esan, “agus tha an Rìgh breugach.”

Agus dhealaich mise rithe.

Chan eil greim dhen Fhinn sin air faighinn ach na fhuair an t-searbhanta a thoir’ às
an teine. Sin na bheil ann mu dheidhinn na Fìnne agus dhealaich mise rithe.

Ach tha mi a’ smaointinn gun robh cus a bharrachd dhe siud aig m’ athair nuair
a bha e beò mu deidhinn agus bha mòran, mòran de ghnothach na Finneadh
aige. Ach cha robh diù sam bith agam-sa dhith as an àm sin. Nam biodh, bhiodh i agam uile gu lèir mar a bha i aige fhèin. Bha mise cho aotrom agus bha mi cearta-coma de ghnothaichean dhen t-seòrsa sin, ach sportaichean is dannsaichean is boireannaich is gnothach dhen t-seòrsa sin is dhealaich mise rithe.

And the translation goes something like the following:

Ossian

Concerning Ossian – he was the King of the Fenians. He had a daughter and she was married to the King of Lochlann. Well, Ossian was the strongest man in the whole wide world. No one else was as strong as him. No one had any idea whatsoever why he was so strong. But his daughter found away around him and she found out where his strength came from. Well, his daughter now knew and the King of Lochlann turned to her and asked if she knew where her father’s strength came from, Ossian who was the King of the Fenians. He wanted to exterminate the Fenians and whilst Ossian was still alive there was no way to get rid of them.

“I know where my father’s strength comes from,” she said, “but wouldn’t do any good to ever tell for that would be the very last minute of my life if my father found out.”

“I vow to you,” he said, “that no one else will find out from me. Now tell me.”

“Well, by those vows,” she said, “I’ll tell you where my father’s strength come from. It comes from his hair and if my father cut it as you cut it here, he’ll be no stronger than an ordinary man. But as long as he has hair,” she said, “there’s no one in the world who could defeat him.”

“Very well,” he said, “No one else but me will found out about that.”

But, in any case, Ossian found the King of Lochlann’s palace and he was kind to him and it would appear to me that there was no other way but to ply him with drink, and he could drink like a Lord. The began drinking and it lasted all night. When the King of Lochlann was stupid with drink trying to keep up with Ossian cup for cup, and Ossian was just as fresh [i.e. sober] as he ever was, he suggested that they go to bed, so that the barbers would then find Ossian sound asleep and to cut his hair off so that it would leave him completely bald. The barbers waited all night long until Ossian fell sound asleep. They cut his hair off so that he was totally bald and there was no sign of his hair in the morning. When Ossian got up he felt this head. Only his bare skin was left.

“Oh! well,” he opined, “it’s a great pity this has happened to me. My daughter is at the bottom of this.”

No one else knew but her. It can’t be helped. The King of Lochlann then turned to Ossian’s daughter and they began quarrelling and they each in turn said things far worse than the other. But Ossian was completely indifferent to them.

“Well,” said the King of Lochlann, “you’re now in our power.”

“It is likely so,” he said, “but if today was yesterday I wouldn’t be at all. But I am now. Anything you might wish to do then you may do that. I’m no better off than any other man.”

“Oh, you’ll be well looked after,” he replied, “so long as you live.”

But at any rate they kept on talking and:

“So, now,” he asked, “you’d better tell me what exploits have the Fenians done since you became their King?”

“Regarding the deeds of the Fenians,” he replied, “it’s exteremly difficult to believe and in another it’s very easy to believe if you go into their history. And I’ll relatae to you what happened to the Fenians from their very first day until this very day.”

He began relating the deeds of the Fenians and he told many stories each each day about them as Ossian was their King. But one day the King of Lochlann entered the room where Ossian and he was holding a large deer shank.

“Have you ever seen,” he asked, “a bone of the Fenians bigger than this one?”

Although Ossian was blind he was not deaf.

“Place it in my hands,” he requested.

He felt it.

“Oh!” he said, “that’s nothing. I saw a blackbird’s shank that could be inserted without touching the marrow of it, the marrow that was in the bone would not be touched by it.”

“Ha, ha,” he laughed, “I don’t believe that’s the truth at all. You only telling me complete lies about everything you’ve said and I don’t belive one word of it that you saw a blackbird’s shank that be inserted into this big bone without touching its marrow.”

That which he could take hold of with regard to the Fenian books, he went down and threw them onto the kitchen fire. There was a servant present and when he saw the heaps of papers that the King had thrown onto the fire he grabbed and pulled them out. And much, much material about the exploits of the Fenians had been burnt but she could partially read them. And because of the way in which the King had made Ossian so ashamed as he though he was lying:

“Well, if I had my sight retunred,” he opined, “I would prove the truth of my tale,” he continued, “But I have not way of doing that as I am sightless.

And that day he went to the bedroom and stretched himself out on the bed. And he prayed to the Creator that before he left this world that he would get his wish and the very wish he wanted fulfilled was that he could proved the truth of his tale that he had told the King. That was to go to the where the black bird waited under a rock. And he requested that God that the worst one of the Fenians be sent to him at midnight that very night and the worst dog should also be taken to the place where he wished them to be. They all went to sleep that night and they went to the place where Ossian took his supper.

“I’ll not take any,” he said, “I’ve been feeling so ashamed as the King though that I was lying and I’ve not told him one word of a lie at all. I’m not even going to take a morsel of food,” he said, “until I prove the truth of my tale.”

They went down and they all went to sleep and he prayed to the Creator that the worst one of the Fenians should come to him and that was Caoilte and also the worst dog they had so that he could prove the truth of his tale on the morrow. At midnight the room was opened:

“We’ve arrived,” exclaimed the dog.

“Oh, very well,” he said, “I’m very pleased,” said Ossian. “I’ll accompany you. Keep going,” he said, “we’ll be off.”

The man mounted and they left.

“You’ll go now,” he said, “and you’ll keep to such and such a glean and you’ll take me to such and such a hillock.”

“Yes.”

He set off and they reached a cleft as he had said.

“We’ve arrived at the hillock,” said the man that had accompanied him.

“Very well,” he said, “then be off with you, “I send up the deer and you’ll place them on the truck and you’ll set nine nines of them besides one another so that I can test my spear on them.”

That’s what happened.

They began their task. The dog and the worst man of the Fenians set off and they place the nine nines in front of him but it was only the eighth one in the last rank that happened to be at his front:

“Are they all there?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Fenian man.

He cast his spear and killed all eight.

“You’ve slain eight,” he noted.

“Where’s the ninth one?” he asked.

“Oh, it wasn’t there,” he replied.

“Well,” he said, “boil the eight and give them to me so that I can show them to the King of Lochlann tomorrow to show him that I told the truth.”

“Lift me on and take me to the grey hillock that you can see there,” he ordered.

He was brought forth to the hillock.

“Am I there?” he asked

“Yes,” replied the attendant.

He took a grip on the hillock there and he gave a tug but nothing  came out at all. He took a grip again and it nearly gave way. One again he took a grip and he tugged it from its roots and there appeared a great, big underground cauldron ready for something to be placed in it.

“What,” he asked, “is down below in the hole?”

“A big cauldron,” he replied.

“Very well,” he said, “then. Skin the deer and place them in my hand and I’ll be not long skinning it. Place them in the corrie agus give them all to me.”

They were place in the cauldron and a great fire was set and everyone of them that was cooked Ossian ate. Ossian had eight skewers in his guts. If he could get enough, a deer for every skewer, then he was regain his strength as it had been before. There was nothing else in the whole, wide world that could do this. He could be himself submerge the world altogether. He began eating the deer and he ate the seventh and so only one more skewer was needed.

“Where,” he asked, “is the other deer?”

“Oh, I and the dog ate it,” answered the Fenian man.

“Oh, you and the god ate it,” he replied.

“If you knew,’ he said, “what was good for you then you wouldn’t have touched it. I’ve no right to tell you. I’m as bad as I ever was. But that can’t be helped. Place me over the lid and lift me from this wonderful cauldron that made food for us many a day that it will not now forever more do again. And you’ll carry me to such and such a rock and you’ll take me to that rock there at such and such a place.”

He set off with Ossian and this great rock was reached and:

“We’ve reached it,” he said.

“On which side,” he asked, “have you place me?”

He said:

“Oh, you’re in the right place.”

He place his hand underneath the rock there and he took out a blackbird and that was an terrible-looking blackbird. He set off and he grapped both its leg and he pulled it apart.

“Go now,” he said. “This will do the business. You eat the rest.”

“The Fenians are finished now anyway,” he said.

The dog and the servant ate the rest of the blackbird and:

“You’ll take me now,” he said, “and you’ll let me off at the borders of the King of Lochlann and we’ll be up between nine and ten o’clock in the morning.”

They set off with him and he had his shanks in his fist.

“You are now,” said the attendant, “you’re now at the King of Lochlann’s borders.”

“How far are we inside them?”

“You’re about twent yards inside of them.”

“Oh,very well,” he said, “that’ll do.”

“Come now over to where I am,” he said, “so that I can pay you and the dog and take hold of my hand.”

They courteously went over to where he was and he grapped the dog by the scruff of the neck and he also grapped the lad by the scruff of the neck.

“Well,” he said, “without a shadow of a doubt I’ll not have long to live here but you’ll not live to see another day.”

He grabbed them both and he banged their heads together and they were both killed on the spot. But, at any rate, he was not there at the borders. When the arose in the morning there was no sign of Ossian. The daughter understood well enough that she’d never ever find him alive or dead. She was very sorry and sad as well as the King himself.

“Well,” he said, “by the humiliation that he took from you that had left matters as they are.”

“Ah! well,” said the King, “the words he said to me were very hard to believe and still don’t believe him that bone could be insersted into blackbird’shank of one of the Fenians.”

“Oh!, she said, “if it were not true then he would not have said such a thing.”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know.”

“But we must,” she said, “look out for him wherever we may find him dead or alive.”

They decided that they would to in search of Ossian wherever they might find him whether he might be dead or alive. The lassie was outside at the time and she heard a shout and the shout was:

“Well,” he said, “if ever there was such a thing in the whole wide world then that was my father Ossian shouting.”

“What are you saying,” asked the King of Lochlann.

“That was was father’s shout,” she said. “I’m surprised that we can’t still hear it. He shouted three times.”

It was heard again.

“He’s there for sure,” she said, “and we must strike out over in its direction.”

Men were sent out quite quickly on ponies and the King of Lochlann and his daughter were at the front. And it was heard again, the third shout:

“That’s him for sure,” said the King of Lochlann.

“Oh, indeed, indeed,” she said. “I knew his shout from the very first time I heard him.”

Ossian was reached.

The dog and the worst man of the Fenians had the brains smashed out in front of them and he held the blackbird’s shank in his fist:

“You’re there,” he said, “whoever you got here.”

“You know very well,” he said, “who I got here and the ones that took me there who no longer live to tell you the tale. And,” he continued, “the way in which have played me round and around than you do anything to me. But I wished to prove the truth of my tale. No-one else has ever heard a lie from me.”

“There you have,” he said, “the blackbird’s shank. There is a claw there so that you’ll recognise that it’s a blackbird’s shank. Get a big bone that you boasted about. It will go out and in of the marrow.”

The King of Lochlann got the bone. He had never seen anything the like. He kept it with him always until he reached the palace and he found the deer shank. It could be inserted in and out without touching the sides.

“Well, Ossian,” he said, “you’ve told the truth and I’m truly sorry. You’ve told me the truth about the Fenians that had been burnt [referring to the books] and it’s best for us now to make a new start.”

Ossian told it once again. It’s not worth retelling it a second time.

“You’ve only to keep going as you were,” he said, “that Ossian was telling the truth and the King was not.”

And I took my leave from it.

And there is no sing of the Fenians to be had apart from that which the servant took out of the fire. That’s all that is left of the Fenians and I took my leave from it.

But I think that my father had more than enough of this material when he was alive and he had knew much more about the exploits of the Fenians. But at that time I couldn’t have cared less. If I had, I would have them all just as he had them all. I was so giddy and I really couldn’t give a toss about such things for I was far too interested in sports, dances and women and all sorts of other things besides and I took my leave from it.

Reference:

NFC 1182, pp. 167–83

Images:

Angus Barrach MacMillan, Griminish, Benbecula

Ossian End by Gerard Francois (1770–1837), oils on canvas