An Dubh-Ghleannach: The Dark Lady of the Glen

Of all the boats, vessels or ships that sailed the high seas around the coasts of the Highlands and Islands perhaps none are quite so famous as An Dubh-Ghleannach. Not a few traditions were preserved about her and about the poet, Alasdair MacKinnon, who composed a song in praise of her. The following is an anecdote recorded by Calum Maclean on 21st of January 1951 from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, and transcribed shortly thereafter:

AN DUBH-GHLEANNACH

Chaidh bàta a thogail leis na Dòmhnallaich shìos ann an Gleann Aladail. Agus ’s iad a thog an tùr thar a bheil am Prionnsa Teàrlach an sin. Agus ’s e An Dubh-Ghleannach a b’ainm dhan bhàta a bha seo. Agus cò rinn òran mu dheidhinn ach Alasdair MacFhionghuin, an corpalair MacFhionghuin, a chaidh a leòn glè dhona san Èiphit, dar a bha e anns an arm. Agus cha d’fhuair e riamh seachad air an dochann a bha sin. Agus bha e a’ dol ga thìodhlacadh comh ri càch. Ach thug a chompach an aire dhà gun robh e beò agus ghiùlan e dhachaigh e. Rugadh an duine seo, MacFhionghuin shìos ann an Bun na Caime an Àrasaig. Agus chaidh a thìodhlacadh anns a’ Chreagan sa Ghearasdan ann an 1814. Agus bha am bàta a bha seo ainmeil na latha, An Dubh-Ghleannach, an t-òran:

Ach bheartaich iad gach ball neo-chearbach

Ullamh, allamh, deas gu fairge.

Tharraing i le gaoth bhon eara-dheis,

Thog i an caol is, a Rìgh, bu doirbh.

’S ann sìos mar sin a chuir e am briathran e agus Gàidhlig mhath air An Dubh-Ghleannach. Bha i aca airson bhliadhnaichean An Dubh-Ghleannach aig Cloinn Ghlinn Aladail airson bhliadhnaichean. Chreic iad i ri fear shìos ann Sròn an t-Sìthein a bha a’ gabhail an aiseadh a-nunn an sin Loch Suaineart, portair. Agus bha e ochd bliadhna fichead a’ gabhail an aisidh a bha sin. Agus bha e air a chunntas na sheòladair cho math agus a bha shìos as na h-àiteachan sin. Ach dè thachair an latha a bha seo ach seann-daoine agus gille òg ag iarraidh an aiseadh. Is dè bh’ annta ach daoine a-mach às na taighean-cusbainn a bha a’ coimhead feuch am biodh feadhainn ris a’ bhriuthas mu na bruachan. Cha robh fhios aig an duine a bha seo cò bh’ annta. Agus dh’fhaighnichd iad am faigheadh iad an t-aiseadh:

“Gheibh.”

Chaidh iad a-nunn leis as a’ bhàta ach cha deach iad fada dar a thoisich i air toirt a-staigh an uisge.Thuirt an gille òg a bha seo:

“Cum tioram i, a laochain,” thuirt e. “Agus tha do mhac tuillidh is lag airson a bhith a’ coimhead as deaghaidh an aodaich.”

“Tha mi a’ dol ochd bliadhna fichead a-nunn an seo,” thuirt e.

“Cha do thill mi riamh. Ach tha an t-eagal orm gun iomair mi tilleadh an-diugh.”

“Is cunnart dhut tilleadh,” thuirt e, “ach thoir dhomhsa am bàta air no bidh sinn fodha.”

Cha robh e toileach seo a dhèanamh, is thug an gille òg bhuaithe am bàta mu dheireadh:

“Coimhead as deaghaidh an aodaich,” thuirt e, “agus oibrichidh mise an ailm.”

Dh’iarr e air pàirt den bhallaiste a chur a-mach is rinn e sin, mar a bha e ag iarraidh air. Ghabh e fhèin an t-eagal gum biodh iad caillte:

“Cuir am ballaiste mar siud is cuir mar seo e is cuir a-mach clach eile is clach eile.”

Is dar a fhuair e ceart i:

“Nì sin an gnothach,” thuirt e. “Dèan suidhe a-nis an sin agus thoir dhomhs’ a-nise am bàta ri làimhseachadh agus chì mise sàbhailte thall sibh.”

’S ann mar seo a bha.

Ghabh am balach òg a bha seo an ailm. Agus thug e nunn i. Agus cha tàinig aon deur a-staigh ’us an d’fhuair e thall. Agus chaidh e a-mach às a’ bhàta agus thuirt e ris mar seo. Chuir e tàmailt glè mhòr air.

“Tha bàta math agad nam b’aithne dhut a h-oibreachadh.”

Agus chan eil fhios aige gus an latha an-diugh cò bha sa bhalach òg ach gun robh e a’ falbh a-measg nan taighean-cusbainn. Agus chreic e i bliadhnaichean an deaghaidh dhith a bhith aige. Agus am forfhais mu dheireadh a chaidh fhaotainn air a’ bhàta sin aig cho ainmeil is gun robh i air an cunntas aig MacFhionghuin, bha bha i air a cuir air beul-fodha air bruaich agus air cladhach foipe. Agus bha i na taigh-chearc. ’S i a bha na mullach air an taigh-chearc.

And the translation may be rendered as follows:

THE DARK LADY OF THE GLEN

A boat was built by the MacDonalds of Glenaladale. It was they who built the tower where Bonnie Prince Charlie is. And they named the boat An Dubh-Ghleannach [The Dark Lady of the Glen]. And who composed a song about her but Alexander MacKinnon, Corporal MacKinnon, who was severely injured in Egypt when he was serving in the army. He never fully recovered from his injuries. And they were about to bury him with the rest when a companion noticed that he still alive and he carried him home. MacKinnon was born down in Bunacaimbe in Arisaig. He was buried in the Craigs cemetery in Fort William in 1814. This boat was famous in her day and here is the song about An Dubh-Ghleannach:

But they rigged every new rope

Quikly, smartly, ready to go to sea.

She drew the southeasterly wind,

Through the narrows, oh Lord, it wasn’t easy.

That’s how the words went and An Dubh-Ghleannach contains excellent Gaelic. The MacDonalds of Glenaladale owned An Dubh-Ghleannach for many years. They sold her to a man over in Strontian who used her as a ferry in Loch Sunart; he was porter. For twenty-eight years he used her as a ferry-boat. He was reckoned to be one of the best mariners they had over there. But what happened one day was that this old man and a young lad wanted to get over in the ferry and they were from the excise who were trying to find out if there were any illegal stills along the banks [of the loch]. This man didn’t know who they were. And the asked if they could take the ferry across:

“Yes.”

They went over in the boat but they hadn’t gone far when it started to take in water. The young lad said:

“Try to keep it dry, my little hero,” he said. “For your son is too weak to look after the sail.”

“I’ve been going across for twenty-eight years,” he replied.

“I’ve never had to return before. But I’m afraid that I’ll have to return today.”

“It’s dangerous for you to return,” he said, “but give me control of the vessel or else we’ll sink.”

He wasn’t too pleased to do this but eventually the young lad took control of the vessel:

“Take care of the sail,” he said, “and I’ll steer with the rudder.”

He asked that some of the ballast be thrown overboard and he did this as was requested.

He took fright that they were going to drown:

“Arrange the ballast like that and place like that with a stone and yet another stone.”

And by the time he correctly arranged it thus:

“That’ll it do,” he said. “Take a seat now and give me back control of the vessel and I’ll see you safely across.”

That’s how things turned out.

The young lad took hold of the rudder and took her across. And not another drop came in until they got her over. And when he got out of the vessel he said something that greatly embarrassed the other man.

“You’ve got a good boat if only you knew how to work her.”

And he wouldn’t have known to this very day who the young lad was other than he travelled around the custom houses. He eventually sold her many years afterwards. And the last thing known about that vessel which was so famous in her day as celebrated by MacKinnon, was that she turned upside down on a shore bank. She was turned into a hen-house and she was its roof.

Perhaps not all of the above it totally accurate as it seems that An Dubh-Ghleannach was not recovered at that time and it seems highly unlikely that she met the ignoble end of becoming the roof of a hen-house. The man who commissioned the boat was Alexander MacDonald, styled Alasdair an Òir (Alexander of the Gold). As a young man Alexander MacDonald had gone to Jamaica where he made a vast fortune and thus acquired his sobriquet. On returning to Scotland, around 1771, with his new found wealth he purchased two estates, namely Glenaladale and Glenfinnan, from a debt-ridden cousin.

His son and successor was called Alasdair Òg (Young Alexander) who financed the building of the magnificent tower, commemorating the failed ’Forty-five Jacobite Rebellion, that stands at the head of Loch Shiel. He died in Edinburgh on 4 January 1825 at the untimely age of twenty-eight.

A Gaelic bard and soldier, Corporal Alasdair MacKinnon (1770–1814), born at Bunacaimbe in Arisaig, composed a eulogy to Alexander MacDonald of Glenaladale’s Loch Shiel pleasure-boat and is a well-wrought sea poem considered to be one of the best nautical songs to have been composed in the language. Joining the army in 1794, he served in the 92nd Gordon Highlanders and also in the company raised by Captain Simon MacDonald of Morar. MacKinnon would later compose a lament for his military patron.

After being raised to the rank of corporal, MacKinnon saw action at the Battle of Egmont-op-Zee or Bergen in 1799. Two years later MacKinnon was serving in Egypt when he suffered severe wounds that were nearly fatal during the Battle of Alexandria in 1801. His seemingly lifeless corpse was found on the battlefield and if it were not for the intervention of his good friend, Sergeant MacLean, then being buried alive—however barely—would have been his fate.

MacKinnon was immediately conveyed to a hospital ship and recovered, though not fully, and on arrival back in Britain was discharged from the army with a pension. On eventually recovering from the effects of his wounds, MacKinnon joined the Royal Veteran Battalion some time afterwards at Fort William where he died in 1814 and was buried in “The Craigs” with full military honours.

Although MacKinnon only composed very few Gaelic songs they are nonetheless remarkable for their quality. He composed at least one other great Gaelic song, namely Blàr na h-Òlaind (The Battle of Holland). It seems that battles were the very thing that stirred his poetic imagination.

John MacGillivray mentioned in the opening of An Dubh-Ghleannach was a piper as well as a fellow-poet who famously penned the still popular song Thug Mi ’n Oidhche Raoir san Àirigh (I Spent Yestreen at the Shieling):

Latha dhomh ’s mi an cois na tràghad

Chuala mi caismeachd nan Gàidheal.

Dh’aithnich mi meòir grinn a’ Bhràthaich

Air sionnsair ùr bu lùthmhor gàirich,

’S thuig mi gun do ghluais an t-àrmann,

Fear thogail nan tùr uasal, stàtail.

One day as I walked by the shore

I heard the warlike music of the Gaels.

I knew the nimble fingering of MacGillivray

On a new chanter of vigorous note,

And I knew that the hero had put to sea

The builder of the noble, stately towers.

The opening musical prelude sets the scence as she is launched on her voyage but then a storm is raised against her as she makes hear way along Loch Linnhe, through the treacherous Corran Ferry and up the Sound of Mull:

Nuair ghabhadh i ’m fuaradh na sliasaid,

’S guala ’n fhasgaidh chasadh dian ris,

Ghearradh i ’n linn’ air a fiaradh,

’N aghaidh gaoithe, sìd’ is lìonaidh —

Dh’èignich i Corran an dìorrais,

’S leum i air iteig mar ian as.

When the windward took her sternside,

Her bow bend turned keenly,

As she cleaved apart the waves,

Against wind, weather or tide—

She wrested through obstinate Corran Narrows

And jumped by as a bird on the wing.

The poet rather effecively then uses a poetical affectation that the very Gods (from the classical Pantheon) are so taken aback by the sight of such a beautiful ship under sail that they are determined to see her destroyed by the elements which they then unleash just as she was about to sail by Ardnamurchan Point:

Mhionnaich Neiptiun agus Aeòlus,

Bhon chaidh gaoth is cuan fon òrdugh,

Nach do mhaslaicheadh cho mòr iad,

Bho linn na h-Àirce a bha aig Nòah,

Gun robh an Rìgh as àirde còmhnadh,

A’ dìon ’s a’ sàbhaladh Chloinn Dòmhnaill.

Neptune and Æolus swore

As they’d control of wind and wave,

That they’d never been so scorned,

Since the time of Noah’s Arc,

As by the King of highest succour,

Protecting and saving Clan Donald.

Given the fate which she was later to meet, there is something rather prophetic when MacKinnon describes the maelstrom that surrounds the faltering ship with only her young captain—Alasdair Òg—managing to keep a cool head and being able to steer her to safety despite the best efforts of divine retribution:

Bha Neiptiun agus Aeòlus eudmhor —

Dh’iarr iad builg nan stoirm a shèideadh,

Dh’òrdaich iad gach bòrd dhith reubadh

’S na siùil a shracadh nam brèidean,

Le borb-sgread is fead na reub-ghaoith,

’Cur siaban thonn na steòil sna speuran.

Neptune and Æolus were jealous —

They ordered the storm-bellows blown,

Commanded each plank of her torn

And the sails to be ripped into shreds,

By the wild howl of whistle of the tearing wind

Sending spindrift of waves in a spout to the heavens.

It is likely that the she took shelter at Kilchoan as it would have been rather foolhardy to have attempted passing by Ardnamurchan Point. MacDonald of Glenaladale was so pleased with the poem that he gave MacKinnon a reward of £5. It is said that a neighbour of MacKinnon’s, on hearing of such a large sum, was so taken aback at such a prize that he said: “It is a bonny song, to be sure, but faith, neighbour, you have been as well paid for it!” “I tell you, sir,” replied the poet, “that every stanza of every timber in An Dubh-Ghleannach’s side is worth a five-pound note!” No doubt this witty retort silenced the other man.

Encountering a sudden squall as she rounded Kildonan point, the ship foundered off the coast of the Isle of Eigg at Bogha nam Partan very near to Sgeir an Taigh’ in 1817. She was on her way back from an autumn cattle sale in nearby Arisaig, drowning her new owner Dr Donald MacAskill of Kildonan as well as the minister of the Small Isles. All hands were lost apart from Angus Òg, the great-grandfather of Hugh MacKinnon, a famous Eigg tradition bearer, and a tailor from Arisaig who managed to escape drowning by catching hold of a cow’s tale and clinging on for dear life until they both made it safely ashore. Ever after the tailor was known as Tàillear a’ Mhairt (The Tailor of the Cow). Hugh MacKinnon, recorded in 1964, describes graphically the exact moment when the ship sank:

And, you know, the ship was coming in Pollnampartan and they were tacking and…darkness had fallen on them and she was taken aback…Here’s the mast. The sail goes from the mast like this – on the side like this. But as she came round she was taken aback and the sail went and struck the mast and turned her over. She was taken aback. And she went down.

After this tragedy, what remained of the ship was allegedly towed to Galmisdale Bay where glimpses of it have been recorded ever since when the tide is exceptionally low. A plank was taken out and revealed to be hard wood, probably oak, with square nail holes and one wooden dowel, also showing evidence of adze work. If the wreck is effectively that of An Dubh-Ghleannach, then what may have been found are the remains of a classic eighteenth-century Hebridean galley or bìrlinn.

References:

Alasdair MacFhionghuin, Dain agus Orain le Alasdair MacFhionghuin, ed. by Alexander Maclean Sinclair (Prince Edward Island: Charlottetown, 1902).

Hugh MacKinnon, ‘An Dubh Ghleannach’, Tocher, no. 15 (Autumn, 1974), pp.  250–57; http://www.tobarandualchais.co.uk/en/fullrecord/44636/1.

Fionn (Henry Whyte), ‘An Dubh-Ghleannach’, The Celtic Monthly, vol. XII, no 10 (July, 1904), p. 189.

SSS NB 2, pp. 148–51

Images:

Portrait of John MacGillivray, MacDonald of Glenaladale’s Piper.

Galmisdale Bay, Isle of Eigg.

I, Me and Myself

A familiar tale, perhaps, which is at least as old as Homer’s Odyssey, is the story of Polyphemus, or the Blinded Ogre, in which the hero uses a cunning ploy and manages to escape by assuming an ambiguous name such as No-one or Noman. With a wide geographic distribution throughout Asia and Europe, the story appears in the Arabian Nights and also in the exemplary stories of the twelfth-century Dolopathos.

In Lochaber tradition, the story survives in at least three forms. Two of the examples are taken from literature, which in all likelihood are influenced by versions taken from oral tradition, one of which appears in an article in The Celtic Magazine by the bardess Mary Mackellar (1834–1890) and the other in Folk Tales and Fairy Lore collected by the Rev. James MacDougall, sometime minister of Duror. The final version is taken from the repertoire of John MacDonald of Highbridge collected and transcribed shortly afterwards by Calum Maclean on the 5th April 1951:

MI-FHÌN, MI-FHÌN

Bha boireannach a’ fuireach an àite iomallach dhen dùthaich. Bha daonnan am beul na h-oidhche neach a’ tighinn a-staigh, bodachan beag feusagach. Agus bhiodh e na shuidhe agus bhiodh e a’ gabhail an teine dhà fhèin. Agus cha robh i ag ràdha dad ris:

“Trus do chasan às an sin feuch am faigh feadhainn eile chun an teine.”

Dh’innis i seo do bhana-choimhearsnach a bh’ aice: “Ma-tà, chan eil e ceart, an duine a tha a’ tighinn a-staigh. An t-aon rud a nì thu,” thuirt i, “nuair a bhios tu ag obair air an lite a dhèanadh, feuch an cuir thu spoltadh mu na casan aige. Agus bheir sin air gun teich e. Agus na abair facal ach an t-ainm truagh a thug iad ort ‘Mi fhìn, Mi fhìn.’”

“Nach truagh an t-ainm a thug iad orm-sa, bha i ag ràdha, ‘Mi fhìn, Mi fhìn’ nuair a thigeadh am bodachan a-staigh. Ach mu dheireadh nuair a fhuair i cothrom agus làn-chothrom, thilg i spoltan den lite air a chasan. Tharraing e a-mach. Agus leig e trì sgreuchan a-mach nach riamh an leithid ann. Dhùisg e mothar a-mach às a’ ghleann. Thàinig na sìthchean eile mun cuairt agus dh’fhaighneachd iad dè thachair ris.

Dh’innis e gun deach a losgadh.

“Cò loisg thu?”

“Loisg Mi fhìn ’s Mi fhìn, Mi fhìn,” theireadh e.

“An e thu fhèin a loisg thu fhèin?”

“A, nam b’ e cuideigin eile a loisg thu ach thu fhèin, bhiodh an taigh mun ceann mun tigheadh a’ mhadainn. Agus bhon is e thu fhèin a rinn e, gabh leis na fhuair thu.”

The translation may be rendered as follows:

MYSELF, MYSELF

A woman who stayed in a remote part of the district was always visited at night-time by a little, bearded old man. He used to sit and take the fire all to himself. She didn’t say anything to him as:

“Tuck your legs away from there so that others can get to the fire.”

She told this to her neighbour: “Well, that’s not right, this man coming in like that. The thing you’ll do,” she said, “when you’re making porridge try to splash some it on his legs and that will make him flee. And don’t say a word other than the poor name which they’ll give you “Myself, Myself.”

“Isn’t that such a poor name they’ve given me, and she was saying, “Myself, myself,” when the little old man would come in. At last when she got a chance and a very good chance at that, she splashed some porridge on his legs. He fled and he let out three screams those of which had never been heard before. A hue and a cue was raised in the glen. The other fairies gathered around and they asked what had happened to him.

He told them he had been burnt.

“Who burnt you?”

“Myself, Myself, Myself,” he’d say.

“Is it that you burnt yourself?”

“Ah, if it had been someone other than yourself then their house would be about their heads by the morning. But seeing it was yourself who did it, you’ll just have to grin an bear it.”

The version given by Mary Mackellar is in essence the same though it approaches a more literary style. Likewise the version given in Folk Tales and Fairy Lore has been “touched-up”, though originally coming from an oral source. It may also be noted that the imp is described as an ùruisg rather than the vaguer bodachan:

Once upon a time there was a farmer in Glenmallie who had a pretty servant lass called Mary. The farmer built a sheiling far up on the glen near the waterfall known in Gaelic as “Eas-Buidhe” (“Golden Waterfall”), and Mary was sent there to take charge of the cows and their milk. The girl was very brave-hearted, and although not the least bit afraid to be alone in the sheiling, nevertheless, she began to have company that caused her great alarm. An “Uruisg” (a kind of Brownie said to frequent solitary places) came to her hut every evening just as it turned to dusk, and as he came in he invariably repeated the following rhyme:

                        “Uruisg an Easa-Bhuidhe,

                        ’S e ’na shuide an Gleann-Màilidh,

                        ’S an uair a chiaradh air an fheasgar,

                        Thigeadh e dhachaigh gu Màiri.”

He had always some small trout with him, which, in the course of the evening, he would roast one by one, always eating one before he roasted the other, and saying as he ate each troutlet:

                        “Mar a ròistear bricein ithear bricein.”

And as he cooked and ate his fish he ogled Mary the whole time, casting at her the most admiring glances possible to the girl’s dismay. At length she got so frightened that she fled to her master’s house and told him about the Brownie, and that she was not safe alone in the sheiling. Her master told her he would go in her place for a day or two, and he would see if he could get rid of his troublesome visitor. He went and dressed himself in the rigout of Mary’s clothes and sat at dusk spinning the distaff as Mary was wont to do. By and by he heard a footstep, heavy and slow, as the  creature came in he exclaimed as usual:

                        “Uruisg an Easa-Bhuidhe,

                        ’S e ’na shuide an Gleann-Màilidh,

                        ’S an uair a chiaradh air an fheasgar,

                        Thigeadh e dhachaigh gu Màiri.”

He then sat down and began as usual to roast his fish saying:

                        “Mar a ròistear bricein ithear bricein.”

and all the time gazing at the one who in silence worked away with the distaff in the corner. At length he began to say angrily:

                        “Chì mi do shùil, chì mi do shròin,

                        Chì mi t’fheusag fhada mhór,

                        ’S ged ’s math a shnìomhas tu do chuigeal,

                        .           .           .           .           .”

At length, in his indignation at the fraud perpetrated upon him in giving him this masculine creature instead of Mary, he was going to lay violent hands upon the man when he asked him in angry tones, “C’ainm a th’ ort”. The man falsely gave his name in Gaelic as “Is mi ‘s is mi”, and then taking a pot of boiling water, he threw it about the feet of the poor Brownie and scalded him. He ran away in great pain, howling dreadfully, and this agonising cry attracted the attention of his brother Brownies who ran out to meet him. They were anxious, no doubt, to know who hurt him, in order to avenge the wrong, but all he could tell them was—“Is mi ’s is mi”. To this answer they replied—Ma ’s tu, ma ’s tu, gu dé a’ ghlaodhaich a tha air t’ aire”. Mary got leave to return to the sheiling in peace, and the Brownie never troubled her again.
 

For comparison’s sake the version collected by the Rev. James MacDougall may be given:

                  

URUISG AN EASA BHUIDHE.

ANN an Gleann-Màilidh an Lochabar, tha eas ùigeil ris an abrar an t-Eas Buidhe. Anns an eas so bha e air a ràdh gu ’n robh na h Uruisgean ag gabhail fasgaidh; agus b’ ann làimh ris a bha bothain-àiridhe cuid de thuath a’ ghlinne suidhichte.

Bha aon de na h-Uruisgean,

“Uruisg an Eas’-Bhuidhe

’Na shuidhe ’n Gleann-Màilidh.”

ro dhraghail do the de na banaraichean a bha anns na bothain-àraidhe
làimh ris an eas. Cha robh latha nach tigeadh e stigh do ’n bhothan far an robh
i; agus nach cuireadh e seachad an ùine ’na shuidhe mu’n teine, a’ feòraich
cheisdean dhith, agus ag cur bacadh oirre ’na h-obair. Dh’ fhàs i sgìth dheth,
ach cha robh fhios aice cia mar a ghràinicheadh i e gun chorruich nan Uruisgean
eile a thionndadh ’na h-aghaidh. Mu dheireadh chlaoidheadh a foidhidinn cho
buileach leis is gu’n do chuir i roimpe a bhi cuidhte is e, ciod air bith a
thachradh.

Air latha àraid a bha e ’na ghurrach mu’n teine mar b’ àbhaist, dh’
fheòraich e am measg a cheisdean, c’ ainm a bha oirre. Fhreagair i gu’n robh:
“Mi fhéin is Mi fhéin. “Is iongantach an t-ainm sin,” ars esan. “Coma co
dhiùbh, is e sin a tha orm.”Bha poit mhèig air an teine, agus an uair a chaidh
i g’a toirt dheth, bha esan ’san rathad oirre, mar bu ghnàth leis. Bhrosnaich
so i cho mór is gu ’n do leig i d’a deòin le taom de’n mhèag ghoileach tuiteam
m’a chasan, agus a sgaldadh. Leum e gu grad o a àite-suidhe, agus ruith e mach
a’ burralaich agus ag glaodhaich gu’n do loisgeadh e. Cho luath is a chuala na
h-Uruisgean eile so, ruith iad a nìos as an eas ’na choinneamh, agus
dh’fheòraich iad cò a loisg e. Fhreagair e gu ’n do loisg, “Mi fhéin is Mi
fhéin.” “O, ma’s tu fhéin a loisg thu, cha’n ’eil comas air; ach, na’m b’ e aon
air bith eile a rinn e, loisgeamaid e fhéin agus na tha ’sna bothain-àraidhe
leis. 

And the translation is given as follows:

THE URISK OF EAS BHUIDHE

IN Glen Mallie, in Lochaber, there is an eerie ravine called Eas Buidhe. In this ravine it was said that the Urisks took refuge; and near it were the summer pasture bothies of some of the farmers in the Glen.

One of the Urisks,

“The Urisk of Eas Buidhe,

Sitting in Glen Maillie,”

was very troublesome to one of the dairymaids staying in the bothies near the ravine. Not a day passed but he came to the bothy where she lived; and he spent the time sitting at the fire, asking questions, and obstructing her in her work. She grew tired of him, but she knew not how to rout him without turning the wrath of the other Urisks against her. At last her patience with him was so completely worn out that she resolved to get rid of him, happen what might. One day as he was crouching about the fire as usual, he asked, among his questions, what her name was. She replied that it was: “Myself and Myself.” “That is a curious name,” said he. “Never mind, that is what I am called.”

A pot full of whey hung over the fire, and when she went to take it off, he was in her way, as usual. This so provoked her that she intentionally allowed a wave of the boiling whey to fall on his feet, and scald him. He sprang up quickly from his seat, and ran out, howling and crying that he was burnt. As soon as the other Urisks heard this, they ran up from the ravine to meet him, and asked who burnt him. He answered that it was “Myself and Myself.” “Oh, if you have burnt yourself, it cannot be helped; but if anyone else had done it, we would have burnt him and all that is in the bothies along with him.”

As may readily be seen the above versions compare favourably with the most famous one as recited by Homer in his Odyssey:

On finding a large cave, Odysseus and his men entered the cave, where they helped themselves to the food and drink they found there, and fell asleep. After a time, a Cyclops, whose name was Polyphemus, returned to the cave. Leading his flock of giant sheep into the cave, he rolled a huge stone against the mouth of the cave to close the entrance. On finding Odysseus and his men in the cave, the Cyclops became enraged, grabbed two of the men, smashed their heads against the rocks, ate them, and fell asleep. Odysseus dared do nothing to the Cyclops, since only the Cyclops was strong enough to move the stone away from the mouth of the cave.

The next morning, the Cyclops grabbed two more men, smashed their heads against the rocks, and ate them for his breakfast. He then rolled away the stone, led out his herd of sheep, and rolled the stone back to close the cave. Odysseus devised a plan. He and his men took a large timber, carved the end to a sharp point, and hid it.

When the Cyclops returned in the evening, he again led his sheep in, rolled the stone to close the mouth of the cave, and proceeded to bash in the heads of two more men and eat them. This time Odysseus spoke up, and offered the Cyclops some strong wine he had brought with him. Polyphemus, who had never drunk wine before, drank his fill and became very drunk. Thanking Odysseus, Polyphemus asked him his name. Odysseus told him his name was “No man.” The Cyclops then fell fast asleep in a drunken sleep.

Odysseus and his men then took the timber and heated the sharpened end in the fire until it glowed red. Then, with all their strength, they pushed the red-hot point into the eye of Polyphemus. The Cyclops howled and woke up flailing, but he was now blind. The other Cyclops who lived on the island came running, but when they asked Polyphemus who had done this to him, he replied “No man!” and the other Cyclops all returned home laughing.

Early the next morning, Odysseus tied each of his men to the belly of one of the giant sheep. When Polyphemus awoke and led the sheep out of the cave, he felt the back of each sheep to make sure no one was on them. Feeling nothing, Polyphemus allowed each sheep to pass out of the cave, carrying with it one of Odysseus’ crew tied to its belly. Odysseus himself grabbed onto the fleece of the last sheep’s belly, and escaped through the mouth of the cave.

Odysseus and his men ran back to their ship and hurriedly pushed out to sea. As they sailed away from the harbour, Odysseus called out to Polyphemus, laughing at him and telling him that it was not “No Man,” but he, Odysseus, who had blinded him and fooled him.

Many versions of the above tale have been identified throughout Europe and beyond and not a few of these stem from Irish and Scottish sources. It would perhaps make an interesting study to contrast and compare all or at least a good proportion of these versions or indeed to map out where various versions of these tales may be identified.

Classification:

ATU 1137, The Blinded Ogre (Polyphemus)

Motifs:

K602. “Noman.” Escape by assuming an equivocal name. (Sometimes “myself.”)

F380. Defeating or ridding oneself of fairies.

F381. Getting rid of fairies.

References:

Rev. James MacDougall, Fairy Tales and Fairy Lore, ed. by Rev. George Calder (Edinburgh: James Grant, 1910), pp. 298–301

Mary Mackellar, ‘A Lochaber Legend’, The Celtic Magazine, vol VI, no. LXVIII (Jun., 1881), pp. 324–25 [Reprinted in Rev. Somerled MacMillan, Bygone Lochaber: Historical and Traditional (Glasgow: Privately printed, 1971), pp. 194–96]

SSS NB 7, pp. 611–12

Stith Thompson, The Folktale (New York: The Dryden Press, 1946)

Hans-Jörg Uther, The Types of International Folktales, 3 vols. (Helsinki: FF Communications, 2004)

Image:

Polyphemus