Portrait of a Bard: John Campbell of South Uist

Reproduced in full from The Scots Magazine is an article by John Lorne Campbell. The bard in question was John Campbell, from South Lochboisdale, in South Uist. He was known locally as a poet and seanchaidh. Many of his songs were recorded and transcribed by John MacInnes (known as Iain Pheadair ‘ic Sheumais) and were edited and published by John Lorne Campbell in 1936. The collection was entitled Òrain Ghàidhlig le Seonaidh Caimbeul, the Gaelic Songs of Shony Campbell, the South Lochboisdale bard. Transcribed by John MacInnes MBE. Due to demand for the short-run of the first edition, a revised reprint was published in 1937. Fr Allan McDonald (of Eriskay) also transcribed a handful of songs from Campbell which remain unpublished. A selection of Campbell’s poetry is also available in Ronald Black’s monumental anthology An Tuil (1999).
 

Calum Maclean mentions John MacInnes in his diary entry when he and Angus MacMillan visited his home in Gerinish, South Uist, for a house ceilidh in 1948:

Dihaoine, 16 An Sultain 1949 [NFC 1301, 95–96]

Thòisich mi air sgrìobhadh sa mhadainn agus bha mi ag obair air adhbhar Aonghais MhicGilleFhaolain. Bha mi a’ sgrìobhadh an latha air fad gus an robh e mu chòig uairean feasgar. Rinn mi deagh-chuid obrach an-diugh. Mu sheachd uairean, thàinig an càr gam iarraidh agus chaidh mi fhìn agus Aonghas Barrach sìos a Ghèirinis a choimhead air Iain Pheadair. Thug mi an Eidifión leam a chionn bha mi a’ dol a thabhairt òrain sìos bhuaithe. Fhuair Aonghas Barrach agus mi fhìn gabhail againn gu math an taigh Iain Pheadair. Bha Iain a’ gabhail òran feadh na h-oidhche. Tha e a’ dol a dh’ ionnsaigh a’ mhòid air an t-seachdain-sa a’ tighinn agus bha e a’ cleachadh nan òran. Ach thug e dhomh roinn de sheann òrain bhrèagha. Agus de sheann fhuinn. Bha òran na dhà aige a chuala e aig Iain Caimbeul nach maireann, bràthair Sheonaidh Chaimbeil, agus athair Aonghais Iain a tha anns an taigh-òsta, ann an Loch Baghasdail. Thug e dhomh cuideachd òrain a rinn Seonaidh Caimbeul fhèin. Bha e mu uair sa mhadainn nuair a dh’fhàg sinn taigh Iain Pheadair. Bha oidhche againn a bha glè thaitneach. Chòrd an oidhche ri Aonghas Barrach cuideachd. “Cha tàinig rud cho math seo riamh an lùib dhaoine,” ors’ esan. Tha e a’ còrdadh ris a bhith a’ dol a-mach còmhla rium a chruinneachadh sgeulachdan is òran.

Friday, 16 September 1949 [NFC 1301, 95–96]

I began transcribing in the morning and worked on the Angus MacLellan’s material. I worked all day long until around five o’clock in the evening. I did a good day’s work today. Around seven o’clock, the car came to fetch me and Angus MacMillan and I went down to Gerinish to visit John MacInnes. I took the Ediphone with me for I was going to record songs from him. Angus MacMillan and I got a great welcome in John MacInnes’s house. John was singing songs all night long. He’s going to the Mod this coming week and he was practising the songs. But he gave me a number of beautiful old songs and the old tunes. He had a song or two that he heard for the late John Campbell, Johnnie Campbell’s brother, and from Angus John’s father who is in the hotel in Lochboisdale. He also gave me songs composed by Johnnie Campbell himself. It was around one in the morning when we left John MacInnes’s house. We had a very pleasant night. Angus MacMillan also enjoyed the night. “Nothing is as good as people’s company,” he said. He enjoys coming out with me when I’m collecting stories and songs.

Here, then, is the following article as mentioned previously:

Since the foundation of the Folklore Institute of Scotland in 1947, and the work of the Irish Folklore Commission in the Hebrides, interest in the traditional storytellers and bards of the Outer Hebrides has been revived. It has been my own privilege to know several of these striking personalities quite well. The one whom I knew best was my fellow-clansmen, John Campbell, called in Gaelic, Seonaidh Caimbeul, Seonaidh mac Dhòmhnaill ’ic Iain Bhàin (Johnny son of Donald, son of Fair-haired John).

I met him in the following way. In the spring of 1934 I went from Barra to South Uist for the purpose of organising new branches of the Sea League, which was then engaged in carrying on propaganda for the closure of the Minch to trawlers, for the creation of a local Fishery District Committee and for the establishment in Lochboisdale before my visit. The secretary of this branch, Mr John MacInnes, a native of South Lochboisdale, is well known today as a Gaelic singer and is at present the clerk to the local District Council.

During the course of my visit Mr MacInnes, who knew I was interested in Gaelic, told me that there was a bard living in his district and that it was a pity that his songs were not written down and published. I agreed. I suggested that as he was a neighbour of the bard, the best thing he could do would be to take down as many of the songs as he could himself, and I would type his manuscript and see it through the press, and that the expense of publication might be raised by collecting subscriptions locally. This would save us a good deal of the cost of distribution and the usual commissions exacted by publishers and booksellers.

This plan was agree upon. Mr MacInnes set to work that same winter. He had thought there would be about twenty or thirty songs to write down—by the time he had finished the total was a hundred. Out of these forty-five were chosen for publication, notes and a short biography added, and the book was printed privately in Dunfermline on behalf of the subscribers.

Not long after that first conversation I had the pleasure of meeting the bard himself. He was dignified, good-looking old man, then aged seventy-five, with a twinkle in his eye and the great fund of songs and stories that one often found amongst the men of his generation in Uist and Barra. He possessed the remarkable memory of men of his type as he had no formal education. He could write little more than his name, and his English was limited to a few expressions like “How do you do.” His mind was uncluttered with the lumber of a formal English education and filled with the poetry of the Gaelic bards of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and with the local traditions and anecdotes of his own island. He possessed an unbounding good nature and great patience and gave us all the assistance he could.

Seonaidh and his wife—they had no children—lived in a little three-roomed house on a small croft of what would be called extreme marginal land on the south shore of Lochboisdale. He cultivated this croft himself with the cas chrom.

Once the songs had been written down and typed it was my duty to revise them carefully with the bard himself, to make sure that no errors or misunderstandings had crept in. I used to got every evening from a neighbouring house along half a mile of wild and boggy road to Seonaidh’s house with the manuscript. Here Seonaidh would recline on the bench with his hands beneath his head, and taking up the first line from my reading would sign through the whole song. Practically every poem he ever made was made to some tune or other, for music permeates the literature of the Gael, and a bard would hardly every think of making a rhyme without having a tune in mind to which it would be sung.

I noticed when doing this work that Seonaidh was practically word-perfect. It was very seldom that he would omit a stanza or sing one in the wrong place, or even change a word from what had been written down several months before. But I have a much more striking proof of the accuracy of memory. It was known at the time that Mr MacInnes wrote these songs down that some of the m had been taken down over forty years earlier by the late Rev. Father Allan McDonald of Eriskay and by the late Rev. Dr George Henderson, formerly lecturer in Celtic at Glasgow University, who was interested in traditional Gaelic literature, and who used to pay visits to the islands for the purpose of collecting it. Fifteen years after the publication of the book of Seonaidh song’s I found these earlier manuscripts in the Henderson papers in Glasgow University Library. Collation with Mr John MacInnes’ transcriptions showed that practically no alteration had crept in during that time. The date of the earliest one I found in these papers is 1886, composed to a girl from Eriskay who died in a measles epidemic that year.

Seonaidh’s brother, John, known as Iain Clachair or John the Mason—their father, Donald Campbell was also a mason—had also been a bard. Seonaidh’s nephews, Angus and John Campbell, and the late Roderick Campbell were also gifted in the same way. This talent often runs in families in the Hebrides.

Seonaidh’s songs, which I am not quite sure are completely disentangled from his brother Iain’s—it is possible they helped each other in composition—cover all aspects of local life. It is in that that their importance to the folklorist and the social historian lies. I remember one reviewer remarking that although the songs were of some local interest, they had not great literary merit. It is not literary merit alone for which we are looking at them. The interesting thing about them is that they describe a way of life and point of view which, after having existed for hundreds of years, is now passing away like the morning dew in the sunshine.

Seonaidh had been a fisherman in the old days of sailing boats, when men from the islands had travelled to the East Coast of Scotland and engaged as members of crews fishing out of Peterhead and Fraserburgh. He had fished all over the Minch and the Moray Firth, he had met Gaelic speakers from all over the Highlands and Islands and learned to understand their dialects. If we want to find out what the life of these was like, we must turn to his songs and the songs of men like him. There is no other first-hand record of their feelings and their experiences. Seonaidh’s songs celebrate, for instance, the introduction of the mechanical capstan in the fishing boats, and the coming of the marine paraffin engine—inventions that revolutionised his profession.

There was no incident in a local life of any interest on which he was not equal in making a song. One long poem describes life spent in a sheiling with a companion during the winter, collecting sea tangles for kelp, watching and hoping that every winter storm would bring a fresh supply ashore. At the end of the winter the wages for six months of unpleasant hard work amounted to a guinea. It is not surprising to find that Seonaidh, like other bards of his kind, celebrated the introduction of the old age pension in a long and heartfelt poem which brings home how very hard life in the Hebrides must have been for old people, especially old people without young relations to support them, before the introduction of that measure by the late Lloyd George. The poem shows how the pension altered the whole aspect of life for people in Seonaidh’s position, and won them a new independence and respect.

There is a humorous side to many of these songs as might be expected. They describe comical incidents such as the local postman getting lost on the moor, or a dead steer which, being washed ashore on the Atlantic side of Uist, was buried and dug up again by some bright lands who thought they could sell the hide.

There is a song about a rouge of a travelling dentist who persuaded Seonaidh to let him remove his teeth, under promise of supplying a fine new set. The money was paid in advance but the new set never came, until the local policeman was appealed to for assistance. His intervention produced a set of teeth, but instead of being what was promised they were practically useless!

If many of Seonaidh’s songs do not possess great literary merit, at least they have the virtue of being true to life and absolutely sincere. He composed touching elegies on some of his relations and friends who predeceased him, and two or three religious poems on the birth and Passion of Our Lord which prove how strong a grasp the mind of an unlettered person of his type could have upon the essential realities of his religion.

Seonaidh’s book was a success as Gaelic books go. The first edition of four hundred copies at half a crown a piece was quickly sold out. A second edition followed in 1937 in which certain errors in the text of the first edition were corrected. This also sold out and another eighty copies, printed from the standing type before the war, have all gone also. The book is presumably out of print today. I am glad to say that after all the expenses had been met it was possible to hand over to the bard the sum of about ten pounds, representing the profit from the venture—a satisfactory outcome, as few Gaelic books make their authors a profit.

Seonaidh died at the end of the war. He continued making songs now and again, the last I believe on the rationing of tea, until near the end of his life. More than half his songs still remain unpublished. The language in which they are expressed is not always particularly easy, being the Gaelic of South Uist, employing a rich vocabulary including many localisms and also many allusions which are very difficult for an outsider not in the know to understand. It will be easier for students to read them when the dictionary of the dialect of South Uist, made by the late Father Allan McDonald in the [p. 5] nineties and recently rediscovered, has been edited and printed. Meanwhile, they serve to remind us of the wealth of the traditional literature of the Hebrides and the fact that a knowledge of Gaelic is essential to a proper understanding of that tradition.

All Seonaidh’s acquaintances regretted his death deeply. He was on of the most good-natured of man and the most entertaining of companions. His poetic talent, though sometimes used for the purpose of good-natured digs at his neighbours, was never employed for satire or lampoonery. I am afraid that there are not many people like him left today, and that in another generation even his songs themselves would be disappearing from local memory under the impact of English education, if they had not been written down. His type deserves all the encouragement it can get, in particular the encouragement of an attempt to transcribe and preserve the oral literature of the islands before it is too late.

References:

John Lorne Campbell, ‘Portrait of a Bard’, The Scots Magazine, vol. LVIII, no. 1 (October, 1952), pp. 1–5

NFC 1301 [Calum Maclean’s diaries from 1949 to 1950]

Image:

The photograph of John Campbell using a cas-chrom (or foot-plough) was taken by Margaret Fay Shaw and may be dated to the 1930s

A Lament for Calum Maclean

Of the many tributes paid to the memory of Calum Maclean on his untimely death on his adopted island of South Uist in 1960, one was a moving lament composed by Donald John MacDonald (1918–1986), styled Dòmhnall Iain Dhonnchaidh. Donald John, who belonged to Peninerine in South Uist and was a son of the outstanding tradition bearer Duncan MacDonald, was an extremely gifted traditional poet and songwriter. MacDonald would go on to win the Bardic Crown at the National Mod in 1948. He was also the author of numerous books and articles such as Fo Sgàil a’ Swastika [Under the Swastika’s Shadow] (2000), detailing his life as a prisoner-of-war after being captured at St Valéry; and Uibhist a Deas [South Uist] (1982), a fascinating local history of the island of his birth and upbringing. Calum Maclean persuaded MacDonald to collect oral traditions from his father and uncle, Neil, and he managed to gather together a collection of over twenty manuscript volumes amounting to around 6,000 pages. An anthology of his poetry entitled Chì Mi was collected and edited by Bill Innes. We are extremely grateful to Bill Innes for kindly allowing his translation of MacDonald’s lament to be published here for the very first time.

Calum Iain MacGilleathain le Dòmhnall Iain MacDhòmhnaill

Dubh an là o bhith grianach,
Chinnich faileas air iarmailt ar n-àbachd.
Trom a’ bhuille ’s gur piantail
A liubhair uirigleadh sgeula do bhàis dhomh.
Ged bha dòchas air mùchadh
Gum biodh e deònaicht’ dhut ùrachadh slàinte,
Nuair thàinig naidheachd na crìche
Gun tig i gearradh nam chridh’ mar gu sàbht e.

’S a Chaluim Iain ’ic Ghilleathain,
Tha ’n-diugh a’ crìonadh fo leathad an t-Hàlin,
Tha carragh-cuimhne nach tuislich
An cridh’, an cuinnseas ’s an cuislean do chàirdean
Air sàr churaidh na tuathadh,
Gràinne-mullaich na h-uaisl’ ann an nàdur;
’S creach do dh’Alba ’s dhan linn seo
Do bhothaig thalmhaidh cho iosal bhith ’n càradh.

’S creach do dh’Alba gu sìorraidh
Thu bhith air falbh as a fianais cho tràth oirnn.
Far na shaothraich thu dian-mhath
Na h-adhbhair gaoil eadar iarmad is cànain.
’S mòr an ulaidh ga dìth thu,
Chriothnaich bunaitean dìlinn na Gàidhlig;
Thuit clach-iuchrach a h-iùil-sa
’S gun fear eil’ ann a dhùineas a’ bheàrna.

Tràth an cùrsa do rèise
Gun chuir thu d’ ùidh ann an euchdan do nàsain.
B’ e do bheachd-sa bu lèirsinnich’
Ann an cleachdaidh, am beasun ’s an gnàthsan.
Le saothair thug thu buaidh dhuinn,
’S gun thog thu bratach ar sluaigh bhàrr an làir dhuinn,
’S bidh linn ri teachd ann ad fhiachaibh
Airson na dìleib ro-fhiachail a dh’fhàg thu.

Do thìr nam beann thug thu biùthas,
Gun dh’innis do pheann a cuid ùisealachd àraid.
Bha spiorad aiteis do dhùthcha
Nad bhallaibh pailt a’ so-dhrùghadh do chnàmhan.
Air feadh Alba ’s an Èirinn
A chaoidh bidh t’ ainm air a leughadh le blàths ann
Mar aoigh, mar oilean, ’s mar uasal,
Mar shamhla duinealais ’s uachdar nan sàr-fhear.

Com na h-onair ’s na h-uaisle;
Gliocas, modh agus stuamachd am pàirt riuth’;
Tuigs’ is foghlam thar chunntais,
Gun robh gach aon diubh nad ghiùlan mar sgàthan;
Samhl’ a’ cheartais nad sheanchas
Nuair bhiodh eachdraidh fo argamaid làidir.
’S na bhuilich Dia ort de bhuaidhean
Cha d’ rinn thu riamh an cur tuathal air àithne.

Leam is urram ro-luachmhor
Gun tug thu buileachadh buan domh dhe d’ chàirdeas.
’S gibht’ an tasgaidh mo smuaintean
Meomhair air aiteas gach uair an co-phàirt riut.
’S a’ ghiorra-shaogail a mhùch thu
Cha d’ fhuair sin aont’ air bhith ’n dùil ri nas àill leinn
Ged dh’eadar sgar i le ùir sinn
Tha spiorad maireann air giùlan cho-bhràithrean.

Ach crìoch gach comann bhith sgaoileadh
Mar a lomar a’ chraobh de cuid bhlàthan.
’S crion clach-ursainn ar n-aonta
Rè ar tursan air saoghal nan sgàil seo;
’S ged tha do cholann fo fhòdaibh
Mo ghuidhe t’ anam bhith ’n glòir anns na h-àrdaibh,
’S à siol a’ mhathais a phlannt thu
Ge meal thu toradh neo-ghann deth do ghràsan.

Calum Iain Maclean by Donald John MacDonald

The sunny day has darkened,
Shading the heavens of our happiness,
Heavy the blow and painful,
Bringing tidings of your death to me;
Although hope had faded
That you would be granted recovery,
When news came of the end
It was a jagged wound to my heart.

O, Calum Iain Maclean,
Today decaying under Hallin’s slope,
An unfailing memorial abides
In hearts, minds and veins of your friends
Of the fine champion of the people
Top-most grain of noblest nature;
Great loss to Scotland and this generation
That you are laid low in earthly rest.

Grievous loss evermore to Scotland –
That you left her scene so early,

Where you worked so diligently
In cause of love for her history and language.
What great treasure she has lost in you
Who stirred up the deep roots of Gaelic,
The keystone fell from her course,
With no one else to fill the gap.

You took early in the course your life,
Interest in the proud deeds of your nation,
Your insight was the keenest
Into lifestyle, qualities and customs.
Your efforts gave us triumph,
Raising our people’s banner on high
Generations will be in your debt
For the priceless legacy you left.

To the land of bens you brought renown –
Your pen wrote of her special distinction –
The joyful spirit of your country
Richly permeated your body and bones.
Ever throughout Scotland and Ireland
Your name will be read with affection
As guest, scholar and noble,
Model of manliness and finest of gentlemen.

Breast of honour and nobility,
Wisdom, good manners with modesty;
Insight and erudition without limit,
Each reflected in your bearing;
You spoke with authority
When history was hotly disputed;
Your God-given virtues
No command could make you betray. 

It was a precious honour for me
That you offered me lasting friendship,
Gifted to the treasury of my thoughts
Memories of happy times shared with you
And the short life that took you,
Did not grant the prospects we hoped for,
But, though the grave separated us,
The spirit lives on in the bearing of brothers.

But each gathering ends in parting,
As blossom is stripped from the tree,
The pillars crumble of our union
In our journeys through this vale of shadows;
Though your body lies in the grave
I pray your soul be in glory above
And that seeds of goodness you planted
Will earn you a rich return of grace.

Trans. by Bill Innes

References:

Bill Innes (ed.), Chì Mi / Dòmhall iain MacDhòmhnaill: The Gaelic Poetry of Donald John MacDonald (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2nd ed., 2001)

Dòmhnall Iain MacDhòmhnaill, ‘Calum Iain MacGilleathain’, An Gàidheal, leabh. LVI, earr. 5 (1961), pp. 53–54

Image: Peninerine, South Uist / Peighinn nan Aoirean, Uibhist a Deas 

The Sweet Singer of Rahoy: Dr John MacLachlan

Undoubtedly one of the greatest Gaelic bards of the nineteenth century was Dr John MacLachlan who belonged to Morvern. The following biographical sketch was recorded from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, by Calum Maclean on the 21st of January 1951:

Doctair Rath Thuaidh a theireadh iad ris an duine a bha seo. Iain MacLachlainn a b’ ainm dha. Agus Rath Thuaidhe, tha e shìos rathad Àird nam Murchan na sìos mu na h-àiteachan sin. Agus ’s e lighiche sònraichte math a bh’ ann an àm aiseadadh cloinne. Bha e an oidhche a bha seo – chuir iad fios air – a choimhead air boireannach anns an Òban. Ach bha e glè dhèidheil air mac na braiche. Agus thachair e fhèin is mac na braiche is bha tuillidh is a’ chòir aige dheth. Agus ’s ann a stad e ann am Port Rìgh. Bha seo pìos mòr far a’ chuirs’. Agus chaidh e staigh don taigh-òsda ann an sin feuch am faigheadh e drùdhag de dh’uisge-beatha. Dh’aithnich e gun robh mulad anns an taigh. Dh’fhaighnichd e an robh dad tuathal. Dh’innis iad dha mar a bha a’ chùis: gun robh bean, iad a’ feitheamh oirre is i air saothar cloinne.

“An d’fhuair iad lighiche idir?” thuirt e.

“Fhuair. Tha dithist dhiubh ann.”

"Faigh fear an taighe a-nuas an seo ’us am faigh mise bruidhinn deth.”

Cha tigeadh fear an taighe a-nuas.

Abair ris tighinn an seo glè allamh,” thuirt e.

Dh’innis e dhà mar a bha a’ chùis: am faigheadh esa’ a-staigh dhan t-seòmbar san robh am boireannach.

“O, tha dà lighiche ann.”

“Chan eil math sam bith orra,” thuirt e. “Leig mise a-staigh.”

Chaidh e a-staigh. Chuir e a-mach an dà lighiche a bha sin agus dhùin e an dorast. Dhùin e an dorast agus ann am mionadean, bha leanabh gille ann an sin. Agus bha an t-òstair cho toilichte agus bheireadh e dha rud sam bith.

“Chan eil dad a dhìth orm,” thuirt e, “ach na phàigheas am fàradh agam air ais don Òban.”

Na bu dè thug e dha, chan urrainn domh a bhith cinnteach. Ach ’s e bh’ ann gun d’fhalbh e ’an Òban. Agus bha e a’ cheart-chùis roimhe anns an Òban thar an robh aige ri dhol. Bha dà lighiche a-staigh an sin a’ feithemh air a’ bhoireannach a bha seo. Agus leis gun do chuir iad fios air fhèin, chuir e dìreach a-mach iad. Agus bha a’ cheart-chùis ann an sin. Bha leanabh gille eile ann. Agus thug an duine sin dhà fichead nòt’. Agus ghabh e sin. Dh’fhalbh e dhachaigh gu toilichte. Agus bha a’ chùis uamhasach fàbharach aig an duine sin. Cha robh mòran dhe leithid anns na crìochan airson a bhith ag aiseadadh cloinne. Turas eile teann air an Òban agus e a’ gabhail sràid a-mach. Agus thachair duine air agus e a’ caoineadh: rud a chuir mulad glè mhòr air:

“O! a dhuine,” thuirt e, “dè tha tuathal?” thuirt e.

Dh’innis e mar a bha tuathal: gun robh a bhean air saothar cloinne agus nach tigeadh an lighiche ’un a’ bhothain bhochd a bh’ aige leis gur h-e ceàrd a bh’ ann:

“Thèid mise ann,” thuirt an duine seo.

Cha robh fhios aige cò bh’ aige, ach ’s e Dotair Rath Thuaidhe a bh’ ann, Iain MacLachlainn. Agus chaidh e ’un a’ cheàrd agus bha a h-uile nithean ceart agus mar bu chòir dha a bhith. Agus bha an ceàrd cho toilichte.

“Dè th’ agam ri thoirt dut?” thuirt an ceàrd.

“Chan eil dad agad ri thoirt domh-sa. Cha ghabh mi e. Ach innsidh mi dè nì thu,” thuirt e. “Thèid thu a-màireach,” thuirt e, “aig a leithid seo a dh’uair, agus bidh mise an sin agus bidh mi a’ bruidhinn ris an lighiche eile. Agus bith thu air do sgeadachadh cho math ’s is urrainn dut ann an èididh.”

“O, chan eil aodach agam nas fheàrr na seo,” thuirt e.

“Mura h-eil, bheir mi fhìn dhut deise.”

Thug e dha deise. Thug e ’un an taighe e is thug e dhà deise. Is thàinig an duine seo ann an èididh coltas duine-uasail agus bha an dà lighiche a’ bruidhinn. Chuir e fàilte cho gasda orra agus:

“Thigibh a-staigh agus gheibh sibh drama.” – a’ chùis a dh’iarr am fear eile air: “Bidh gu math fialaidh an sin agus òlaidh am fear seo am pailteas agus òlaidh mi fhìn. Ach na leig leotha aon bhoinne òrdachadh ach na dh’òrdaicheas tu fhèin.”

Bha an ceàrd ag òrdachadh na deoch.

“O! is uamhasach coibhneil an duine thu,” thuirt an lighiche eile.

“O, seagh,” thuirt Dotair Rath-Thuaidhe, “tha e glè choibhneil. Agus òla’ tusa agus ithe’ tu na gheibh thu bhuaith ged nach rachadh tu don bhothan aige ’n raoir thar an robh a bhean airson a bhith aiseadadh cloinne,” thuirt e. “Agus ’s e th’ annad duine suarach. Is beag a bheireadh orm,” thuirt e, “agus casaid a dhèanadh agus gun rachadh lùireach an lighiche a shlaodadh dhìot uile gu lèir. ’S e rinn thu rud suarach.”

Bha duine-uasal a ghabh an t-sealg ann an Àird nam Murachan agus bha e gu math dèidheil air an t-sealg. Agus cha robh aige ach aon nighean. Dh’fhàs i gu math tinn, easlainteach truagh. Agus an àite a bhith a’ tighinn ’huige ’s ann a bha i a’ sìor-dhol air ais. Agus chuir e a dh’iarraidh ollamhachan, mar a their iad professor. Agus cha robh e a’ dèanadh feum, ach thuirt e air an turas mu dheireadh a bha e ann:

“Cuiridh mi botal air adhart an-dràsda. Agus nì am botal sin feum.”

Ràinig am botal a bha seoach, ach cha robh i ach glè bhochd a’ mhadainn sin agus iad a’ meanaigeadh a dhol ’un an t-sealg.”

“Chan eil mi a’ dol chun an t-sealg an-diugh,” thuirt e ris a’ gheamair.

“Nach eil?” thuirt e.

“Nach cuir sibh a dh’iarraidh an dotair a tha feadh seo,” thuirt e, “an Lighiche Iain MacLachlainn.”

“O!” thuirt e, “nuair nach dèanadh an àrd, feadhainn gu h-àrd an Dùn Èideann e, dè nì am fear sin?”

“Cuire’ sibhse fios air.”

Ràinig e:

"Tha mi dìreach rud beag fada,” thuirt e, “ach tha aon dòchas agam fhathast gun tig i bhuaidh.”

Agus ’s e seo: ma bheir sibh dhomh-sa cead, bheir mi dhi stuth agus caidlidh i airson trì uairean a thìm. Agus ma chaidleas i seachad air na trì uairean a thìm, caidlidh i feasda. Ach ma dhùisgeas i, bidh i ceart gu leòr. Bheir mi ’huige i. Is bidh mi fhìn an àirde,” thuirt e, “agus bidh mi ann aig an àm ’s an dùisg i. Agus cumaidh sibh an taigh sàmhach.”

’S ann mar seo a bha.

Thàinig an Lighiche agus dhùisg i ann an ceann nan trì uairean a thìm.

“Tha i ceart gu leòr agus bheir sibh dhi an stuth a tha seo.”

Dh’innis e mar a bheireadh e dhi. Agus bha iad a’ dèanadh a rèir mar a bha an Lighiche ag iarraidh orra. Ach cò thàinig an ath latha an deaghaidh seo ach am professor.

Thuirt e: “Dh’aithnich mi gun dèanadh am botal mu dheireadh feum.”

“Shin agad am botal is cha tàinig an corcas às fhathast,” thuirt a h-athair. “Agus theirg thusa a-mach thu fhèin is am botul às an seo. Na cuir do ghrùidh a-staigh tuillidh. Tha dotair againn ann an seo fada air thoiseach ort. Agus ’s e tha a’ dol a leigheas an nighean agam.”

Agus leighis e an nighean aige agus cha robh dad oirre. Is dh’fhaighnichd e:

“Cha toir thu dhomh-sa,” thuirt e, “ach rudan beag airson mo dhragh.”

Agus thug e dha ceud nòt. Agus dh’fhalbh e bhon darna ceann don bhaile as an robh e a’ fuireach agus dar a ràinig e an ceann eile aige a’ toirt an airigid seachad do dhaoine bochda na feadhainn a bha feumach, cha robh aige ach còig nothaichean dhen airigid. Bha e cho trom air an deoch air mac na braiche mar a thuirt e fhèi’:

“A Mhic na poite duibhe,

A tha na suidhe an bun a’ ghealbhain;

’S e an t-eòrna buidhe a b’ athair dhut,

’S e an atharnach do sheanamhair."

Ach bha e a’ gabhail tuillidh is a’ chòir dheth agus bha athair a’ dol ga chuir thairis a-nunn do na rìgheachdan thall. Agus chaidh e an àirde a’ mhonaidh agus rinn e òran. Bha e na bhàrd uamhasach agus rinn e an t-òran. Bha e ga ghabhail taobh an teine. Dar a chuala athair an t-òran tiamhaich a bha e a’ gabhail taobh an teine, thòisich e a chridhe cho mòr agus gun tuirt e:

“Cha tèid thu às an seo bhon a bha uiread sin de mheas agad air an dùthaich. Fana’ tu ann an seo olc air mhath mar a thachras dhut.”

And the translation may be rendered as follows:

The Doctor of Rahoy they’d call this man, John MacLachlan was his name. Rahoy is over by Ardnamurchan, over by those places. He was an extraordinarily good physician, especially during childbirth. This night was – they sent for him – to see a woman in Oban. However, he was very fond of whisky. And he and whisky met one another a bit too often. He stopped over in Portree. This was a good bit out of his way. He entered the hotel to try and get a dram of whisky. He noticed that there was sadness in the place. He asked what was wrong. They told him how things were: that there was a woman and that they were still waiting as she was in labour.

“Did they fetch a physician at all?” he asked.

“Yes. There are two of them.”

“Get the man of the house down here so I can speak with him.”

The man of the house wouldn’t come down.

“Say to him to come here and to be quick about it,” he said.

He told him how things were: and if he could get into the room where the woman was.”

“Oh, but there are two physicians.”

“They aren’t any good,” he said. “Let me in.”

He entered. He put out the other two physicians and he closed the door behind him. He closed the door and in a few minutes there was a baby boy. The hotelier was so pleased that he’d give him anything he wanted.

“I don’t need anything,” he said, “expect only if you pay my fare back to Oban.”

Whatever he gave him I can’t be sure. But whatever he left for Oban. And the very same thing faced him in Oban where he had to go. There were two physicians attending this woman. And since they knew who he was, he sent them out. And the very same thing happened. There was another infant boy. And the man gave him forty pounds. And he took that. Happily he left to go home. And circumstances were extremely favourable for him. There were not many of his like in these parts for delivering children. And one time near Oban he was wandering about. And he met a man and he was crying: something that made him very sad:

“Oh, my dear man, what’s wrong?” he asked.

He told him what was wrong: that his wife was in labour and that the physician wouldn’t come to the poor hovel he had as he was a tinker.

“I’ll go,” said this man.

He didn’t know who he had, but it was John MacLachlan, the Doctor of Rahoy. And he went with the tinker and everything was as right as it should be. And the tinker was so happy.

“What do I owe you?” asked the tinker.

“You don’t have anything to give me. And so I’ll not take it. But I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said. “You’ll go out tomorrow,” he said, “at such and such a time, and I’ll be there and I’ll be speaking with the other physician. And you’ll be dressed as well as you can in a suit.”

“Oh, I haven’t got any better clothes than this,” he said.

“If you haven’t, I’ll get you a suit.”

He gave him a suit. He took him to the house and he gave him a suit. And this man came out dressed like a gentleman and the two physicians were speaking. He gave them such a pleasant welcome and:

“Come in and we’ll get a dram.” – the very thing that the other man asked was: “Be quite generous then and this man will drink pretty much as I will. But don’t allow them to order one drop only that which you order yourself.”

The tinker was ordering the drinks.

“Oh, you’re a very generous fellow,” said the other physician.

“Oh, indeed,” said the Doctor of Rahoy, “he’s very generous. And you would drink and eat what you would get from him though you wouldn’t go to his hovel last night when his wife was about to be in labour,” he said. “You’re a despicable man. And it would be nothing to me,” he warned, “to issue a complaint against you so that you were struck off as a physician altogether. You did a despicable thing.”

There was a gentleman who went stalking in Ardnamurchan and he was quite keen on hunting. He had only one daughter. She fell ill, weak and poorly. And instead of getting better she was getting far, far worse. And he sent for a professor. But he was unable to do anything, and he said on his visit:

“I’ll send up a bottle just now. And this bottle will help.”

This bottle arrived, but she was very poorly that morning and they wished to go out stalking.

“I’m not going to the hunt today,” he said to the keeper.

“Aren’t you?” he said.

“Won’t you go and fetch the doctor here,” he asked, “Doctor John MacLachlan.”

“Oh!” he said, “if the high and mighty, those up there in Edinburgh, can’t do anything, then what good can that man do?”

“Send word to him.”

He arrived.

“I’m just a bit late,” he said, “but I still hope that she can be cured.”

And it was this: if you permit me, I’ll give her stuff and she’ll sleep for three hours. And if she sleeps longer than three hours, then she’ll never wake up again. But if she awakes, she’ll be alright. I’ll give it to her. And I’ll remain there,” he said, “and I’ll be there at the time when she awakes. And you must keep the house quiet.”

This is how things turned out.

The Physician came and she awoke after three hours:

“She is alright and you’ll give her this stuff.”

He told him who he should give it to her. And they did accordingly as the Physician asked of them. But who should arrive the very next day after this but the professor.

He said: “I knew that the last bottle would of use.”

“There’s your bottle and the cork hasn’t been removed yet,” said her father. “And be off with you and your bottle out of here. Don’t let me see your face here ever again. We’ve got a doctor here who is far ahead of you. And it is he who is going to cure my daughter.”

And he cured his daughter until there was nothing wrong with her. And he asked:

“You’ll not give me,” he said, “but a few little things for my trouble.”

And he gave him a hundred pounds. And set out from one side of town to the other where he stayed and by the time he reached the far side he had practically given away all his money to the poor and needy folk, but had only five pounds remaining to this name. He was heavliy dependant on drinking whisky as he himself said:

“O son of the black pot,

That sits on the lower hearth,

The yellow barley is your father,

And the second crop your grandmother.”

But he was drinking far too much of it and his father was going to send him overseas. And he went up to the hill and composed a song. He was a great poet and he composed the song. He was singing it by the fireside and when his father heard the plaintive song he was signing by the fire, he was affected so much that he said: 

“You’ll not leave this place as you have such a love for your native land. You’ll remain here for good or ill.”

No greater authority and no mean poet himself, Sorley MacLean was of the opinion that Dr John MacLachlan’s poetry was the best that nineteenth-century Scottish Gaelic literature had to offer. MacLachlan was born on the farm of Rahoy (Rathuidhe or Rath Thuaidhe) in Morvern in 1804. His kindred, the MacLachlans of Dunadd, originally belonged to mid-Argyll. His father sold the Dunadd farm for fishing and shooting interests. Between 1824 and 1828, MacLachlan undertook a medical degree at the University of Glasgow, and, although tempted by an offer to work overseas, he declined and returned to his native land to practice medicine there. Although he may have had the reputation of being a heavy drinker and a womaniser, his reputation as a skilled physician (especially with regard to midwifery) and his generous spirit and moral probity stood him in good stead. Some of his songs are still sung to this day reflecting that his poetic output has stood the twin tests of both time and taste. Worn out by his exertions and experiences, he died aged seventy in Tobermory, Mull, in a poor-house, in 1874. 

References:

Hugh C. Gillies (ed.), The Gaelic Songs of the Late Dr John MacLachlan, Rahoy (Glasgow: Archibald Sinclair, 1880)

SSS NB 2, pp. 179–87

Image:

Dr John MacLachlan (1804–1874)