Elves and Heroes
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PREFACE
THE ELVESThe immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but they still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the glamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men and women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with them in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears, we breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring.
The attitude of the Gael towards the supernatural, and his general outlook upon life in times gone by, was not associated with unbroken gloom; nor was he always an ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist. These attributes belong chiefly to the Literary Celt of latter-day conception—the Celt of Arnold and Renan, and other writers following in their wake, who have woven misty impressions of a people whom they have met as strangers, and never really understood. Celtic literature is not a morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is more light than shadow, much symbolism, but no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute detail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of keen artistry; and the literary style is direct and clear and comprehensible. In Highland folklore we find associated with the haunting "fear of things invisible," common to all peoples in early stages of development, a confident feeling of security inspired by the minute observances of ceremonial practices. We also note a distinct tendency to discriminate between spirits, some of which are invariably friendly, some merely picturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others constantly harbouring a desire to work evil upon mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy of propitiatory offerings and "ceremonies of riddance," is the ethical suggestion that good wishes and good deeds influence spirits to perform acts of kindly intent.
Of fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are still prone to do in these districts where belief in them is not yet extinct, with no small degree of regard and affection. It may be that "the good folk" and the "peace-people" (sitchean) were so called that good intention might be compelled by the conjuring influence of a name, as well as to avoid giving offence by uttering real names, as if it were desired to exercise a magical influence by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from Highland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener the friends than the foes of mankind. When men and women were lured to their dwellings they rarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies appeared to have taken pleasure in their company. To such as they favoured they imparted the secrets of their skill in the arts of piping, of sword-making, etc. At sowing time or harvest they were at the service of human friends. On the needy they took pity. They never failed in a promise; they never forgot an act of kindness, which they invariably rewarded seven-fold. Against those who wronged them they took speedy vengeance. It would appear that on these humanised spirits of his conception the Highlander left, as one would expect him to do, the impress of his own character—his shrewdness and high sense of honour, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth of heart and love of comrades, and his indelible hatred of tyranny and wrong.
The Highland "wee folk" are not so diminutive as the fairies of England—at least that type of fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers bee-like over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power they had to shrink in stature and to render themselves invisible, but they are invariably "little people," from three to four feet high. It may be that the Gael's conception of humanised spirits may not have been uninfluenced by the traditions of that earlier diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint were so long regarded as "elf-bolts." The fairies dwelt only in grassy knolls, on the summits of high hills, and inside cliffs. Although capable of living for several centuries, they were not immortal. They required food, and borrowed meal and cooking utensils from human beings, and always returned what they received on loan. They could be heard within the knolls grinding corn and working at their anvils, and they were adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. When they went on long journeys they became invisible, and were carried through the air on eddies of western wind.
At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee folk" were for several days on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity against mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and charms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil spirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in omens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote ancestors.
THE HEROESThe heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume, figure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our Scottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are a band of militia—the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits.
The cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and Grainnč, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of their mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves," sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated.
On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.
The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose translation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the Bronze Age period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on his forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son, and bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum. Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the other, with which it has no connection.
The third great Celtic Cycle—the Arthurian—bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of "The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary inspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the future.
Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume.
Some of the short poems have appeared in the "Glasgow Herald" and
"Inverness Courier"; the three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review."
THE WEE FOLK
In the knoll that is the greenest, And the grey cliff side,And on the lonely ben-top The wee folk bide;They'll flit among the heather, And trip upon the brae—The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey.As o'er the moor at midnight The wee folk pass,They whisper 'mong the rushes And o'er the green grass;All through the marshy places They glint and pass away—The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay.O many a fairy milkmaid With the one eye blind,Is 'mid the lonely mountains By the red deer hind;Not one will wait to greet me, For they have naught to say—The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.When the golden moon is glinting In the deep, dim wood,There's a fairy piper playing To the elfin brood;They dance and shout and turn about, And laugh and swing and sway—The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.O we that bless the wee folk Have naught to fear,And ne'er an elfin arrow Will come us near;For they'll give skill in music, And every wish obey—The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.They'll hasten here at harvest, They will shear and bind;They'll come with elfin music On a western wind;All night they'll sit among the sheaves, Or herd the kine that stray—The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.Betimes they will be spinning The while we sleep,They'll clamber down the chimney, Or through keyholes creep;And when they come to borrow meal We'll ne'er them send away—The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.O never wrong the wee folk— The red folk and green,Nor name them on the Fridays, Or at Hallowe'en;The helpless and unwary then And bairns they lure away—The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.BONNACH FALLAIDH
(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)O, the good-wife will be singing When her meal is all but done—Now all my bannocks have I baked, I've baked them all but one;And I'll dust the board to bake it, I'll bake it with a spell—O, it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.The bannock on the brander Smells sweet for your desire—O my crisp ones I will count not On two sides of the fire;And not a farl has fallen Some evil to foretell!—O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.The bread would not be lasting, 'Twould crumble in your hand;When fairies would be coming here To turn the meal to sand—But what will keep them dancing In their own green dell?O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.Now, not a fairy finger Will do my baking harm—The little bannock with the hole, O it will be the charm.I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms, And all the bairns I tell—O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well.THE BANSHEE
Knee-deep she waded in the pool— The Banshee robed in green—She sang yon song the whole night long, And washed the linen clean;The linen that would wrap the dead She beetled on a stone,She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, Low singing all alone—His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill, Come back from foreign wars,His horse's feet were clattering sweet Below the pitiless stars;And in his heart he would repeat— "O never again I'll roam;All weary is the going forth, But sweet the coming home!"His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
He saw the blaze upon his hearth Come gleaming down the glen;For he was fain for home again, And rode before his men—"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh, "Since I would leave her side;I'll never more leave Scotland's shore And yon, my dark-eyed bride."His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
So dreaming of her tender love, Soft tears his eyes would blind—When up there crept and swiftly leapt A man who stabbed behind—"'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride, This night shall be your last!" …When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide Of life came ebbing fast …His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
CONN, SON OF THE RED
II
The shredding dawn in beauty spreadIts shafts of splendour, golden-red,High over the eastern heaven, and brokeThrough flaking clouds in silvern smokeThat burst aflame, and fold o'er fold,Let loose their oozing floods of gold,Splashed over the foamless deep that layTremulous and clear. In fiery playThe rippling beams that swept betweenThe sea-cleft Sutor crags serene,Broke quivering where the waters boreThe soft reflection of the shore.The pipes of morn were sounding shrillThrough budding woods on plain and hill,And stirred the air with song to wakeThe sweet-toned birds within the brake.The Fians from their sheilings came,With offerings to the god a-flame,And round them thrice they sun-wise went;Then naked-kneed in silence bentBeside the pillar stones … But nowBrave Conn upon the ship's high prowHath raised his burnished blade on high,And calls on Woden and on TighWith boldness, to avenge the deathOf his great sire … In one deep breathHe drains the hero's draught that burnsWith valour of the gods; then turnsHis long-sought foe to meet … Great ConnSweeps, stooping in a boat, alone.Shoreward, with rapid blades and bright,That shower the foam-rain pearly white,And rip the waters, bending lithe,In hollowing swirls that hiss and writheLike adders, ere they dart awayBright-spotted with the flakes of spray.When, furrowing the sand, he drewHis boat the shallowing water through,A giant he in stature roseStraight as a mast before his foes,With head thrown high, and shoulders wideAnd level, and set back with pride;His bared and supple arms were longAs shapely oars: firm as a thongHis right hand grasped his gleaming blade,Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze madeIn leafen shape. With stately strideHe crossed the level sands and wide,Then on his shield the challenge gave—His broad sword thund'ring like a wave—For single combat. Red as goldHis locks upon his shoulders rolled;A brazen helmet on his headFlashed fire; his cheeks were white and red;And all the Fians watched with aweThat hero young with knotted jaw,Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard,Surveyed their ranks with cold regard;While his broad forehead, seamed with care,Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fairWere sloping sideways o'er his eyesWith pondering o'er the mysteries.The eyes of all the Fians soughtHeroic Groll, whose face was wroughtWith lines of deep, perplexing thought—For gazing on the valiant Conn,He mourned that his own youth was gone,When, strong and fierce and bold, he shedThe life-blood of the boastful Red,Whom none save he would meet. He heardThe challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred,Nor feared; but now grown old, when hateAnd lust of glory satiate—His heart took pride in Conn, and sharedThe kinship of the brave. Who daredTo meet the Viking bold, if heThe succour of the band, should beFound faltering or in despair?Until that day the Fians ne'erOf one man had such fear. Old GollSat musing on a grassy knoll,They deemed he shared their dread … Not soWise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow—"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man,The keen desire of every clan,Far-famed for many a valiant deed,Strong hero in the time of need.I vaunt not Conn … nor deem that thouDost falter, save with meekness, now—But why shouldst thou not take the headOf this bold youth, as of The Red,His sire, in other days?" Goll spake—"O noble Finn, for thy sweet sakeMine arms I'd seize with ready hand,Although to answer thy commandMy blood to its last drop were spilled—By Crom! were all the Fians killed,My sword would never fail to beA strong defence to succour thee."Upon his hard right arm with hasteHis crooked and pointed shield he braced,He clutched his sword in his left hand—While round that hero of the bandThe Fian warriors pressed, and praisedHis valour … Mute was Goll … They raised,Smiting their hands, the battle-cry,To urge him on to victory.The one-eyed Goll went forth alone,His face was like a mountain stone,—Cold, hard, and grey; his deep-drawn breathCame heavily, like a man nigh death—But his firm mouth, with lips drawn thin,Deep sunken in his wrinkled skin,Was cunningly crooked; his hair was white,On his bald forehead gleamed a brightAnd livid scar that Conn's great sireHad cloven when their swords struck fire—Burly and dauntless, full of might,Old Goll went humbly forth to fightWith arrogant Conn … It seemed The RedIn greater might was from the dead,Restored in his fierce son … A deepSwift silence fell, like sudden sleep,On all the Fians waiting thereIn sharp suspense and half despair …The morn was still. A skylark hungIn mid-air flutt'ring, and sungA lullaby that grew more sweetAmid the stillness, in the heatAnd splendour of the sun: the lispOf faint wind in the herbage crispWent past them; and around the bareAnd foam-striped sand-banks gleaming fair,The faintly-panting waves were castBy the wan deep fatigued and vast.O great was Conn in that dread hour,And all the Fians feared his power,And watched, as in a darksome dream,The warriors meet … They saw the gleamOf swift, up-lifted swords, and thenA breathless moment came, as whenThe lithe and living lightning's flashMakes pause, until the thunder's crashIs splintered through the air. Loud o'erThe blue sea and the shining shoreBroke forth the crash of arms … The rollOf Conn's fierce blows that baffled GollOn sword and shield resounding rang,While that old warrior stooped and sprangSideways, and swerved, or backward leapt,As swiftly as the bronze blade sweptAbove him and around … He swayed,Stumbling, but rose … But, though his bladeWas ever nimble to defend,The Fians feared the fight would endIn victory for Conn. … 'Twas likeAs when an eagle swoops to strike,But swerves with flutt'ring wings, as nighIts head a javelin gleams … A cryThat banished fear of Conn's great blowsFrom out the Fian ranks arose,As, like a plumed reed in a gust,Goll suddenly stooped—a deadly thrustThat drew the first blood in the frayHe darting gave … With quick dismayThe valiant Conn drew back … AgainHe leapt at Goll, but sought in vainTo blind him with his blows that fellLike snowflakes on a sullen well—For Goll was calm, while great Conn raged,As hour by hour the conflict waged;He was a blast-defying tree—A crag that spurned a furious sea,And all the Fians with one mindSet firm their faith in Goll The windRose like a startled bird from outThe heather at the huntsman's shoutIn swift and blust'ring flight At noonThe sun rolled in a cloudy swoonDimly, and over the rolling deepGust followed gust with shadowy sweep;And waves that streamed their snowy locksWere tossing high against the rocksSeaward, while round the sands ebbed wideScrambled the fierce devouring tideO, Conn was like a hound at morn,That springs upon an elk forlornAmong the hills. He was a proudCascade that leaps a cliff with loudUnspending fall So fierce, so fairWas arrogant Conn, but Goll fought thereKeen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay—He was as a boar in that fierce fray.The waves were humbled on the shore,And silent fell, amid the roarAnd crash of battle Mute and stillThe Fians watched; while on the hillThe little elves came out and gazed,To be amused and were amazed …They saw upon the shrinking sandsThe warriors with restless handsAnd busy blades, with shields that roseTo buffet the unceasing blows;They saw before the rising floodThe flash of fire, the flash of blood;And watched the men with panting breath,Striving to be the slaves of death;Now darting wide, now swerving round,Now clashed together in a bound,With splitting swords that smote so fast,As hour by hour unheeded past.The sands were torn and tossed like sprayBefore the whirlwind of the fray,That waged in fury till the sunSank, and the day's last loops were spun—Then terrible was Goll … He roseA tempest of increasing blows,More furious and fast, as dim,Uncertain twilight fell … More grimAnd great he grew as, looming large,He fought, and pressing to the margeOf ocean, he o'erpowered and draveThe Viking hero back; till waveO'er ready wave that hurried fleet,Snuffled and snarled about their feet …Then with a mighty shout that madeThe rocks around him ring, his bladeSwept like a flash of fire to smiteThe last fell blow in that fierce fight—So great Conn perished like The RedBy Goll's left hand … his life-blood spreadOver the quenching sands where rolledHis head entwined with locks of gold.Then passed like thunder o'er the seaThe Fian shout of victory.And, trembling on the tossing ships,The Vikings heard, with voiceless lipsAnd dim, despairing eyes … AloneStood Goll, and like a silent stoneBulking upon a ben-side bare,He bent above the hero fair—Remembering the mighty Red,And wondering that Conn lay dead.