Part 5 (1/2)

When Ossian from Knockfarrel went, a band Of merry maidens, trooping hand in hand, Came forth, with laughing eyes and flowing hair, To share the freedom of the morning air; Adown the steep they went, and through the wood Where Garry splintered logs in sullen mood-- Pining to join the chase! His wrath he wrought Upon the trees that morn, as if he fought Against a hundred foemen from the west, Till he grew weary, and was fain to rest.

The maids were wont to shower upon his head Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled; For of their quips and jests he had more fear Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear-- And so he chose to be alone.

The air Was heavily laden with the odour rare Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet, As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet, Went treading needled sward, in light and shade, Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade, And ever bloom and ever pa.s.s away ...

Upon a fairy hillock Garry lay In suns.h.i.+ne fast asleep: his head was bare, And the wind rippling through his golden hair Laid out the seven locks that were his pride, Which one by one the maids securely tied To tether-pins, while Garry, breathing deep, Moaned low, and moved about in troubled sleep Then to a thicket all the maidens crept, And raised the Call of Warning ... Garry leapt From dreams that boded ill, with sudden fear That a fierce band of foemen had come near-- The seven fetters of his golden hair He wrenched off as he leapt, and so laid bare A shredded scalp of ruddy wounds that bled With bitter agony ... The maidens fled With laughter through the wood, and climb'd the path Of steep Knockfarrel. Fierce was Garry's wrath When he perceived who wronged him. With a shriek That raised the eagles from the mountain peak, He shook his spear, and ran with stumbling feet, And sought for vengeance, speedy and complete-- The l.u.s.t of blood possessed him, and he swore To slay them.... But they shut the oaken door Ere he had reached that high and strong stockade-- From whence, alas! nor wife, nor child, nor maid Came forth again.

IV.

Soft-couch'd upon a bank Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank The sweetness of the morning air, that brought A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought, With mem'ries from the deeps of other years When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers, And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth On such an April morn....

He leapt to hear The Fians shouting from a woodland near Their hunting-call. Then swift he sped a-pace, With bounding heart, to join the gladsome chase; Stooping he ran, with poised, uplifted spear, As through the woods approached the nimble deer That swerved, beholding him. With startled toss Of antlers, down the slope it fled, to cross The open vale before him ... To the west The Fians, merging from the woodland, pressed To head it sh.o.r.eward ... All the fierce hounds bayed With hungry ardour, and the deer, dismayed, With foaming nostrils leapt, and strove to flee Towards the deep, dark woods of Calrossie.

But Caoilte, fresh from resting, was more fleet Than deer or dogs, and sped with naked feet, Until upon a loose and sandy bank, Plunging his spear into the smoking flank, Its flight he stayed.... He stabbed it as it sank, The life-blood spurting; and he saw it die Or ever dog or huntsman had come nigh.

Then eager feast they made; and after long And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong As they had been of old. And of their fare The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share.

Nor over-fed they in their merry mood, But set to hunt again, and through the wood Scattered with eager pace, ere yet the sun Had climbed to highest noon; for lo! each one Had mem'ry of the famished cheeks and white Of those who waited their return by night, In steep Knockfarrel's desolate stockade-- O' many a beauteous and bethrothed maid, And mothers nursing babes, and warriors lying In winter-fever's spell, the old men dying, And slim, fair lads who waited to acclaim, With gladsome shout, the huntsmen when they came With burdens of the chase ... So they pursued The hunt till eve was nigh. In Geanies wood Another deer they slew ...

Caoilte, who stood On a high ridge alone ... with eager eyes Scanning the prospect wide ... in mute surprise Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud Of thick and writhing smoke ... Then fierce and loud Upon his horn he blew the warning blast-- From out the woods the Fians hastened fast-- Lo! when they stared towards the western sky, They saw their winter dwelling blazing high.

Then fear possessed them for their own, and grief Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief, To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought-- ”Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream Are now accomplished--all we loved and cherished, And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!”

White-lipped they heard.... Then, wailing loud, they ran, Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man, Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears, Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood That swept him to the sea. But no man stood To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim-- And some there were, indeed, who envied him.

V.

As snarls the wolf at bay within the wood On huntsmen and their hounds, so Garry stood Raging before the women who had made Secure retreat within the high stockade; He cursed them all, and their loud laughter rang More bitter to his heart than e'en the pang Of his fierce wounds. Then while his streaming blood Half-blinded him, he hastened to the wood, And a small tree upon his shoulders bore, And fixed it fast against the oaken door, That none might issue forth.

Then once again Towards the wood he turned, but all in vain The women waited his return, till they Grey weary.. for in pain and wrath he lay In a close thicket, brooding o'er his shame, And panting for revenge.

Then Finn's wife came To set the women to the wheel and loom, With angry chiding; and a heavy gloom Fell on them all. ”Who knoweth,” thus she spake, ”What evil may the Fian men o'ertake This day of evil omens. Yester-night I say the pale ghost of my sire with white And trembling lips ... At morn before my sight A raven darted from the wood, and slew A brooding dove ... What fear is mine!... for who Would us defend if our fierce foemen came-- When Garry is against us ... Much I blame Thy wanton deed.” ... The women heard in shame, Nor answer made.

The sun, with fiery gleam, Scattered the feath'ry clouds, as in a dream The spirits of the dead are softly swept From severed visions sweet. A low wind crept Around with falt'ring steps, and, pausing, sighed-- Then fled to murmur from the mountain side Amid the pine-tree shade; while all aglow Ben-Wyvis bared a crest of s.h.i.+ning snow In barren splendour o'er the slumbering strath; While some sat trembling, fearing Garry's wrath, Some feared the coming of the foe, and some Had vague forebodings, and were brooding dumb, And longed to greet the huntsmen. Mothers laid Their babes to sleep, and many a gentle maid Sighed for her lover in that lone stockade; And one who sat apart, with pensive eye, Thus sang to hear the peewee's plaintive cry--

_Peewee, peewee, crying sweet, Crying early, crying late-- Will your voice be never weary Crying for your mate?

Other hearts than thine are lonely, Other hearts must wait.

Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying O'er the hills and o'er the sea, Till I found the love I long for Whereso'er he'd be-- Peewee crying, I'd be flying, Could I fly like thee!_

When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose, He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows To fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath The hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath He made resolve to heap the splintered wood Against the door, and burn the hated brood Of his tormentors one and all. He hewed An ample pyre, then piled it thick and high, While the sun, sloping to the western sky, Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day.

But the doomed women little dreamed that they Would have such fearsome end ... As Garry lay Rubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow, He heard a Fian mother singing low--

_Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee-- Moolachie, O moolachie.

Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone, Moolachie, mine own.

Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye, And the goblins will not get ye, I will s.h.i.+eld ye, I will pet ye-- Moolachie, mine own._