places Macphee and his father were shifted to, he mentions Coanich, Coul of Glendessary, Glackfern, Derry-nan-Cluanan in Glenkingie, Kenmore of Loch Arkaig, from whence they sheilled to Altgoueach of Loch Quoich, Glen Pean, Inverkiacha-nish of Glendessary, at which place he was married. He gave the names mostly of a breakneck sound and appearance, of all the sheilings on both sides of the River Kingie, although the very highest had the modest cognomen of Brai-dubh. That he left Glendessary and the other glens for ever, about twenty years ago, and has since resided at Corpach. Ewen Mackinnon, crofter, Corpach, said he was born at Tarrovich, in Glen Lui, two years after the battle of Culloden. Had served as herd to Mr. Henry Butter, at Monaquoich, and to Glencoe. That Mr. Butter was also tenant of Killinan in Glengarry, and one of the places, where he had a sheiling bothy, was called Luib-mor-Corry-na-gaul. That he knows Main Clach Ard, and the Cairn called the Carra, where the three properties of Glengarry, Lochiel, and Lovat meet, Lovat's North Morar having formerly been the property of Glengarry. Witness had seen droves of cattle coming from Loch Hourn Head, by Main Corrybeg across the Gearuinn. That Barisdale gave grass to these droves at Reach-a-choisi, and Mr. Butter gave them grass on the Mainger. Thereafter these droves took the route through Glenkingie to the Black Knowts, or Tigh-a-Crockan, at the head of Loch Arkaig. Interrogated whether the march at the cairn at Main Clach Ard is at a point close to or near where the waters of Knoydart and Morar turn or back from those of Glendessary. Depones that he thinks so. (To be continued.) THE LAND OF BENS AND HEROES. Translation of Neil Macleod's Song "An tir 'bu mhiann leinn"-Clarsach an Doire, 2nd Ed. page 81. Air-Auld Lang Syne. Then fill your cuachs unto the brim, Wi' the sparkling dews that cheer us, There's mony a lad that's far awa’, Who'd drain a toast to the land we love, There's mony a hearth 'mang the Hielan hills, While ocean's breakers lash the shore, But if it should be forever, And here we should meet no more, That lies by the western shore, Where the voice of Niambht gives welcome When the sun of life is sinking, I shall come to thee my love. (Chorus) And nothing we twain shall sever, * In many parts of Scotland and Ireland the superstition exists that lovers whose vows have, through fate, been unfulfilled on earth, will meet in the Isle of Youth, which lies in the Western Sea, and is ruled by Angus, the Celtic God of love. The voice of Niambh (Neeve), a beautiful spirit maiden, has been heard by mortals for ages. + Niambh, pronounced "Neeve." UNPUBLISHED SONGS OF THE REAY COUNTRY. BY REV. ADAM GUNN, M.A., DURNESS. (Continued from page 89.) NOTHER bardess of the period immed iately succeeding Rob Donn, was Barbara-Nin-Rob, already referred to. Her son is still living-an old man who supplied valuable information in the recent controversy about the bard's surname. Barbara's father was Robert Mackay, a comtemporary elder of Rob Donn, when the latter was an assessor of the Kirk-Session. He was known as Robert Mac-Ian, or more fully, as in Baptismal Register, Rob-Mac-Ian-mac-Uilleam-macNeill. Barbara's father was on very intimate terms with the bard, whose daughter Isobel was married to John Mac-Jan, Robert's brother. This habit of designating parties by means of genealogical trees going back to three, four, and sometimes five generations-Uilleam Mac Dhòn'll 'ic Huistean, mac Dhòn'l ic Gilbert-makes the loss of surnames in the Reay Country much more difficult than some folk imagine. removed by death; and satires upon passing events of public interest. I shall here give a few specimens of each class: 1. Marbhrann le Barbara-nin-Rob air cluinntinn bàs Pheggie Nic-Diarmaid, bean uasal, dhiadhuidh an Duthaich 'Ic-Aoidh, agus Mhr. Ceannadaidh a' Chaisteal Ruadh. "Bu chomaradan firinneach A' mhuinntir chaidh thoirt uainn, Nach mòr an dithis fhianuisean 'S iomadh neach a dh'iarradh dhoibh Ach thug mionad iad gu siorruidheachd Cha b'aithne dhomhsa air thalamh A' struthadh sios mar chèir; 'N an cantanas, 's 'n an gniomhra 'N am fianuisean an Dè. Nach soilleir tha e feuchainn dhuinn Cianalas 'bhi dlùth 'N trath chaidh leithid so de dh' fhianuisean A spionadh air gach taobh (tù) Cha bu bheag an diamhaireachd Gu 'n leigte an gniomh 's an cliù 'Chur do thìr na dìachuimhne leo Gu chaireamh sios fo 'n ùir. Ged a bha na millte Ann an Israel de shluagh 'S iad uile air an aon inntinn Gus an Righ a chumail suas ; 'N trath chual e 'n ceannard treubhach A dh'aon bheum thoirt do 'n uaigh Ghlaodh e "'S lag a tha mi Oir gheibh mo naimhde buaidh Tha e duilich do na càirdean 'Bhi g'an càireamh anns an uaigh Ach cunnartach bhi 'g àicheadh Na bheireadh 'n t-Ard-Righ bhuainn Oir tha gealladh cinnteach Anns an fhirinn air a luaidh Tha 'g radh "Is mise an Ti sin 'Chumas puist na tìre suas." 'S ann tha sealbh neo-chumanta Air na tha ri t-obair fein 'N trath chi iad nithe duilich Bheireadh tuisleadh air an ceum Ceart mar thuirt an Salmadair Ri ni bha garbh do-dheanta "Dh'fhan mi 'm thosd gun argumaid Oir leatsa do rinneadh e. Tha fios agam nach urra' mi An cliu a chur an gèill 'S tha fios agam nach buineadh dhomh Ged a tha mo nàduir Ga fhàsgadh uam le eud 'S ann dh' fheumas mi bhi 'g fhàgail Do 'n àl a thig mo dhèigh.' 2. Marbhrann do Mhrs. Scobaidh, bean uasal dhiadhuidh an Cealldal, Sgire Dhùiranais. 'S e mo thìr (a) chaidh gu h-uilinn Iad a dh' easbhuidh 'n ceann-cinnidh Chraobh bhuadhach bha taitneach Bheireadh biadh do 'n fhear acrach 'S ann 'do chridhe bha 'n reùsan (d) Ri ni nach b'urrainn mi innseadh ? 'S iomadh duine tha air chuairt annta Cionnus chuirinnse metre Air na gibhtean bha dlùth riut? Gu'm biodh do chomhairle g'a stiùradh Bhitht' an comainn do chuimhne Cho luath 'sa bhios neach abuich A thoirt a stigh gu bhi 'g innseadh Ma thug iad uainne le cabhaig Co chuig' idir a thèid sinn 'N trath thig èigin no sàs oirnn'. Ach c'arson chuirear 'n teagamh Na 'm faigheadh sinn creidimh a dh'iarradh Gu'm bi 'fhianuis' air thalamh Fhada's bhios gealach no grian ann? 3. Marbhrann do Chaiptein Uilleam Scobaidh Ardbhàr, Sgire Assint. 'Chaiptein Uilleam bha 'n Assainnt Co b'urr' dhol a dh'aithris Na h-uile buaidh bha mar-ruit Tha mi faicinn do chuideachd Fhuir thu creidimh o'n Ard-Righ THE SURNAME MACLURE, M'CLURE OR M'LURE. SIR,-I thought some of your numerous readers would have replied to your correspondent, Spectemur Agendo, before now. I am not sanguine enough to suppose that I have solved the difficult question put regarding the origin of the name Maclure, but perhaps I may be able to throw some light on the stock from which it may have emanated. Not a few Highland surnames are derived from colours, with the term gille, servant or son, prefexed From donn, brown, we get Mac'Illedhuinn, a Gaelic form of the surname Brown. From odhar, dun, seems to come Mac Clare and Maclure, that is M''Illeuidhir-son or servant of the dun coloured one. The late Dr. Maclauchlan in his "Celtic Gleanings" regards MacClare and MacClure as from M'Gille-leabhair-son of the servant of the Book-probably an ecclesiastical functionary. In another way also the surname Maclure may owe its origin to an ecclesiastical source. The surname Dewar comes from deoradh, a pilgrim or anchorite. It takes the form Dewar and M'Indeor. In Islay it takes the form of M'Illeòra-the son of the Dewar's-gille. In English it sometimes takes the form M'Leoir and M Lure.-I am, etc., FIONN. HERE was at some time or other before now in Glen Nevis a widow, and she had a son. Widow Macrae was the woman's name, and the name of her son was John. There was no lad in Lochaber who was a better son, and he was quick at the learning of the hardest things. John Macrae and his mother lived in a cottage near the entrance to the Glen of Heaven, as the name of the place reads in the Gaelic, and there was not a day in all the year that John Macrae was vexing his mother. He was the mother's boy altogether. He carried the stoups and tethered the cow, and went out to the fishing in the Loch, and there was no one in Linnhetown that was luckier at the fishing and readier with the hand at anything than he. So the good folks of Linnhetown called him the Shifty Lad. Now on a day of days it fell that the Shifty Lad was going up the hill at the darkening to fetch home the red cow to the byre, and when he was just coming out of the birchen planting whom should he meet but the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle. A right fair dame was this, and no mistake, but the Shifty Lad could have wished to meet anyone rather than the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle, and his heart began to loup and flutter with the soft beauty of her. "Ha ha, my Shifty Lad," laughed she, and with a shake of her head and a queer light in the eyes of her, she began to smile on the son of Widow Macrae. "Come with me, and it is I that will shew you a thing or two that will pass all you ever knew before." "I am not caring to know anything at all," replied the Shifty Lad, "let me go!" "So ho! and who is keeping you?" laughed she. And the Shifty Lad was at a loss, for sure enough, she had not laid a finger on the man, and yet he stood there foolish-like and wishful to be away, but he could not move either this way or that. Then the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle looked at the Shifty Lad and spoke in a voice of honey that seemed to make him think of everything better than another, moving her lily-white hands in front of him and breathing with her warm breath all over the face of him, so that he could mind nothing but the glamour of her. "I am laying thee under spells and under crosses, under holy herdsmen of quiet travelling, and under strange wandering women and the little child most feeble and powerless, to take thy head and thine ear and thy wearing of life from thee if thou ever returnest home again the same as thou hast come." Then the Shifty Lad saw the beauty of it and was lost. After that she took a clout from her pocket and waved it and there was no knowing whence she had come or whither she went. But the Shifty Lad went no more for the red cow, and when he got home his mother looked at him, and then sat down on the stool by the peats and began to weep softly. Next day was the Sabbath day, and Widow Macrae put her Book in a napkin white as snow and asked if the Shifty Lad would be going as usual to the church with her, but he only laughed at her, and his laugh broke her heart. So she cried to him "Oh, son of mine, what art wilt thou be after now?" and he answered, "The first art which thou wilt hear tell of when thou comest out of sermon to-day, that is my art now, and for ever and a day." So Widow Macrae went her way to the preaching. Then the Shifty Lad went to the wood that was next to the church and when his mother came out from the sermon he cried, "Robbing and rieving, and stealing and thieving." She looked ronnd and round and saw no one, and then she took her way home. The Shifty Lad went across the hill by the short road and met her at the door of the cottage. "And what tale have ye got mother," said he. "None, my poor lad, but that when I was coming out from the preaching I heard a voice in the air that said "Robbing and rieving, and stealing and thieving." "And that's the art for me," cried the Shifty Lad, as he went away up the road and over the hill, with the spell of the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle upon him. And he was going and going and journeying until he came on a man with the look on the face of him that he knew, and the lad from Linnhetown said, "Thou art from the Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle?" And the man answered, "And thou art the Shifty Lad." So they made friends at once. The name of the stranger was the Black Rascal, but the Shifty Lad was knowing it fine without asking. Now it chanced that there was to be a wedding in that place, and the rich Laird was bidden as a guest, so he was for sending a present. He told his herd to go up to the hill and bring back a wether for the wedding feast. So the herd went up to the hill and brought back a wether on his shoulders, and he went through the wood where the Black Rascal and the Shifty Lad lived. "See you the herd with a wether on his shoulders," said the Shifty Lad to the Black Rascal. "Aye, but who can steal that?" "I can," replied the widow's son. With that he ran through the wood and placed one of his fine shoes with some dirt in it on the path where the herd had to pass, and then he hid behind a tree. When the herd came up he looked at the shoe and said to himself, "A fine shoe, and no mistake, but it is dirty and there is no neighbour to it." So he passed on. Then the Shifty Lad ran forward through the wood again and placed his other shoe in the path, and when the herd came up he said, "Ha! here is the neighbour of the dirty shoe, and it is a fine pair of shoes they will make to me when they are cleaned. So he laid down the wether and went back for the other shoe. The Shifty Lad seized the wether and ran into the wood with it, and when the herd came back he found no wether. So he went home and told his master, and the rich Laird was angry, but there was no help for it. The next day the rich Laird sent the herd up to the hill for a kid. And the herd went up the hill and brought a kid down through the wood. And the Shifty Lad said to the Black Rascal "See the herd has a kid on his shoulder." "And who can steal the kid?" asked the Black Rascal. "I can," replied the Shifty Lad, and he ran about the wood and began to bleat like the wether. The herd stopped and listened and thought he heard the wether bleating, so he laid down the kid and began to look for the wether which he had lost the day before, and while he was busy at the looking the Shifty Lad went and stole the kid. So the herd went home again and told his master that he had lost the kid. The rich Laird was angered at him, but there was no help for it. The next day the rich Laird sent the herd up to the hill and told him to bring home a stot for the wedding party. And when the herd was coming back through the wood with the stot the Shifty Lad said to the Black Rascal, "See, there is the herd again with a stot." "Ay, but a stot is neither a wether nor a kid, and who could steal a stot?" asked the Black Rascal. "I can," laughed the Shifty Lad. Then he sent the Black Rascal to one side of the wood and went himself to the other. So from the one side of the wood came the bleating of the wether and from the other side came the bleating of the kid. The herd thought that this time he had found both the wether and the kid that he had lost, and he ran into the wood and left the stot standing. Out came the Shifty Lad and stole the stot and drove it home to the hut where he and the Black Rascal lived. And they both made merry over their spoils. The herd went home for the third time and told his master that he had lost the stot. The rich Laird was madly angered at the herd, but there was no help for it, and the wedding was on the morrow, so he told the herd to go away up to the hill again and bring down a kid and not to let it off his shoulder till he reached home. And this time the herd managed to bring the kid back. This is how the Shifty Lad and the Black Rascal lived, until one day they had words, and ever after that they pretended only to be friendly to one another. It happened that as they were climbing a wooded hill on an evening they came upon a rope hanging from a tree with a loop on the end of it. "Ha, ha!" laughed the Shifty Lad, "we are both like to end on a rope, and I am for seeing what it is like to begin with, so you pull me gently up from the ground a bit, and then let me down again," and with that he ran to the tree and put his head in the loop and the Black Rascal pulled him gently up from the ground. The Shifty Lad began to wink with an eye and to kick with his legs so the Black Rascal let him down. "If hanging is like that," said the Shifty Lad, "then hanging for me. I was just kicking my legs with the pleasure of it. Now you try. And when you are wishful to come down whistle to me, and if you are wishful to go higher just kick with your legs." So the Black Rascal put his head in the loop and the Shifty Lad pulled him up. He began to kick with his legs at once but there was no whistle whatever. "So ho!" said the Shifty Lad, "you are enjoying it, are you? And you are not whistling |