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It's Murdo Ban, the luckless man, Against her would prevail; And first her eye was on his churn, Then on the milking pail; When she would praise the brindled cow, The cow began to ail.
The trout that gambol in the pool She'll wound when she goes past; Then weariness will come upon The fins that flicked so fast; And one by one the lifeless things Will on the stones be cast.
O Mairi Dhu, you gave yon sprain To poor Dun Para's arm; It is myself would have the work Undoing of the harm-- I'd twist around the three-ply cord Well-knotted o'er the charm.
Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe O' Lachlan o' Loch-Gla.s.s; He'd fill the wooden ladle where The dead and living pa.s.s-- And with the water, silver-charmed, He'd save his little la.s.s.
I'll lock my cheese within the chest, My b.u.t.ter I will hide; I'll bar the byre at milking time, Although you'll wait outside-- You'll maybe go another way-- Who'll care for you to bide?
A CURSING
So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues, When the men will be fighting afar-- Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold When it's only with women they'll war
Weasels that creep in the dark!
Foxes that prowl in the night!
Rats that are hated and vile!-- O hasten you out of my sight!
Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?-- This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof If you hadna' a roof to your cave
Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves-- Whose meal will you have in your bag?
Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush-- Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man-- His fame for the thieving is gone To the reivers and rogues of your clan
You'll spare me "so old and so frail, Fitter to die than to live?"
But maybe I'll slay with the tongue And the heart that will never forgive
The curse of the frail will be strong, The curse of the widow be sure; O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge, Black, black is the curse of the poor!
Ha! laugh at your ease while you can-- Laugh! it's the devil's turn next-- For after I'm done with you all, O who will be doleful and vext?
Bare-kneed on the ground will I go-- My hair on my shoulders let fall, Now hear me and never forget My curses I'll cast on you all
_Little increase to your clan!
The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
The luck o' a Friday on moors!
Fire upon land be your lot!
Drowning in storm on the deep!
Leave not a son to succeed!
Leave not a daughter to weep!
Here's the bad meeting to you!
Death without priest be your fate!
Go to your grandfather's[3] house-- The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_
[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]
[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]
[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"--The grave]
[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"--The devil]
LEOBAG'S[1] WARNING.
Would Murdo make the wry mouth?
Is Ailie cross-eyed?
O mock no more the beggar man, You'll scorn wi' pride!
The wind that will be blowing west, Might turn and blow south-- O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes And Murdo's wry mouth.
O mind ye o' the Leobag And yon rock cod-- "Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried, "For the hook and rod!"
The tide it would be turning while The Leobag would mock-- And that is why it's gaping as It gaped below the rock.
[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.]
TOBER MHUIRE.
(WELL OF ST MARY.)
'Tis for thee I will be pining, _Tober Mhuire_.
Thou art deep and sweet and shining, _Tober Mhuire_.
In the dimness I'll be dying, And my soul for thee is sighing With the blessings on thee lying-- _Tober Mhuire_.
O thy cool, sweet waters dripping, _Tober Mhuire_, Now my sere lips would be sipping, _Tober Mhuire_.
O my lips are sere and burning-- For thy waters I'll be yearning, And yon road of no returning, _Tober Mhuire_.
O thy coolness and thy sweetness, _Tober Mhuire_.
O thy sureness and completeness, _Tober Mhuire_.
O this life I would be leaving, With the greyness of its grieving, And the deeps of its deceiving, _Tober Mhuire_.
I would sip thy waters holy, _Tober Mhuire_.
While the drops of life drip slowly, _Tober Mhuire_-- Till the wings of angel whiteness, With their softness and their lightness, Blind me, fold me, in their brightness-- _Tober Mhuire_.
