Donald Alexander Mackenzie
Elves and Heroes

HER EVIL EYE

O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife,
  Will have the evil eye;
The fear will come about my heart
  When she'll be passing by;
She'll have the piercing look to wound
  The very birds that fly.

I would not have her evil wish,
  I would not have her praise,
For like the shadow would her curse,
  Me follow all my days—
When she my churning will speak well,
  No butter can I raise.

O Mairi Dhu will have the eye
  To wound the very deer—
Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns
  When her they would come near?
They'll have the red cords round their necks,
  So they'll have naught to fear.

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-Glass;
He'd fill the wooden ladle where
  The dead and living pass—
And with the water, silver-charmed,
  He'd save his little lass.

I'll lock my cheese within the chest,
  My butter 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 Quithens³ 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 Maclan⁴ 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's⁵ house—
  The Son of the Cursing⁶ will wait!_

LEOBAG'S⁷ 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.

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.

SLEEPY SONG

(Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians.)

  Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid,
    Sleep in the deep lone cave;
Sleep a little—a little little,
    Love whom my love I gave—
  Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid,
    Wearily falls the wave.

  Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
  Sleep, and have never a fear;
Sleep a little—a little little,
    Love whom I love so dear—
  A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
    A weary wind I hear.

  Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid,
  Sleep, while I watch till you wake;
  Sleep a little—a little little,
    Love whom I'll ne'er forsake—
Sleep a little, and blessings on you
    My lamb, or my heart will break.

SONG OF THE SEA

The sea sings loud, the sea sings low,
And sweet is the chime of its ebb and flow
Over the shingly strand;
For its strange, sweet song that woos my ear
The first man heard, as the last shall hear—
Seeking to understand …

THE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN

  Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh,
  Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death;
  And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry—
  An evil omen the magician saith—
  A low gust panted like a man's last breath,
  As morning crept into the chamber black;
Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack.

  For the last time his evil foemen came;
  The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led.
  The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame;
  The duns were fallen and the fords ran red;
  And widows fled, lamenting for their dead,
  To fair Emania on that fateful day,
Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay.

  Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair,
  Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes,
  The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare.
  And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise;
  Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise,
  Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms,
And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms.

  His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide
  In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood
  All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride—
  His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hood
  Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood
  Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd
Levarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept

  Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer,
  And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice—
  The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear,
  Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise,
  But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice,
  Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound,
And wept big tears of blood before him on the ground

  Then to his chariot leapt the lord of war
  'O leave me not!' Levarchan cried in woe,
  Thrice fifty queens, who gather'd from afar,
  Moan'd with one voice, 'Ah, would'st thou from us go?'
  They smote their hands, and fast their tears did flow—
  Cuchullin's chariot thunder'd o'er the plain
Full well he knew that he would ne'er return again

  How vehement and how beautiful they swept—
  The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold
  And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept,
  Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd
  The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold
  Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres,
Slender and tall and red—the King of Charioteers!

  Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray,
  His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh
  A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay,
  He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high,
  As flames the sun upon the western sky,
  His round shield from afar was flashing bright,
Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white

  Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back,
  The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair,
  Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black,
  Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare,
  Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rare
  Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind
His shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind

  Betimes three crones him meet upon the way,
  Half-blind and evil-eyed, with matted hair—
  Workers of spells and witcheries are they—
  The brood of Calatin—beware! beware!
  They proffer of their fulsome food a share,
  And, 'Stay with us a while,' a false crone cries
'Unseemly is the strong who would the weak despise'

  He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground,
  The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake—
  With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound,
  Of which he was forbidden to partake
  But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake,
  And their foul food he in his left hand took—
Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook

  For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget,
  When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night,
  Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet,
  Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight!
  A tender youth thou wert of warrior might,
  And all the land did with thy fame resound,
As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound'

  Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd,
  Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand,
  Till Ere with hate the hero did behold,
  Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land,
  His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand,
  In sunny splendour was his spear upraised,
And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed

  He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near
  'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!'
  Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear—
  'Now link thy shields and close together throng,
  And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long
  Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart,
Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart

  As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar
  Assault the giant trees and lay them low,
  As billows toss the seaweed on the shore,
  As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow—
  Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe,
  Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain,
To drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain

  And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood
  In feignčd strife upon a knoll of green,
  Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood,
  A satirist him besought to intervene,
  Whereat he slew them as he drave between—
  "Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while,
The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee revile."

  'Reviled for churlishness I ne'er have been,"
  Cuchullin call'd, up-rising in his pride,
  And cast his ashen spear bronze-tipp'd and keen
  And slew the satirist and nine beside,
  Then his fresh onslaught made the host divide
  And flee before him clamouring with fear,
The while the stealthy Lugaid seized Cuchullin's spear

  "O sons of Calatin," did Lugaid call,
  "What falleth by the weapon I hold here?"
  Together they acclaim'd, "A King will fall,
  For so foretold," they said, "the aged seer."
  Then at the chariot he flung the spear,
  And Laegh was stricken unto death and fell
Cuchullin drew the spear and bade a last farewell

  "The victor I, and eke the charioteer!"
  He cried, and drave the war-steeds fierce and fast.
  Another pair he slew, "To me thy spear,"
  Again a satirist call'd. The spear was cast,
  And through the satirist and nine men pass'd
  But Lugaid grasps it, and again doth call,—
"What falleth by this spear?" They shout, "A King will fall"

  "Then fall," cried Lugaid, as he flung the spear—
  The Grey of Macha sank in death's fierce throes,
  Snapping the yoke, the while the Black ran clear:
  Cuchullin groan'd, and dash'd upon his foes;
  Another pair he slew with rapid blows,
  And eke the satirist and nine men near:
Then once more Lugaid sprang to seize the charmčd spear.

  "What falleth by this weapon?" he doth call
  "A King will fall," they answer him again …
  "But twice before ye said, 'A King will fall'" …
  They cried, "The King of Steeds hath fled the plain,
  And lo, the King of Charioteers is slain!" …
  For the last time he drave the spear full well,
And smote the great Cuchullin—and Cuchullin fell

  The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left alone
  The King of Heroes dying on the plain:
  "I fain would drink," they heard Cuchullin groan,
  "From out yon loch" … He thirsted in fierce pain.
  "We give thee leave, but thou must come again,"
  His foemen said; then low made answer he,
"If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me"

  His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie,
  And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no moan.
  Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die,
  Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone …
  He wended to the standing pillar-stone,
  Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear,
And to his foemen called, "Come ye, and meet me here."

  A vision swept upon his fading brain—
  A passing vision glorious and sweet,
  That hour of youth return'd to him again
  When he took arms with fearless heart a-beat,
  As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat,
  "Who taketh arms upon this day of grief,
His name shall live forever and his life be brief"

  Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye,
  His body to the pillar-stone he bound,
  Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die …
  He would die standing … so they gathered round
  In silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground,
  And watch'd the hero who with Death could strive;
But no man durst approach … He seem'd to be alive …