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  • The Poems of Ossian

The Poems of Ossian 

The Poems of Ossian which were published by James Macpherson in 1765 and attributed to the legendary warrior poet Ossian, were an enormous literary phenomenon during the late 18th Century. 
They were received with huge enthusiasm and were considered to be amongst the most significant literary works to have emerged from the British Isles.
President Thomas Jefferson thought Ossian "the greatest poet who ever lived" and planned to learn Gaelic to be able to read the Poems in their original form. Napoleon carried a copy on campaign, Sir Walter Scott was influenced by them and Oscar Wilde was Christened "Oscar Fingal Wilde" in honour of two of the Poems key protagonists.
However the Poems met with considerable controversy with doubts about Macpherson's source material. The suspicion was that Macpherson had written them himself although he always maintained that he had drawn the material from old Gaelic manuscripts.
Whatever the truth of it, "The Poems of Ossian" remain unsurpassed in melancholic beauty and it was as the poet of loss and isolation that William Hazlitt remembered Ossian, in his selection of the world's principal works of poetry (alongside Homer, Dante and the Bible).
The works of Ossian have sadly gone much out of fashion, in no small part due to the 18th century writing style.
I've attempted to present "The Poems of Ossian" in a style which is more accessible to a modern audience and I hope my translation achieves this while maintaining the distinct mood of Macpherson's original work.
 

Ossian

FRAGMENTS OF ANCIENT POETRY

A Modern Literary Version of James Macpherson’s 1760 Collection

 

Editorial note. This is a modern literary rendering of the fifteen fragments published by James Macpherson in Fragments of Ancient Poetry (1760). It is not intended as a literal translation or a reconstruction of Gaelic originals. The aim is to make Macpherson’s narrative, imagery and emotional force readily accessible to a contemporary reader while preserving his characteristic measured, incantatory style.

Approach. Archaic pronouns and grammar have been replaced with contemporary English; inversions have been smoothed where they obscure the sense; repetitions, landscape imagery, heroic comparisons and the melancholy atmosphere have deliberately been retained.

 

Fragment I — Shilric and Vinvela

VINVELA

My love is a son of the hills.
He follows the deer as they run.
His grey dogs pant around him, and the string of his bow sings in the wind.

Perhaps he lies beside the rock, or by the mountain stream,
where the rushes bend and the mist moves across the ground.
Let me come to him unseen.
Let me watch him from the rock.

I first saw you beside the ancient oak,
returning from the hunt, tall among your companions,
the fairest of them all.

SHILRIC

What voice is that I hear?
A voice like the summer wind.

I am not beside the bending rushes.
I do not hear the spring beneath the rock.

Far away, Vinvela, far away I go—
to Fingal's wars.

My dogs no longer follow me.
I no longer walk the hill.
I will no longer look down from its heights
and see you moving beside the plain's stream,
bright as the rainbow in the sky,
bright as the moon on the western sea.

VINVELA

Then you are gone, Shilric,
and I am alone on the hill.

The deer move along the ridge.
They graze without fear.
They no longer fear the wind,
or the trees whispering around them.

The hunter has gone far away.
He is among the graves.

Strangers, sons of the sea,
spare my beloved Shilric.

SHILRIC

If I must fall in battle,
raise my grave high, Vinvela.

Let grey stones and a mound of earth
mark the place where I lie,
so that people in future days will know.

When the hunter rests beside my mound
and brings out his meal at noon,
he will say, “A warrior lies here.”

And my name will live in his words.

Remember me, Vinvela,
when I am lying low in the earth.

VINVELA

Yes. I will remember you.

My Shilric will fall.
What will I do, my love,
when you are gone forever?

At noon I will walk these hills.
I will cross the silent heath.
I will see the places where I so often watched you
returning from the hunt.

My Shilric will fall.

But I will remember him.

 

Fragment II — Shilric and the Spirit of Vinvela

I sit beside the mossy spring,
on the summit of the hill of winds.

One tree rustles above me.
Dark waves move across the heath.
The lake is troubled below.
The deer come down from the hill.

No distant hunter appears.
No herdsman whistles nearby.

It is midday,
yet everything is silent.

I sit alone with my sorrow.

If only you would appear, my love,
a wanderer crossing the heath—
your hair streaming behind you in the wind,
your breast rising with breath,
your eyes full of tears for the friends
whom the mountain mist has hidden.

I would comfort you, my love,
and lead you home to your father's house.

But is that really you,
appearing there like a beam of light across the heath?
Bright as the autumn moon,
bright as the sun shining through a summer storm?

She speaks—
but how faint her voice,
like a breeze moving through the reeds.

Listen.

VINVELA

Have you returned safely from the war?
Where are your friends, my love?

I heard that you had died on the hill.
I heard it,
and I mourned you, Shilric.

SHILRIC

Yes, my fair one, I have returned—
but I am the only one left of my people.

You will never see them again.
I raised their graves upon the plain.

But why are you here,
alone on this desolate hill?
Why have you come out upon the heath?

VINVELA

I am alone, Shilric.
Alone in the winter house.

Grief for you killed me.

Shilric, I am pale in the tomb.

She fades.
She drifts away like grey mist before the wind.

Will you not stay, my love?
Stay and look upon my tears.

You are beautiful now.
You were beautiful when you lived.

By the mossy spring I will sit,
on the summit of the hill of winds.

When midday falls silent around me,
speak to me, my love.

Come on the wings of the gale.
Come on the mountain wind.

Let me hear your voice as you pass,
when the world is silent at noon.

 

Fragment III — The Ghost of Malcolm

Evening lies grey upon the hills.
The north wind roars through the woods.
White clouds rise into the sky,
and trembling snow begins to fall.

Far away, the river cries as it winds through the valley.

Beside a hollow rock sat grey-haired Carryl.
Dry fern waved above his head.
He sat beneath an ancient birch
and raised his voice of grief into the roaring wind.

Malcolm—the hope of the islands,
the defender of the poor,
the enemy of the proud—
is being carried across the restless sea.

Why have you left us?
Why are we still alive to mourn you?

We could have heard the deep sea together.
We could have seen the rocks beneath the waves.

On the shore beaten by the sea,
your wife waits for your return.

The time of your promise has come.
Night gathers around her.

But there is no white sail upon the water.
No voice comes across the sea,
only the wild wind.

The spirit of war is broken.
The hair of youth is wet with grief.

You lie at the foot of some rock,
washed by the waves as they come.

Why did you carry him there, winds?
Why did you roll over him, waves?

But what voice is that?

Who rides upon that fiery meteor?

His limbs are green and insubstantial.

It is he.

It is the ghost of Malcolm.

Rest, beautiful spirit, rest upon the rock.
Let me hear your voice.

He is gone—
gone like a dream in the night.

I see him through the trees.

Daughter of Reynold,
he is gone.

Your husband will never return.

His hounds will never again come down from the hill,
running ahead of their master.

His voice will never again come from the distant rock
to greet your ear.

He is silent in the deep,
unhappy daughter of Reynold.

I will sit beside the stream of the plain.
Let the rocks hang above my head.

Hear my voice, trees,
as you bend over the rough hill.

My voice will preserve the memory
of Malcolm,
the hope of the islands.

 

Fragment IV — Connal and Crimora

CRIMORA

Who is coming from the hill,
like a cloud touched by the light of sunset?

Whose voice is that,
loud as the wind,
yet sweet as Carryl's harp?

It is my love, shining in his armour.
But his brow is dark with sorrow.

Does the mighty race of Fingal still live?
What troubles my Connal?

CONNAL

They live.

I saw them returning from the hunt,
bright as a stream of light.
The sun shone upon their shields
as they came down the hill in a line.

The young warriors are loud with energy.
War is near, my love.

Tomorrow the great Dargo will come
to test the strength of our people.

He defies the race of Fingal—
the race born to battle and wounds.

CRIMORA

Connal, I saw his ships,
like grey mist upon the dark sea.

They came ashore.

There are many warriors with Dargo.

CONNAL

Bring me your father's shield—
the iron shield of Rinval,
round and bright like the full moon
when it is darkened by the clouds.

CRIMORA

I will bring it.

But that shield did not save my father.
He fell beneath Gauror's spear.

You may fall too, Connal.

CONNAL

I may indeed.

But raise my grave, Crimora.

A few stones and a mound of earth
will keep my memory alive.

You are beautiful, my love,
bright as light,
more pleasant than the wind on the hill.

But I will not remain.

Raise my grave, Crimora.

CRIMORA

Then give me those shining weapons—
the sword and the spear of steel.

I will meet Dargo beside you.
I will fight for my beloved Connal.

Farewell, rocks of Ardven.
Farewell, deer.
Farewell, streams of the hills.

We will not return.

Our graves lie far away.

 

Fragment V — Connal and Crimora

Autumn is dark upon the mountains.
Grey mist rests on the hills.
The whirlwind is heard across the heath.

The river rolls darkly through the narrow valley.

A single tree stands upon the hill,
marking Connal's grave.
Leaves spin around it in the wind
and cover the grave of the dead.

Sometimes the ghosts of the departed are seen there,
when the thoughtful hunter moves slowly
across the lonely heath.

Who can trace the beginning of your race, Connal?
Who can name all your fathers?

Your family grew like an oak upon the mountain,
meeting the wind with its high branches.

But now it has been torn from the earth.

Who will take the place of Connal?

Here once were the clash of weapons
and the cries of the dying.

Mournful are the wars of Fingal.

Here, Connal, you fell.

Your arm was like a storm.
Your sword was like a flash of the sky.
You stood like a rock upon the plain.
Your eyes burned like fire.

Your voice was louder than a storm
when you shook the battlefield.

Warriors fell beneath your sword
like thistles beneath a boy's staff.

Then mighty Dargo came,
like a thundercloud.

His brow was dark and drawn.
His eyes were like two caves in a rock.

Their swords flashed on either side.
The air rang with steel.

Rinval's daughter stood nearby—
Crimora, bright in a man's armour,
her hair loose behind her,
her bow in her hand.

She had followed Connal, the man she loved, into war.

She drew her bow against Dargo.

But the arrow went astray
and struck Connal.

He fell like an oak upon the plain,
like a rock breaking from the mountain.

What could the helpless girl do?

He was bleeding.
Her Connal was dying.

All night she cried,
and all the day:

“Connal, my love.
Connal, my friend.”

At last grief killed the mourner.

The earth holds the loveliest pair upon the hill.

Grass grows between the stones of their grave.
I sit beneath the sorrowful shade.

The wind sighs through the grass,
and their memory returns to me.

Now you sleep together in peace.

In the mountain's tomb,
you rest alone.

 

Fragment VI — The Death of Ullin

SON OF THE NOBLE FINGAL

Ossian, prince of men,
why do tears run down the cheeks of old age?
What has darkened your mighty spirit?

OSSIAN

Memory, son of Alpin.

Memory wounds the old.

My thoughts return to former times—
to Fingal the great.
The family of the king comes back into my mind,
and remembrance wounds me again.

One day we returned from hunting in the mountains,
chasing the deer across the heights.

Our young warriors filled this heath.

Fingal was there,
and Oscar, my son, mighty in war.

Then, from the sea, a young woman appeared before us.

Her breast was white as fresh snow.
Her cheek was like a rosebud.
Her blue eyes were gentle,
but grief filled her heart.

“Fingal, famous in war,” she cried,
“sons of the king, protect me.”

“Speak without fear,” said the king.
“Daughter of beauty, tell us your story.
Our ears are open.
Our swords defend the wronged.”

“I flee from Ullin,” she said,
“Ullin, famous in war.

I flee from the embrace of a man
who would dishonour my blood.

My father was Cremor,
friend of men,
prince of Inverne.”

Fingal's younger sons rose—
Carryl, skilled with the bow;
Fillan, beloved by women;
and Fergus, first among warriors.

“Who has come from distant Lochlin?
Who has crossed the seas of Molochasquir?

Who dares harm the woman
whom Fingal's sons protect?

Daughter of beauty, rest secure.
Rest in peace,
fairest of women.”

Far out upon the blue sea
something appeared like the back of a wave.

Then the ship grew larger.

Ullin brought it to shore.

The mountains seemed to tremble beneath him.
The hills shook beneath his steps.
His armour clattered terribly.

Death and destruction were in his eyes.

He moved like a flash of steel.

Our warriors fell before him
like a field before reapers.

He bound the three sons of Fingal.

Then he drove his sword into the woman's breast.

She fell like a wreath of snow
beneath the spring sun.

Her breast heaved once in death,
and her life went out in blood.

Oscar, my son, came down.
The mighty warrior descended.

His armour thundered.
His eyes flashed like lightning.

Swords clashed.
Steel cried out.

They struck and thrust,
digging for death with their blades.

But death was far away.

The sun began to sink,
and even the herdsman thought of home.

Then Oscar's sharp sword found Ullin's heart.

Ullin fell like an ancient oak
covered in shining frost.

He lay bright upon the plain like a rock.

Here lies the daughter of beauty.
Here lies the bravest of men.

Here, in a single day,
the beautiful and the mighty were brought to an end.

Here rest the hunter and the hunted.

Son of Alpin,
the sorrows of old age are many.

The tears of the old belong to the past.

Your story has awakened my grief.

Oscar was brave.

But Oscar is gone.

You have heard my sorrow, son of Alpin.
Forgive the tears of an old man.

 

Fragment VII — Oscar, Dermid and the Daughter of Dargo

Why do you open the spring of my grief again,
son of Alpin,
by asking how Oscar fell?

My eyes are blind with tears,
but memory shines within my heart.

How can I tell the mournful death
of the leader of the people?

Prince of warriors,
Oscar, my son—
shall I never see you again?

He fell like the moon in a storm,
like the sun falling from the middle of its course
when clouds rise over the waste of the sea
and the blackness of the storm covers the rocks of Ardannider.

I am like an ancient oak on Morven.
I decay alone where I stand.

The storm has stripped away my branches,
and I tremble beneath the wings of the north.

Prince of warriors,
Oscar, my son—
shall I never see you again?

Dermid and Oscar were one.
They fought side by side.

Their friendship was as strong as their steel,
and death walked with them into battle.

They came upon the enemy like two rocks
falling from the brow of Ardven.

Their swords were stained with the blood of heroes.
Warriors trembled at their names.

Who could match Oscar but Dermid?
Who could match Dermid but Oscar?

Together they killed mighty Dargo,
once thought impossible to defeat.

Dargo's daughter was beautiful as morning,
gentle as the light of night.

Her eyes were like two stars in rain.
Her breath was the spring wind.
Her breast was like fresh snow drifting across the heath.

The warriors saw her and loved her.

Each loved her as he loved his own honour.
Each would possess her or die.

But her heart belonged to Oscar.

My son was the young man she loved.

She forgot that he had shed her father's blood,
and loved the hand that had killed him.

DERMID

Son of Ossian, I love her.

Oscar, I love this woman.

But her heart belongs to you,
and nothing can heal Dermid.

Here—strike this breast, Oscar.
Free me, my friend, with your sword.

OSCAR

My sword will never be stained with Dermid's blood.

DERMID

Then who is worthy to kill me,
Oscar, son of Ossian?

Let my life not pass away without a name.

Let no one but Oscar strike the blow.

Send me to the grave with honour.
Let my death be remembered.

OSCAR

Dermid, use your own sword.
Son of Morny, wield your steel.

I wish I could fall beside you,
and that my death might come from Dermid's hand.

They fought beside the mountain stream,
beside the waters of Branno.

Blood coloured the silver water
and gathered around the mossy stones.

Dermid fell—
and smiled as he died.

OSCAR

And you have fallen, son of Morny?
You fell by Oscar's hand.

Dermid, invincible in war—
this is how I see you fall.

He returned to the woman he loved,
but she saw the sorrow on his face.

DAUGHTER OF DARGO

Why are you so troubled, son of Ossian?
What darkens your mighty spirit?

OSCAR

I was once famous for my bow,
but now I have lost my fame.

Gormur the brave,
whom I killed in battle,
has his shield fixed to a tree beside the stream.

I have spent the whole day trying,
but my arrow cannot pierce it.

DAUGHTER OF DARGO

Let me try, son of Ossian.

I was taught to use the bow.
My father took pride in my skill.

She went to the tree.

Oscar stood behind the shield.

Her arrow flew
and pierced his breast.

OSCAR

Blessed is that hand as white as snow,
and blessed is your yew bow.

I am ready for death.

Who but Dargo's daughter
was worthy to kill me?

Lay me in the earth, my love.
Lay me beside Dermid.

DAUGHTER OF DARGO

Oscar!

I carry the blood and spirit of mighty Dargo.

I can meet death without fear.

I can end my sorrow now.

She drove the steel into her own breast.

She fell.
She trembled.
And she died.

By the mountain stream their graves were laid.

The uneven shadow of a birch tree
covers their tombs.

Often, when midday burns over the hills
and silence lies upon the land,
the deer come down to feed
among their green graves.

 

Fragment VIII — Ossian and the Last of Fingal's Race

Beside a rock on the hill,
beneath the ancient trees,
old Ossian sat upon the moss—
the last of Fingal's race.

His old eyes could no longer see.
His beard moved in the wind.

Through the leafless trees
he heard the dull voice of the north.

Sorrow rose again within him,
and he began to mourn the dead.

How have you fallen,
like an oak with all its branches around you?

Where is Fingal, the king?

Where is Oscar, my son?

Where are all my people?

Alas—
they lie in the earth.

I can feel their graves with my hands.

I hear the river below,
murmuring over the stones.

What do you bring me, river?

You bring back the memory of the past.

The race of Fingal once stood upon your banks
like a forest growing in fertile soil.

Their spears were sharp with steel.
Few dared to face their fury.

Great Fillan was there.

You were there too, Oscar, my son.

And Fingal himself stood among us,
strong even beneath the grey hair of age.

His limbs were powerful.
His shoulders were broad.

Woe to the man who met his arm
when his anger rose.

Then came Gaul, son of Morny,
the tallest of men.

He stood upon the hill like an oak.
His voice was like the mountain streams.

“Why does the son of mighty Corval rule alone?”
he cried.

“Fingal is no longer strong enough to protect us.
He cannot support the people.

I am strong as a storm upon the sea,
as a whirlwind upon the hill.

Yield to me, son of Corval.
Fingal, yield to me.”

Oscar stepped forward.

My son would meet the challenger.

But Fingal came in his strength
and smiled at Gaul's proud words.

They seized each other.

They struggled across the plain.

Their heels tore the earth.
Their bones cracked like a boat
leaping from wave to wave.

For a long time they fought.

At night they fell upon the sounding ground,
like two great oaks whose branches have become entwined
before crashing from the hill.

The tall son of Morny was bound.

The old king had overcome him.

Then Minvane came,
beautiful with golden hair,
a smooth neck,
and a breast white as snow.

She was as fair as the spirits of the hills
that glide across the heath at silent noon,
as fair as the rainbow in the sky.

She spoke softly:

“Fingal, release my brother Gaul.

Release the hope of my people,
the terror of everyone except you.”

“Can I deny you?” said the king.

“Take your brother, Minvane—
you are fairer than the snow of the north.”

Those were your words, Fingal.

But I hear your voice no more.

Blind, I sit beside your grave.

I hear the wind moving through the wood,
but never again the voices of my friends.

The hunter's cry has ended.

The voice of war is silent.

 

Fragment IX — Ronnan, Connan and Rivine

You ask, fair daughter of the islands,
whose memory is preserved in these graves.

They hold the memory of Ronnan the brave,
Connan, greatest among men,
and Rivine—
the fairest of women,
lovely and kind.

Time itself carries sorrow.
Every moment brings its own grief.

Why search for pain in distant years?
Why give our tears to those who lived long ago?

But you ask,
and I will tell you.

Conar was mighty in war.
Caul was the friend of strangers.

His gates were open to everyone.
Even at midnight his door was never closed.

Both men lived by the strength of their bows,
and their weapons were the support of the poor.

Connan was the image of Conar's spirit.

Caul lived again in Ronnan, his son.

Rivine, Conar's daughter,
was Ronnan's love.

Her brother Connan was his friend.

She was beautiful as the harvest moon
sinking into the sea of Molochasquir.

Her heart belonged to Ronnan.
The young warrior was the dream of her nights.

RONNAN

Rivine, my love,
I must go to my king in Norway.

A year and a day will bring me home.

Will you remain faithful to Ronnan?

RIVINE

I will spend that year and day in sorrow.

Ronnan, go as a man should.
If you return in honour,
my heart will rejoice in your courage.

RONNAN

Connan, my friend,
will you protect Rivine, your sister?

Durstan loves her,
and soon the sea will bring the stranger to our shore.

CONNAN

I will protect her.

Go in safety.

Ronnan departed.

He returned on the appointed day.

But Durstan had arrived before him.

DURSTAN

Give me your daughter, Conar,
or learn the strength of my power.

CONNAN

Anyone who tries to take my sister
will meet this steel.

My arm does not miss in battle.
My sword is like lightning.

Ronnan the warrior returned
and threatened Durstan fiercely.

Then Euran, the golden-haired servant, warned him:

“Ronnan, tonight Durstan will carry your beloved away
through the northern gate.”

“Then let this arm be cursed,” said Ronnan,
“if he does not meet death there.”

Euran warned Connan as well:

“Tonight the stranger will take your sister.”

“My sword will meet him,” Connan replied.
“He will lie dead upon the earth.”

That night the two friends met the stranger
and fought.

Blood and sweat ran from their bodies
like water over mossy rock.

Connan fell.

“Durstan,” he cried,
“show mercy to Rivine.”

Ronnan looked upon him.

“My friend!
Have I killed you?

Connan—
I did not know you.”

Then Ronnan fought Durstan.

Dawn began to rise around them.

Wounded and exhausted,
they fell and died.

Rivine came out with the morning.

“What is keeping my Ronnan?”

Then she saw him,
pale in his blood,
and beside him her brother,
equally pale.

What could she say?
What could she do?

Her cries were many,
but useless.

She opened a grave for the two warriors
and, before it was closed,
fell into it herself—

like the sun suddenly hidden by a storm.

You have heard this story of grief,
fair daughter of the islands.

Rivine was as beautiful as you.

Spare a tear for her grave.

 

Fragment X — Daura and Shalgar

It is night,
and I am alone,
forsaken on the hill of storms.

The wind moves through the mountains.
The torrent cries as it falls over the rock.

There is no hut to shelter me from the rain.

I am alone on the hill of winds.

Rise, moon,
from behind your clouds.

Stars of the night, appear.

Give me some light
to guide me to the place where my love rests
after the labour of the hunt.

His bow lies beside him,
unstrung,
his dogs breathing heavily around him.

But here I must sit alone,
beside the rock of the moss-covered stream.

The stream and the wind roar together,
and I cannot hear my love's voice.

Why is my Shalgar late?
Why has the son of the hill delayed his promise?

Here is the rock.
Here is the tree.
Here is the roaring stream.

You promised you would be here tonight.

Where have you gone, Shalgar?

With you I would leave my father.
With you, my proud brother.

Our families have long been enemies.

But we are not enemies, Shalgar.

Be silent for a little while, wind.

Be still, stream.

Let my voice carry across the heath.
Let my wanderer hear me.

Shalgar—
it is I who call.

I am here.

Why do you delay?

There is no answer.

Look.

The moon appears.

The flood shines in the valley.
The rocks are grey against the hill.

But I do not see him on the ridge.

His dogs are not coming ahead of him.

I must sit here alone.

But who are those figures lying on the heath beyond me?

Are they my love and my brother?

Speak to me, my friends.

They do not answer.

Fear tears at my soul.

Ah—

they are dead.

Their swords are red with blood.

My brother!
Why did you kill my Shalgar?

And Shalgar—
why did you kill my brother?

You were both dear to me.

Speak to me.

Hear my voice,
sons of my love.

But they are silent.

Silent forever.

Their breasts are cold beneath the clay.

Spirits of the dead,
from the rock of the hill,
from the summit of the mountain of winds,
speak to me.

Speak,
and I will not be afraid.

Where have you gone to rest?

In what cave of the hill can I find you?

I sit in my grief.

I wait for morning through my tears.

Raise the tomb, friends of the dead,
but do not close it until I come.

My life is slipping away like a dream.

Why should I remain behind?

Here I will rest with my friends,
beside the stream and the sounding rock.

When night comes over the hill,
when the wind rises on the heath,
my ghost will stand in the wind
and mourn my friends.

The hunter will hear me from his shelter.

He will fear my voice,
but he will love it.

For my voice will be sweet to my friends,
because they were both dear to me.

 

Fragment XI — Daura

I am sad—
truly sad—
and I have reason enough to grieve.

Kirmor,
you have lost no son.
You have lost no beautiful daughter.

Connar the brave still lives,
and Annir, fairest of women.

The branches of your family still flourish, Kirmor.

But Armyn is the last of his line.

Rise, winds of autumn.
Rise and blow across the dark heath.

Roar, mountain streams.

Howl, storms, through the trees.

Move through the broken clouds, moon,
and show your pale face from time to time.

Bring back to my mind that terrible night
when all my children fell—
when mighty Arindel fell,
and beautiful Daura died.

Daura, my daughter,
you were beautiful.

Fair as the moon over the hills of Jura.
White as driven snow.
Sweet as the breathing wind.

Armor, famous in war, came seeking your love.

You did not refuse him.

Their friends hoped for a happy union.

But Earch, son of Odgal, was filled with hatred,
because Armor had killed his brother.

He came disguised as a man from the sea.

His little boat was beautiful upon the waves.
His hair was white with age.
His face was calm and grave.

He spoke to Daura:

“Fairest of women,
lovely daughter of Armyn,
there is a rock out at sea.

A tree grows upon its side,
and red fruit shines from it in the distance.

Armor waits there for Daura.

I have come to take you to him.

Come, daughter of Armyn.”

She went with him.

When she reached the rock,
she called for Armor.

There was no answer.

Only the rock answered her.

“Armor, my love!
Why do you torment me with fear?

Come, beautiful son of Arduart.
It is Daura who calls you.”

Earch laughed
and fled back to the shore.

Daura raised her voice.

She called for her brother.
She called for her father.

“Arindel!
Armyn!

Is there no one to rescue Daura?”

Her voice carried across the sea.

Arindel, my son,
came down from the hill,
rough from the hunt.

His arrows rattled beside him.
His bow was in his hand.
Five grey dogs followed his steps.

He saw fierce Earch on the shore,
seized him,
and bound him to an oak.

The leather thongs tightened around his limbs.
His groans filled the wind.

Then Arindel took his boat
out across the restless sea
to rescue Daura.

Armor came in fury.

He released his grey-feathered arrow.

It sang through the air
and struck your heart, Arindel, my son.

You died because of Earch's treachery.

What grief must have filled Daura
when her brother's blood poured around her feet.

The boat was broken apart by the waves.

Armor plunged into the sea
to rescue Daura or die with her.

Then suddenly a storm burst from the hill.

Armor sank beneath the waves
and never rose again.

Alone upon the sea-beaten rock,
my daughter cried out.

Again and again she called.

Her father could not reach her.

All night I stood upon the shore.

All night I heard her cries.

The wind was loud.
Rain struck the mountain.

Before morning came,
her voice had grown faint.

It faded like the evening breeze
moving through the grass upon the rocks.

Exhausted by grief,
she died.

Lay me soon beside her.

When the mountain storms return,
when the north drives the waves high,
I sit beside the sounding shore
and look toward the fatal rock.

Often, beneath the setting moon,
I see the ghosts of my children.

They walk together,
dim and sorrowful,
speaking among themselves.

“Will none of you speak to me?”

But they do not look toward their father.

 

Fragment XII — Ryno and Alpin

RYNO

The wind and rain have passed.

Midday is calm.

The clouds have parted in the sky,
and the uncertain sun moves across the green hills.

The stream comes red through the stony valley.

Sweet is your murmur, stream—
but sweeter still is the voice I hear.

It is Alpin, son of the song,
mourning for the dead.

His old head is bent.
His eyes are red with tears.

Alpin, son of the song,
why are you alone upon the silent hill?

Why do you complain
like a blast moving through the wood,
like a wave breaking on a lonely shore?

ALPIN

My tears, Ryno, are for the dead.
My voice is for those who live in the grave.

You are tall upon the hill,
fair among the sons of the plain.

But you too will fall like Morar.

A mourner will sit beside your grave.

The hills will know you no more.

Your bow will lie unstrung in the hall.

You were swift, Morar,
like a deer upon the hill.

You were terrible as a fiery meteor.

Your anger was the storm of December.

Your sword in battle was like lightning.

Your voice was like a river after rain,
like thunder among distant hills.

Many fell beneath your arm.
Your enemies were consumed by the fire of your fury.

Yet when you returned from war,
how peaceful was your face.

You were like the sun after rain,
like the moon in a silent night,
calm as a lake when the loud wind has fallen.

Now your dwelling is narrow.
Dark is your home.

With three steps I can measure your grave,
you who once were so great.

Four stones covered with moss
are all that remains to mark you.

A tree with hardly a leaf,
long grass whispering in the wind—
these are the signs by which the hunter
knows the grave of mighty Morar.

Morar,
you are low indeed.

No mother remains to mourn you.
No beloved woman sheds tears for you.

The woman who gave you life is dead.

The daughter of Morglan has fallen.

Who is that old man leaning upon his staff?

Whose hair is white with age,
whose eyes are red with tears,
who trembles with every step?

It is your father, Morar.

He had no other son.

He heard of your victories.
He heard how your enemies fled.

He heard of Morar's fame.

Why did he not hear of your wound?

Weep, father of Morar.

Weep.

But your son cannot hear you.

Deep is the sleep of the dead.
Low is their pillow of dust.

He will never hear your voice again.
He will never wake when you call.

When will morning come to the grave
and wake the sleeper?

Farewell, bravest of men.
Farewell, conqueror of the field.

The battlefield will see you no more.

The dark wood will no longer flash
with the brightness of your steel.

You left no son.

But song will preserve your name.

Future generations will hear of you.

They will hear of fallen Morar.

 

Fragment XIII — Cuchulaid and Garve

Cuchulaid sat beside the wall,
beneath the tree whose leaves rustled in the wind.

His spear leaned against the mossy rock.
His shield lay upon the grass.

He was thinking of mighty Carbre,
whom he had killed in battle,
when Moran, son of Fithil,
came as a scout from the sea.

MORAN

Rise, Cuchulaid.
Rise!

I see the ships of Garve.

There are many enemies—
many sons of Lochlyn.

CUCHULAID

Moran, you are always afraid.

Your fear makes the enemy seem greater than he is.

Those are the ships of the people of the Hills—
they have come to help Cuchulaid.

MORAN

I saw their chief.

He is tall as a wall of ice.

His spear is like a fir tree.
His shield is like the rising moon.

He sat upon a rock by the shore,
grey and still like a cloud upon the hill.

I told him:

“Great warrior,
we have many heroes too.

Garve—
your name suits you well—
we have many sons of our king.”

He answered like a wave breaking against rock:

“Who here is like me?

The brave do not remain alive around me.
They go to the earth beneath my hand.

Only the king of the Hills
can fight Garve.

Once we wrestled upon the hill.

Our heels overturned the forest.
Rocks were torn from their places.
Streams changed their course.

For three days we struggled.

The heroes stood far away and watched in fear.

On the fourth day,
the king said that I had fallen.

But Garve says he remained standing.

Let Cuchulaid yield
to the man who is strong as a storm.”

CUCHULAID

No.

I will never yield to another man.

Cuchulaid will conquer or die.

Go, Moran.

Take my spear.

Strike the shield of Caithbait
hanging before the gate.

It never rings in peace.

Let my warriors hear it upon the hill.

 

Fragment XIV — Duchommar and Morna

DUCHOMMAR

Morna,
fairest of women,
daughter of Cormac-Carbre—

why are you alone among the stones,
in the cave of the rock?

The stream murmurs darkly.
The wind groans through the ancient tree.
The lake is troubled before you.
Dark clouds cover the sky.

Yet you are like snow upon the heath.

Your hair is like a thin golden cloud
resting upon the summit of Cromleach.

Your arms are like white pillars
in Fingal's hall.

MORNA

Where have you come from,
Duchommar, son of Mugruch,
darkest and most terrible of men?

Your brow is dark with anger.
Your eyes burn red.

Has Garve appeared upon the sea?

What news of the enemy?

DUCHOMMAR

I return from the hill, Morna,
from the hill where the deer run.

I killed three with my bow,
and three more with my panting dogs.

Daughter of Cormac-Carbre,
I love you as I love my own soul.

I have killed a deer for you.

Its antlers were high and branching.
Its feet were swift as the wind.

MORNA

Gloomy son of Mugruch, Duchommar,
I do not love you.

Your heart is hard as rock.
Your brow is dark and terrible.

Cadmor, son of Tarman,
is the man Morna loves.

He is like sunlight on the hill
during a day of storm.

Have you seen Tarman's son,
beautiful upon the hunting hill?

Here the daughter of Cormac-Carbre
waits for Cadmor.

DUCHOMMAR

Then Morna will wait a long time.

Cadmor's blood is on my sword.

I met him beside the mossy stone,
beneath the oak beside the noisy stream.

He fought,
but I killed him.

His blood is on my sword.

I will raise his grave high upon the hill,
daughter of Cormac-Carbre.

But love the son of Mugruch.

His arm is strong as a storm.

MORNA

Then the son of Tarman is dead?

The young man with the breast of snow,
first among the hunters of the hill,
enemy of the sons of the sea—

Duchommar,
you truly are dark.

Your arm has brought me nothing but grief.

But give me that sword,
son of Mugruch.

I love the blood of Cadmor.

She takes the sword
and drives it into Duchommar.

DUCHOMMAR

Daughter of Cormac-Carbre,
you have pierced Duchommar.

The sword is cold in my breast.
You have killed the son of Mugruch.

Give me to Moinie,
the woman who loved me.

She will raise my grave upon the hill,
and the hunter will see it
and speak my name.

But draw the sword from my side, Morna.

I feel the cold.

As she comes near,
he strikes her with the sword.

As she falls,
she tears a stone from the wall of the cave
and places it between them,
so that his blood will not mingle with hers.

 

Fragment XV — Lamderg and Gealchossa

Where is Gealchossa, my love,
daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?

I left her in the hall of the plain
when I went to fight hairy Ulfadha.

“Return soon, Lamderg,” she said,
“for I wait here in sorrow.”

Her white breast rose with sighs.
Her cheek was wet with tears.

But she has not come to meet me,
or soothe my spirit after battle.

The hall of joy is silent.

I hear no singer's voice.

Brann does not shake his chains at the gate,
happy to hear his master's return.

Where is Gealchossa,
my love,
daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar?

FIRCHIOS

Lamderg,
Gealchossa may be upon the hill.

She may be there with her chosen companions,
following the deer.

LAMDERG

Firchios,
I hear no sound.

There is no movement in the hill wood.

No deer run before me.
No panting dog follows them.

I do not see Gealchossa,
my love,
fair as the full moon sinking behind the hills of Cromleach.

Go, Firchios.

Go to Allad,
the grey-haired son of the rock.

He lives among the stone circle.

Perhaps he knows what has happened to Gealchossa.

FIRCHIOS

Allad,
you who live within the rock,
you who tremble there alone—

what have your old eyes seen?

ALLAD

I saw Ullin, son of Carbre.

He came down from the hill like a cloud.

He hummed a dark, angry song
like a storm moving through a leafless wood.

He entered the hall of the plain.

“Lamderg,” he cried,
“most terrible of men,
fight me or yield to Ullin.”

Gealchossa answered:

“Lamderg is not here.

He is fighting the hairy Ulfadha.

He is a great warrior,
but he is not here.”

But Lamderg never yields.

He will fight the son of Carbre.

“You are beautiful, daughter of Tuathal-Teachvar,”
said Ullin.

“I will carry you to Carbre's house.

The bravest man will have Gealchossa.

For three days I will call Lamderg
to fight me from the top of Cromleach.

On the fourth day,
if Lamderg has died or fled from my sword,
you will belong to Ullin.”

LAMDERG

Allad—
peace to your dreams.

Firchios, find the horn.

Ullin may hear it,
and meet me upon the summit of Cromleach.

Lamderg rushed forward like a storm.

He leapt across rivers on his spear.

Few were the strides that carried him up the hill.

Rocks flew back beneath his feet
and crashed down into the plain.

His armour rang.
His shield rang.

He hummed a fierce song
like the sound of a falling stream.

Dark as a cloud he stood above the land.

His weapons shone like meteors.

From the summit of the hill
he rolled a great rock downward.

Ullin heard the sound
in the hall of Carbre.

 

Source and Method

Base text: James Macpherson, Fragments of Ancient Poetry, collected in the Highlands of Scotland, and translated from the Galic or Erse Language (Edinburgh, 1760), fifteen fragments.

Modernisation: The present version preserves the events, speakers, names, principal images and emotional movement of Macpherson's English text while recasting the language in contemporary literary English.

Important distinction: This should be read as a modern literary rendering of Macpherson's 1760 English Ossian, not as a claim about the historical authenticity of the poems or as a translation from surviving Gaelic manuscripts.

The Whisky Path

Back to the Hills, by James Scott Skinner.

As one of Scotland's most acclaimed traditional fiddlers and composers, Paul has composed over 700 pieces of music including a Symphony and all of the music for the critically acclaimed Aberdeen Performing Arts touring production of Lewis Grassic Gibbon's classic novel “Sunset Song.”

If you're looking for a unique gift for a loved one or something to mark a special event, why not contact Paul about commissioning a an original piece of music.

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