perpetuated.

On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.

The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose translation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the Bronze Age period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on his forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son, and bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum. Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the other, with which it has no connection.

The third great Celtic Cycle—the Arthurian—bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of "The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary inspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the future.

Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume.

Some of the short poems have appeared in the "Glasgow Herald" and
"Inverness Courier"; the three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review."

CONTENTS.

Preface

The Wee Folk

The Remnant Bannock

The Banshee

Conn, Son of the Red

The Song of Goll

The Blue Men of the Minch

The Urisk

The Nimble Men

My Gunna

The Gruagach

The Little Old Man of the Barn

Yon Fairy Dog

The Water-Horse

The Changeling

My Fairy Lover

The Fians of Knockfarrel

Her Evil Eye

A Cursing

Leobag's Warning

Tober Mhuire

Sleepy Song

Song of the Sea

The Death of Cuchullin

Lost Songs

OTHER POEMS.

The Dream

Free Will

Strife

Sonnet

"Out of the Mouths of Babes"

Notes

THE WEE FOLK.

In the knoll that is the greenest,
  And the grey cliff side,
And on the lonely ben-top
  The wee folk bide;
They'll flit among the heather,
  And trip upon the brae—
The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey.

As o'er the moor at midnight
  The wee folk pass,
They whisper 'mong the rushes
  And o'er the green grass;
All through the marshy places
  They glint and pass away—
The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay.

O many a fairy milkmaid
  With the one eye blind,
Is 'mid the lonely mountains
  By the red deer hind;
Not one will wait to greet me,
  For they have naught to say—
The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.

When the golden moon is glinting
  In the deep, dim wood,
There's a fairy piper playing
  To the elfin brood;
They dance and shout and turn about,
  And laugh and swing and sway—
The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.

O we that bless the wee folk
  Have naught to fear,
And ne'er an elfin arrow
  Will come us near;
For they'll give skill in music,
  And every wish obey—
The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.

They'll hasten here at harvest,
  They will shear and bind;
They'll come with elfin music
  On a western wind;
All night they'll sit among the sheaves,
  Or herd the kine that stray—
The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.

Betimes they will be spinning
  The while we sleep,
They'll clamber down the chimney,
  Or through keyholes creep;
And when they come to borrow meal
  We'll ne'er them send away—
The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.

O never wrong the wee folk—
  The red folk and green,
Nor name them on the Fridays,
  Or at Hallowe'en;
The helpless and unwary then
  And bairns they lure away—
The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.

BONNACH FALLAIDH.

(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)

O, the good-wife will be singing
  When her meal is all but done—
Now all my bannocks have I baked,
  I've baked them all but one;
And I'll dust the board to bake it,
  I'll bake it with a spell—
O, it's Finlay's little bannock
  For going to the well.

The bannock on the brander
  Smells sweet for your desire—
O my crisp ones I will count not
  On two sides of the fire;
And not a farl has fallen
  Some evil to foretell!—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
  For going to the well.

The bread would not be lasting,
  'Twould crumble in your hand;
When fairies would be coming here
  To turn the meal to sand—
But what will keep them dancing
  In their own green dell?
O it's Finlay's little bannock
  For going to the well.

Now, not a fairy finger
  Will do my baking harm—
The little bannock with the hole,
  O it will be the charm.
I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms,
  And all the bairns I tell—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
  For going to the well.

THE BANSHEE.

Knee-deep she waded in the pool—
  The Banshee robed in green—
She sang yon song the whole night long,
  And washed the linen clean;
The linen that would wrap the dead
  She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
  Low singing all alone—

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,
  Come back from foreign wars,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet
  Below the pitiless stars;
And in his heart he would repeat—
  "O never again I'll roam;
All weary is the going forth,
  But sweet the coming home!"

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

He saw the blaze upon his hearth
  Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
  And rode before his men—
"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,
  "Since I would leave her side;
I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
  And yon, my dark-eyed bride."

His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!

So dreaming of her tender love,
  Soft tears his eyes would blind—
When up there crept and swiftly leapt
  A man who stabbed behind—
"'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride,
  This night shall be