An gaidheal - National Library of Scotland

—; —;—I1 BYII;—;378 THE GAEL. Februaiy, 1874.COMAL AND GALVINA.(llenilei-ed into rhyme almost verbatimfrom Macphersou's translation ofOssian's Fimjal.Comal was chief of hnmlred hills.His (leer drank from a thousand rills.A thousand rocks with hlending soundsReverbed the baying of his hounds.His countenance was mild and young ;His arm, the death of heroes strong.One was his love, and she was fair,Like raven wing her glossy hair,Brave Conloch's daughter, full of grace,A sunbeam pure among her race.Her dogs she taught to chase the hind ;Her bow-string sounded on the wind.On Oomal brave her soul was setTheir eyes of love oft kindling met.In the loud chase their course was one ;And sweet their converse when alone.But Grumal also sought her hand,—Dark chief of Ardven's gloomy land.He watched her lone steps on the heath,And wished unhappy Comal's death.One hunt-day, weary of the field.When kindly mist their friends conceaL i,Galvina fair and Comal braveRetired alone to Ronan's Cave.Comal frequented oft its halls ;His arms hung round its rocky walls ;A hundred shields of bossy hide,A hundred sounding helms beside." Rest here," he said, " Galvina dear.Thou light of Ronan's Cave, rest here.A deer on Mora's brow 1 see.I go, but soon return to thee."" I fear," she said,'•my deadly foe ;Dark Grumal haunts this cave ; but go.Among thy arms I'll safe remain,But soon, my love, return again."He went. She sought his love to test.Her fair form in his arms she dressed ;And thus equipped from top to toe,Strode forth ; he thought it was liis foe ;His colour changed, his heart beat high,And darkness dimmed his wrathful eye ;He drew his bow, the arrow fled ;Galvina fell in blood. He spedWith hurried steps and called his love.No answer in the rocks above." Speak, Conloch's daughter, it is 1."But echo only mocked his cry.He saw, at length, her heaving heartBeating around the feathered dart." Galvina, is it thou ? " he cried,And sank despairing by her side.The huntsmen found the hapless pair,And afterwai-ds he hunted there ;But oft with silent steps he strodeRound fair (ìalvina's dark abode.From ocean came the invading licetHe fought ; they fled in foul defeat.Assailing death he did not shun ;But who could slay the hero ? None.Away his dark brown shield he threwAn arrow found his bosom true.He and his loved Galvina sleepBeside the lonely sounding deep.The mariner can see their graves,\V'hen l)onnding o'er the northern waves.Jkan Blanc.SCOTTISH KIRK MUSIC.A Song respectfully dedicated to a certainworthy representative of the Precentorfraternity.EVA.N M'COLL.Air— "Alister Macalider."How can'st thou, "Mac," with conscienceclear,Persist in murd'ring music here ?Have pity on us, and forbearThis owlet harmonie.A choir of ghosts would less appalThan those dread tones you singing call :One would need ears as deaf's a wallTo stand such melodic !weary sir, weary sir !'Twould tire a saint to hear thee, sir ;Job's patience, were he near thee, sir,Would quick exhausted be !There's something lively in the chauntOf tom-cats on a spree gallantTlie bull-frog, though his notes be scant.Ne'er strikes a drawling key ;But of the way nou drawl and droneThe language of de-vo-ti-on.Some dying crummie's latest groanThe model seems to be !O weary sir, U weary sir !If David could but hear thee, sir.He well might wish some thistle-burrA-dowu thy throat to see.Now some old wife's asthmatic croonSeems the sole spirit of the tune;Now, somelongèa-awould reach the moonBreaks from thy choir and thee ;And now the climax grand you reachA something 'tween a scream and screech,Your sole aml)ition seeming whichThe most can torture me.weary sir, O weary sir !dismal, dismal, dreary sir !A whip-saw rasped, or yelping cur,I'd sooner stand than thee.The " Kist o' whistles " may be bad.But where's the mortal man, not mad.Who once heard you, would not right glad,Give it a welcome free ?