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Cumha Griogal Cridhe |
“Griogal Cridhe,” as the lament for Griogair Ruadh Mac Griogair of Glen Strae is widely known, is one of the oldest in the Scottish Gaelic tradition. The origins of the song, stretches back to 1570, when Griogair Ruadh was executed by Cailean Liath Campbell of Glenorchy. It is notable in that it is a song composed by a woman, the widow of Griogair Ruadh. The version below first appears in writing in the collection of Gaelic songs published by Padruig Mac an Tuairneir in 1813, I have taken it from the published "Aspects of Transmission in the Lament for Griogair Ruadh Mac Griogair of Glen Strae" by V. S. BLANKENHORN. (Article in Scottish Studies · April 2014) In her paper, Blankenhorn discusses a number of other versions collected from the oral tradition, and the differences between them. Blankenhorn referred to MacGregor, M. (1999) "Surely one of the greatest poems ever made in Britain": the lament for Griogair Ruadh MacGregor of Glen Strae and its historical background. Published in: Cowan, E. J. and Gifford, D. (eds.) The Polar Twins. John Donald: Edinburgh, pp. 114-153. ISBN 9780859765138 Martin identified Raibeart Menzies of Comrie, the second husband of Griogair Ruadh’s young widow, as the mysterious baran crìon na dalach’ mentioned in the poem. Comrie lies on the south bank of the Lyon near its junction with the River Tay, occupying the sort of alluvial land to which one might refer as na dalach, ‘of the river-meadow’ – land which the Menzies family had possessed for at least a century prior to these events. Contemporary documents reveal that both Raibeart Menzies and his father were styled ‘baron’, and it is likely that the family enjoyed the sort of comfort and prosperity mentioned in the poem. The Menzies family were loyal supporters of the Campbells, and so offered a safe repository for Campbell of Glenlyon’s troublesome daughter and her children. MacGregor suggests that this marriage may have taken place shortly after the execution of Griogair Ruadh, and therefore that the poem reflects not only her grief at the loss of her first husband, but also her unhappiness in the home of her second. |
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Moch maduinn air la lunasd’, Bha mi sugradh marr-ri m’ ghradh; Ach mu ’n d’ thainig meadhon latha, Bha mo chridhe air a chradh. Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh, ‘S goirt mo chridhe laoigh, Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh, Cha chluinn t-athair ar caoidh. Mallachd aig maithibh ’s aig cairdean, Rinn mo chradh air an doigh; Thainig gun fhios air mo ghradh-sa, ’Sa thug fo smachd e le foill. Na ‘m biodh da fhear-dheug deth chinneadh ’S mo Ghriogair air an ceann Cha bhiodh mo shuil a sileadh dheur, No mo leanabh fein gun daimh. Chuir iad a cheann air ploc daraich, ’S dhoirt iad fhuil mu lar Na ’m biodh agam-sa ’n sin cupan, Dh’ olainn d’i mo shadh. ’S truagh nach robh m’ athair an galar, Agus Cailein ann am plaigh; Ged bhiodh nighean an Ruthainaich Suathadh bas a’s lamh. Chuirinn Cailein liath fo ghlasaibh ’S Donnacha dubh an laimh ’S gach Caimbeulach th’ann am Bealach Gu giulan na ’n glas lamh. Rainig mise réidhlein Bhealaich ’S cha d’ fhuair mi ann tamh; Cha d’ fhag mi ròinn do m’fhalt gun tarruing, No craiceann air mo laimh. ’S truagh nach robh mi ’n riochd na h-uiseig, Spionnaidh Ghriogair ann mo laimh ’S i chlach a b’airde anns a chaisteal Chlach a b’ fhaisg do ’n bhlar. ’S truagh nach robh Fionnlairg na lasair, A’s Bealach mor na smal, ’S Griogair ban na ’m basa’ geala, Bhi eidear mo dha laimh. ’S ged tha mi gun ubhlan agam, ’S ubhlan uil’ aig cach; ’S ann tha m’ ubhal cùraidh grinn, A’s cul a chinn ri lar. Ged tha mnaithibh chaich aig baile, Na ’n luidhe ’s na ’n cadal seimh ’S ann bhios mis’ aig bruaich mo leapa, A’ bualadh mo dha laimh. ’S mor a b’ annsa bhi aig Griogair, Air feadh coille ’s fraoich Na bhi aig Baran crion na dalach, Ann tigh cloich a’s aoil. ’S mor a b’ annsa bhi aig Griogair, Cuir a chruidh do ’n ghleann Na bhi aig Baran crion na dalach, ’G ol air fion ’s air leann. ’S mor a b’ annsa bhi aig Griogair Fo bhrata ruibeach ròinn Na bhi aig Baran crìon na Dalach, Giùlan sìoda ’s sròil. Ged bhiodh cur a’s cathadh ann, A’s latha nan seachd sion; Gheibheadh Griogair domh-sa cnagan ’Sa ’n caidlimid fo dhìon. |
Early on the first of August I was sporting with my love, But before midday had come, my heart was left in ruins. Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh, sore is my heart, my dear child; Ochain, ochain, ochain uiridh, your father won’t hear our cries. A curse on nobles and relations who have destroyed me thus; Who came upon my love unawares, and took him prisoner by treachery. Had there been twelve of his kinsmen, with my Gregor at their head, My eye would not be weeping tears, nor my child left friendless. They put his head on an oaken block and spilled his blood on the ground, If I had had a cup there, I’d have drunk my fill of it. It’s a pity my father was not taken in illness, and Colin with the plague, Even though Ruthven’s daughter would be left wringing her hands. I would lock Grey Colin up, and put Black Duncan in prison, And cause every Campbell in Balloch to endure hand-cuffs. I reached the plain of Balloch, but I gained no repose there; I left no hair on my head untorn, nor skin upon my hands. A pity I couldn’t rise like the lark, with Gregor’s strength in my arm: The highest stone in the castle would be the closest to the ground. A pity Finlarig wasn’t in flames, and great Balloch in embers, And fair Gregor of the white palms close in my two arms. Though now I have no apples, and others have them all: My own apple, fragrant, handsome – and the back of his head on the ground. Though other men’s wives are at home, sleeping sweetly, Here am I at the edge of my bed, beating my hands in grief. I’d much prefer to be with Gregor among woods and heather Than with the mean little Baron of the rivermeadow, in a house of stone and lime. I’d much prefer to be with Gregor, driving his cattle to the glen, Than with the dry old Baron of the rivermeadow, drinking wine and ale. I’d much prefer to be with Gregor with only a rough, hairy mantle for covering, Than with the small-minded Baron of the river-meadow, suffering in silk and satin. Although there would be storm and snowdrift, a day of seven gales, Gregor would find me a little nook where we would sleep in shelter. |
Blankenhorn says that the "Gesto" version (below) was collected by Frances Tolmie, who says in the latter volume that she recalled the stanzas and air ‘from earliest days’ in Skye – likely sometime before 1850, given her birth in 1840. Martin MacGregor suggested that Gesto may represent the first occasion of this song being given the title ‘Griogal Cridhe’, perhaps owing to the appearance of this phrase in two of the verses supplied to K. N. MacDonald by Frances Tolmie. The title has been widely used in subsequent publications (many of which are based on Tolmie), and is also the title attributed to many of the versions held in the School of Scottish Studies Archive. It is unclear whether the singers themselves used this title, or whether it was subsequently applied to the songs by fieldworkers familiar with Tolmie’s version. John MacInnes has said that he believes the pronunciation ‘Griogal’ for ‘Griogair’ derives from Miss Tolmie’s informants in Skye; it is certainly not a variant found in Perthshire. |
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’S ioma h-oidhche fhliuch ’us thioram Sìde na seachd sian Gheibheadh Griogal dhomhsa creagan Ris an gabhainn dion. Dhirich mi dha ’n t-seòmar mhullach ’S theirinn mi ’n tigh làir, ’S cha d’fhuair mise Griogal cridhe, Na shuidhe mu ’n chlàr. Eudail mhor a shluagh an domhain! Dhoirt iad d’ fhuil o ’n dé; ’S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich Tacan beag bho d’ chré. ’S truagh nach mis a bha nam dhorsair An dorus an tigh bhàin, A chlach a b’ airde bhitheadh san oisean Si b’ fhaisge dh’ an làir. B’ annsa a bhi le Griogal cridhe, Tearnadh chruidh le gleann Na le Barainn mór na Dallaich Sioda geal mu ’m cheann. Ged nach eil ùbhlan idir agam ’S ùbhlan uil’ aig càch ’S ann tha m’ ubhlan ‘s cùbh ’r ri caineal ’S cùl an cinn ri làir. Nuair a bhitheas mnathan òg a bhaile An nochd ’n an cadal sàimh, ’S ann bhitheas mis’ air bruaich do lice Bualadh mo dhà laimh. |
Many’s the night, wet and dry, seven gales blowing, Gregor would get me a rocky nook where I could get shelter. I ascended to the uppermost room and descended to the lowest, But I did not find dear Gregor seated at the table. Darling of all the world’s people, they spilt your blood yesterday; They put your head on an oaken block and took it from your body. A pity I wasn’t the door-keeper at the door of the white house: The highest stone at the corner of the house would be closest to the ground. I would rather be with dear Gregor, driving cattle down the glen, Than with the big Baron of Dall, with white silk round my head. Although I have no apples, and others have them all, My own cinnamon-scented apples are lying on the ground. When the young women of the village are sleeping soundly tonight, I shall be at the edge of your graveslab, beating my hands in grief. |