Jacobite Set: Òran eile air Latha Chùil-Lodair/’S e ‘n rìgh a th’ againn is feàrr leinn/An Suaithneas Bàn - Song on the Battle of Culloden/We Prefer the King We’ve Got/The White Cockade
The Battle of Culloden marked the end of the 1745 Jacobite rebellion, and for all intents and purposes, the end of the ancient Highland way of life. It is quite moving to see the volume of talisman-like memorabilia in existence in Scottish museums, both in the Highlands and large cities, attesting to the love and hope the people invested in the person of Prince Charles – Bonnie Prince Charlie – to regain the rightful throne of the Scottish Stewarts. The Jacobite songs in English can be rather sentimental, but the Gaelic ones show great strength: hence the vehemence of emotion expressed by John Roy Stewart (1700-1752), in Òran eile air Latha Chùil-Lodair. He was the only Gaelic poet who actually fought for Prince Charles at Culloden, traveled with him as he left Scotland, and finally died in exile in France. It is thanks to this song-poem that many of the details of the battle are known at all. This is sung to a traditional tune, learned from the singing of Kenna Campbell and Allan MacDonald.
‘S e ‘n rìgh a th’againn is feàrr leinn is a Jacobite march taken from the Simon Fraser Collection of airs and melodies peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland and the Isles from 1715-1745. I have woven this traditional Jacobite march, used to incite rebellion and probably brought over to Scotland by Irish mercenary soldiers, in with the following lament.
An Suaithneas Bàn - Though born many years after Culloden, the great Scottish Gaelic poet Uilleam Ross (1762-1790) laments here in beautiful language the passing of hope for Scotland upon hearing of Prince Charles’ death in Rome in 1788. The White Cockade represents the white Jacobite Rose, worn as a symbol of the Jacobite cause as well as for Charlie himself. Sung to a traditional tune learned from the singing of Kenna Campbell and William Matheson.
Lyrics
Oran Eile Air Latha Chuil-Lodair
O, gur mis’ th’ air mo chràdh,
Thuit mo chridhe gu làr,
‘S tric snighe gu m’shàil
o m’ léirsinn.
Dh’fhalbh
mo chlaistinneachd uam,
Cha chluinn mi ‘san uair
Gu mall no gu luath ni’s éibhinn,
Mu Phrionns’ Teàrlach mo rùn,
Oighre dligheach a’ chrùin,
‘S e gun fhios ciod an tùbh
a théid e.
Sàr-fhuil rìoghal nam buadh
Bhith ‘ga dìobart ‘san uair,
Us mac dìolain le shluagh
ag éirigh.
Sìol nan cuilean gun bhàidh,
Dh’am maith-chinnich an t’àl,
Chuir iad sinn ann an càs
na h’éiginn.
Cha b’è ‘n cruadal mar laoich
Thug dhaibh buaidh
air an fhraoch
Ach gach tubaist a dh’aom
mu’r tréinne.
Bha iad iomadaidh uainn
De gach fine mu thuath,
Fir nach tilleadh
ri h-uair an fheuma.
Feachd chóig brataichean sròil
Bu mhaith chuireadh an lò
Bhith ‘gar dìth anns
a’ chomhdhail chreuchdaich.
A Chlann Dhomhnuill
mo ghràidh,
Leam is cruaidh mar a bhà,
Nach do bhrùchd sibh
le càch do’n teugmhail.
‘S ann thuit na rionnagan gasd’
Bu mhaith àluinn an dreach,
‘S cha bu phaidheadh leinn mairt ‘nan éirig.
Ach thig a’ chuibhle
mu ’n cuairt
Car o dheas no o thuath,
‘S gheibh ar n-eascàirdean
duais an eucoir.
Gum bi Uilleam Mac Dheòrs’
Mar chraoibh sheargte fo león,
Gun fhreumh, gun duilleach, gun mheòirean géige.
Another Song on the Day of Culloden
O, I am in anguish,
My heart has fallen to earth,
And often from my eyes
tears are falling.
Every pleasure has gone,
In this hour I don’t hear,
either slow or quick,
any good tidings,
Of Prince Charles my beloved
Rightful heir to the crown,
And he not knowing
whom to turn to.
The true goodly royal blood,
Will now be cast out,
While the bastard offspring arises.
Race of ill-favored curs,
Whose brood has well grown,
They have put us
in sore straits of hardship.
‘Twas not their valor or might
Won the day on the heath,
But each mishap
that confounded our heroes.
There were many away
Of each northern clan,
Who in need’s hour
would never fail us.
A host of five silken flags
Which well used to fight,
We lacked
in the bloodthirsty combat.
Clan Donald, my beloved,
Woe is me what befell:
You charged not with the rest
to the conflict.
There fell the fine stars,
Of goodly fair form,
For whom cattle we thought were no ransom.
But the wheel yet will turn
Round from the south
or from the north,
And our foes will receive
evil’s wages.
And may Prince William be
As a withered, stricken tree,
Rootless, leafless, and twigless.
An Suaithneas Bàn
Soraidh bhuan do’n t-Suaithneas Bhàn
Gu Là Luain cha ghluais o’n bhàs;
Ghlac an uaigh an Suaithneas Bàn,
Is leacan fuaraidh tuam’ a thàmh.
Air bhith dhomhsa triall thar druim
Air Dì-Dòmhnaich ‘s comhlan liom,
Leughas litir naidheachd linn,
‘S cha sgeul ait a thachair innt’.
Albainn arsaidh! ‘s fathunn bròin
Gach aon mhuir-bhàitht’ tha bàrcadh oirnn,
T’ oighre rìoghal bhith ‘san Ròimh
Tìrt’ an caol-chist lìomhta bhòrd.
Tha mo chridhe gu briste, fann,
‘S deòir mo shul a’ ruith mar allt;
Ge do cheilinn sud air àm
Bhrùchd e mach ‘s cha mhisde leam.
Bha mi seal am barail chruaidh
Gun cluinnte caismeachd mu’n cuairt,
Càbhlach Theàrlaich thighinn air chuan,
Ach thrèig an dàil mi gu Là Luain.
Nis cromaidh na cruiteireann binn
Am bàrraibh dhos fo sprochd an cinn,
Gach beò bhiodh ann an srath no ‘m beinn
A’ caoi an comh-dhosgainn leinn.
Tha gach beinn, gach cnoc, ‘s gach sliabh
Air am faca sinn thu triall,
Nis air call an dreach ‘s am fiamh
O nach tig thu chaoidh nan cian.
Ach biodh ar n-urnaigh moch gach là
Ris an Tì as aird’ atà,
Gun è dhìoladh oirnn gu bràth
Ar n-ecoir air an t-Suaithneas Bhàn.
Us biomaid toilicht’ leis na thà,
O nach fhaod sinn bhith na ‘s fearr,
Cha bhi ar cuairt an seo ach gear
Us leanaidh sinn an Suaithneas Bàn.
Soraidh bhuan do’n t-Suaithneas Bhàn,
Gu Là Luain cha ghluais o’n bhàs;
Ghlac an uaigh an Suaithneas Bàn,
Is leacan fuaraidh tuam’ a thàmh.
The White Cockade
Farewell to the White Cockade
Till Doomsday he in death is laid,
The grave has ta’en the White Cockade,
The cold tombstone is now his shade.
As I walked across the hill
On Sunday, and a friend with me,
We read together a letter’s news
No joyful tale we gathered there.
Ancient Scotland! A tale of woe
Every sea-wave breaking brings,
That thy royal heir is now in Rome
Earthed in chest of polished boards.
Now my heart is broken, weak,
And my tears run like a stream,
Though I hid this at the time
It’s broken forth, I do not mind
For a while I had firm faith
That thy war-cry would be heard,
The fleet of Prince Charles coming o’erseas,
But now we’ll ne’er meet till Doomsday.
Now the sweet harpists shall bow
In the treetops their heads of woe,
Every live thing on strath or ben
Shall mourn with us the loss they share.
Each hill-slope and mountainside
On which we ever saw thee move,
Now has lost its form and hue
Since thou ne’er shalt come again.
But let our prayers early rise
To the One who is on high,
Never on us to avenge
The wrong we did the White Cockade.
And let us be happy with what is,
Since we may not better be,
Our journey here will be but short
We too shall follow the White Cockade.
Farewell to the White Cockade
Till Doomsday he in death is laid
The grave has ta’en the White Cockade
The cold tombstone is now his shade.