The sad tale of the
St Kildans is well known – from the
early privations of isolation and enforced
self-sufficiency to the final departure
of the entire population of 36 souls
in August 1930 on the ‘Harebell’ – leaving
behind their culture, and a way of life
that the twentieth century had long
consigned to history. In 1931 the island
was sold to the Marquess of Bute, and
is now a bird sanctuary.
In this recital Anne
Lorne Gillies has seized upon the almost
story-book legend of ‘The St Kilda Mailboat’
(a message in a bottle floated on the
waves to land on the mainland, or in
Scandinavia) to frame a varied selection
of songs and tales of St Kildan origin
brought in this guise into today’s world,
the ancient melodies beautifully spun
in the instrumentation of clarsach,
flute and others.
The idea was born on
a summer cruise on the dark waters surrounding
the isolated outcrop – the sleeve-design
a stark evocation of those fearsome
rocks and of "the endless grey
sea-sorrow and murmuring miles/The windy
riders trampling the waves that flow/From
the sombre west….(*)
And what a wealth of
music and story – tales of exile, of
loves and losses, of joys and sorrows
– all related to the daily activity
of a community whose only means of expression
were the rhythms associated with the
physical activity of work – waulking
the wool, rowing the boats, telling
of the surge of the surrounding seas
– and events associated with these hazard
as well as love songs, and the light-hearted
puirt a beul. Many of the songs
tell stories, with chorus in which the
islanders might join in at the ceilidh.
This is not music to
rush with. It is contemplative – and
no listener need fear ignorance of the
language. The Gaelic is here blended
with the consummate artistry of Anne
and her group into the sound of the
music until the very phonetics of the
language become in a sense a part of
the instrumental texture. Clarsach and
flute – cello (particularly beautiful
in the St Kildan maiden’s songs –Track
12): pipes and keyboard – all create
a web of colour, full of Celtic longing.
Nostalgic? Perhaps
– the disc does end with a lament, a
poignant song of exile ‘Tuireadh nan
Hirteach’. Yet there is something robust
in these lovely melodies.
This CD is a ‘must’
for all lovers of song.
Colin Scott-Sutherland
And a further
review from Rob Barnett
Brigh, Anne Lorne Gillies
and her fellow bardic musicians send
out this earnest of one of the world’s
remaining precious wild places. St Kilda
is part of the Western Isles on the
'oir' of the Scottish isles. The Kilda
group are 52 miles to the west of Harris
- out in the Atlantic. Kilda is now
the lonely haunt of bird-life and the
home of a military station working with
the Benbecula base on missile-tracking.
Until the 1860s it had its own population
and culture. You can find out more in
the booklet notes reproduced in full
below with grateful thanks to Brigh
for their permission..
'An Long Hirteach',
the title of the album, is translated
as 'The St Kilda Mail-Boat'. This is
not a reference to a real boat. It refers
to a water-tight container in which
a message is placed attached to a sealed
inflated sheep's-bladder for buoyancy.
These twenty songs are sent out onto
the ocean to find their mark wherever
Gaelic culture has put down roots of
memory or enchantment.
The songs are sung
either in Gaelic or in English. All
the sung words are given in the booklet
but there is no literal translation
although the essence of each song is
given in English along with background
notes.
The stamp of honest
authenticity is strong throughout although
the musicians may have had little in
the way of original material to go on.
Even so integrity beams out from each
track. Thankfully there is none of the
tartanry or synthetic Celtic overlay.
One often feels as if one is listening
across the years to what might well
have been sung on this Atlantic outlier.
There are no synthesisers ... no drum
machines. Principal presences are Anne
Lorne Gillies' God-given voice (sometimes
recalling that of Rita Connolly), composer
Eddie McGuire's flute, Rhona Mackay's
clarsach and occasional contributions
from cello, bodhran, bagpipes (sparingly),
guitar and keyboards. There is some
multi-tracking to produce a chorus of
Anne Lorne Gillieses as in Oran luaidh
Hirteach and Taladh cailin an
fhuilt or-buidhe - the latter a
pummelling rhythmic waulking song complete
with pounding bodhran. Similarly powerful,
and rhythmically driven, is The Three
Brave Neils - a rowing song or Iorram.
Another Iorram, speaking of green depths
and clear clean cold waters, is Iorram
suirghe, speaking of spring,
young love and the return of birds to
the isles.
The Lady Grange
has a narration by Anne Lorne Gillies
to the atmospheric sound of the clarsach.
Similarly St Kilda's Parliament -
Douglas Dunn's 1981 poem exalted by
the music and by Ms Gillies' unaffected
voice. Eddie McGuire's flute sobs out
its final statement.
Even in the extremes
of tragedy (the loss of a woman’s son,
‘Donald, my three brothers, my aunt's
only boy and my own husband’) the dignity
of expression is strongly held just
on the edge of uncontrolled grief in
the Cha b'e sgioba na Faiche (Not
the crew of the Faiche). Dark bardic
realms provide the accompanimental haunting
for the eerie lullaby Do dha shuil
bheag bhiolach.
One of the finest songs
but rather commercial, perhaps in a
‘Simon and Garfunkel’ way, is Ewen
and the Gold. It tells the tale
of the restless St Kildan who travelled
the world repeatedly leaving loved ones
behind never to find rest from the memory
of the waves breaking upon St Kilda.
The song is by Scots songwriter Brian
McNeill. A very fine piece of creativity.
Similarly populist superb is a song
whose eloquence finds the piercing way
into your tear ducts From St Kilda
to Kings Cross is a superb piece
with a waulking song used as poignant
counterpoint.
Microphone placement
is close in to the instruments and singer.
Dynamic extremes are not ironed out.
Rob Barnett
SLEEVE NOTES IN
FULL - PROVIDED HERE BY KIND PERMISSION
OF ANNE LORNE GILLIES AND KEVIN BREE
St Kilda, with its
jagged cliffs and boiling seas, is Britain’s
remotest inhabited island group. It
lies 52 miles to the west of Harris
in the Outer Hebrides. The principal
island is known in Gaelic as Hiort or
– more properly – Hirt. Gaelic-speaking
communities lived in Hirt until their
evacuation in 1930. According to the
Skyeman Martin Martin, who visited the
islands in 1697, about 180 people lived
in Hirt and they were an exceptionally
lively and musical people.
The St Kildans fished
the seas, grew barley and oats, and
kept cattle and sheep – both on Hirt
and on the neighbouring islands, Soay
and Boreray: dark-coloured Highland
sheep, hardy and agile as goats on the
rocks. But the main source of food and
oil were the seabirds – gannets, fulmars
and puffins. During the breeding season
from March to September the young men
were suspended over the cliffs on hand-made
ropes, carrying nooses on rods with
which to catch the birds.
For centuries the St
Kildans had little contact with the
outside world apart from the agent sent
annually by their distant landlord MacLeod
of Dunvegan, in Skye, to collect the
rent (mostly in kind – feathers and
oil) and ministers who came from time
to time to baptise infants and marry
courting couples. It was not until the
19th century that a permanent church
and school were built, and ministers
and teachers imported for the enlightenment
of the people. And thereafter, under
the influence of a succession of well-meaning
Presbyterians, the St Kildans grew devout,
their singing confined to the worship
of God or the excusable outpourings
of the bereaved.
The 19th century heralded
other outside influences too. Summer
cruises brought steamer-loads of tourists
to stare at the inhabitants and buy
the handicrafts they made; folklorists
sailed in on the lookout for stories,
and photographers made lasting records
of the people – pictures like the Aberdonian
George Washington Wilson’s famous "St
Kilda’s Parliament", in which the
men line the one "street"
of the Village Bay township to stare
at the camera. Boats that came to fish
in St Kildan waters began bringing supplies
to the islanders: food, fuel, building
materials and furniture. The islanders
began gradually to lose the self-sufficiency
and worldly innocence (for want of a
better word) which has tempted some
commentators to portray the precarious
St Kildan way of life as Utopian. In
any event, the seeds of discontent were
sown. In 1852 thirty-six St Kildans
emigrated to Australia, and though many
died on the voyage, there is to this
day a thriving suburb of Melbourne named
St Kilda.
In the early 20th
century a variety of factors conspired
to undermine St Kildan morale: the continued
emigration of its young men; influenza
and other imported illnesses; food shortages;
and above all a new awareness of their
own isolation and vulnerability. During
the First World War the islands suddenly
gained strategic importance for the
distant British Government. But after
the War the naval supply ships ceased
to call leaving the islanders with a
heightened sense of abandonment. On
May 10th 1930 a petition
was penned by the school-teacher / missionary
Dougald Munro, requesting Scottish Office
assistance to evacuate St Kilda and
transfer the remaining thirty-six inhabitants
"elsewhere, where there would be
a better opportunity of securing our
livlihood" (sic). The letter was
signed by all the indigenous islanders
and counter-signed by another concerned
incomer, Williamina Barclay (Queen’s
Nurse). Soon afterwards Munro entered
his last comments into the school register:-
"June 13th: perfect
attendance this week. June 20th: attendance
good. Donald Gillies lost two attendances
through having to help at the sheep
shearing. June 27th: attendance perfect
for last week. School closed today with
a small ‘treat’ which the children seemed
thoroughly to enjoy. Today very probably
ends the school in St Kilda, as all
the inhabitants intend leaving the island
this summer. I hope to be away soon."
On 29th
August the St Kildans sailed away on
the Government sloop Harebell,
taking with them some of their furniture,
looms and spinning wheels, and all their
memories and language; leaving only
the vestiges of a once-robust way of
life and, of course, the birds. A Bible
was left open in each house, along with
a small heap of oats. In one house the
Bible was open at Exodus.
In 1931 St Kilda was
sold to the Marquess of Bute, a keen
ornithologist. He bequeathed the islands
to The National Trust for Scotland in
1957. Recently it became Scotland’s
first World Heritage Site, in recognition
not so much of its significance to Gaelic
culture as of its importance as a bird
sanctuary.
The first "St
Kilda mailboat" was sent out as
a distress signal in 1876, when food
was short and a visiting journalist
wanted to be "rescued". A
letter was placed in a watertight container,
with a sheep’s bladder to act as a float,
and set loose to sail wherever the prevailing
Atlantic currents would carry it. Since
then St Kilda mailboats have been launched
from time to time, more for the amusement
of visitors than as a genuine signal
of distress; many have been washed ashore
in Scotland or Scandinavia. We send
our mailboat forth on behalf of the
Gaelic-speaking people who once lived
in Hirt. And we hope it may reach, and
be enjoyed by, some of their descendants
across the world – and of course those
who love music and culture everywhere.
For although the St
Kildans’ songs ceased long before mechanical
recording (indeed, long before Hirt
itself was evacuated) and were written
down by people with widely-differing
agendas, Rhona, Eddie and I have utilised
every ounce of our understanding of
Gaelic culture in creating these 21st
century interpretations of what remains.
The culture which emerges was clearly
vigorous, hardy, full of human follies
and foibles, laughter and sorrow, and
unmistakably Gaelic. And it was without
doubt exceptional in the sweetness and
uniqueness of its music.
______________________________
My thanks are due to many people:
- Firstly, of course, all the musicians:
Stephen and Duncan, Peggy and Ben,
and especially Rhona and Eddie, without
whose skill and understanding this
Mailboat would never have set sail
in the first place.
- To the National Trust for Scotland,
on whose summer cruise our project
was born, on a summer’s day when the
three of us performed St Kildan songs
on board the "Black Prince"
with the jagged stacks of Hirt, Soay
and Boreray providing a spectacular
backdrop. NTS has been a continued
source of help and encouragement ever
since.
- To the eminent Scottish artist Frances
Walker, who also happened to be a
passenger on the "Black Prince"
that day, and whose exhibition Passing
Islands celebrates not only Scotland’s
stunning periphery but her own lifetime
of visual and spiritual exploration.
- To Joan MacKenzie and the late Rev.
William Matheson from whom I learned
my first St Kildan songs by word of
mouth more than forty years ago; and
to those who helped add to my repertoire
more recently: Cathlin MacAulay at
the School of Scottish Studies, Edinburgh;
Mary Smith, Lewis; Margaret Fay Shaw,
Canna, and, above all, Calum Ferguson,
Lewis, who has spent years of his
life researching St Kilda and its
people.
- To the modern poets, bards and songwriters
who gave enthusiastic consent for
their work to be used – Prof. Douglas
Dunn, Valerie Gillies, Brian McNeill,
Paul Kelly, Calum Ferguson, and the
widow of the late Rev. John MacLeod.
- To the Gaelic scholars whose expert
weather eyes I borrowed from time
to time – including John Alick MacPherson,
John MacInnes, Ian Macdonald, genealogist
Bill Lawson, and my long-suffering
brother Prof. William Gillies.
- To the members of Melbourne’s St
Kilda Historical Society who helped
me to extend the musical search to
the Southern Hemisphere, especially
Janet Revill, Carmel Shute, and Ronald
McCoy.
- Most of all, to the people of St
Kilda and their descendants, wherever
they are. I hope we have represented
them as they would have wished.
Ceud mìle taing dhuibh uile.
____________________________
1. Leac na Gàdaig
/ On a cliff-edge
The chorus of this
hilarious song imitates the call of
the sea-birds upon which the St Kildan
economy depended: source of the oil,
feathers and food which kept them alive
and with which they paid the annual
rent to their faraway landlord. Catching
birds and collecting eggs was a perilous
business, dodging sharp beaks and strong
wings on sheer cliffs high above the
crashing Atlantic waves. And no island
courtship was complete without a gift
of eggs to prove the suitor’s love,
courage, and ability to support a wife.
But the hapless bachelor in this song
has brought no eggs, despite all the
Sundays his girl has wasted entertaining
him. She is now so fed up she would
willingly give him a helping hand –
by dangling him over Gàdag cliff
on the end of a well-greased rope! I
learned Leac na Gàdaig
as a student at Edinburgh in the 1960s,
from the marvellous Lewis-born singer
Joan MacKenzie.
Hion dail-a horo
hì hù hion dail-a là,
hion dail-a horo hì hu-ru-ru-i,
hu-ru-ru-i, hion dail-a horo hì
hù hion dail-a là ●
Tha fleasgach anns a’ bhaile seo
ris an can iad Dòmhnall, ’s ged
gheibheadh e ’n saoghal gu saoithricheadh
e mòine. ● Is ged
a bhithinn bruidhinn riut
’s a’ brìodal
riut an còmhnaidh, cha tugadh
tu na h-uighean dhomh nuair shuidheadh
tu Didòmhnaich. ● Is
truagh nach robh mo leannan ann an ìochdar
Leac na Gàdaig, acainn air a
smioradh agus mise bhith gu h-àrd
oirr’.
2. Gura thall ann
an Sòaigh / It was over in Soay
But the laughter dies
abruptly in this powerful portrayal
of the exigencies of life in St Kilda.
A young man from Hirt has slipped and
fallen to his death while working in
the neighbouring island of Soay. The
rocks are saturated with his blood and
his body is being torn apart by the
waves while his family watches helplessly:
his normally modest mother rushes to
the scene without even stopping to cover
her hair; his sister and brother cannot
control their weeping; and his widow
describes the terrible scene and her
predicament without the man who provided
for her. Her share of the birds now
scream in the skies, and the angels
have her share of the eggs. I adapted
this fine song from a version in the
Gesto Collection of Gaelic Song,
and it is published in my collection
Songs of Gaelic Scotland (Birlinn).
Gura thall ann an
Sòaigh dh’fhàg mi ’n t-òganach
gleusta, urradh dhèanamh mo thacar
’s tabhairt dhachaigh na sprèidhe,
tabhairt dhachaigh na sprèidhe.
● Ged a chaidh thu sa chreig
ud cha b’ e ’n t-eagal a lèir
thu, ’s ann a rinn do chas sraonadh,
’s cha do dh’fhaod thu rithist èirigh.●
’S ann bha t’ fhuil air a’ chloich
ud, bha do lot an dèidh èirigh,
bha thu muigh air bhàrr stuaighe,
’s muir gad fhuasgladh o chèile.
● Nuair a thàinig
do mhàthair cha do chàirich
i ’m brèid oirr’; nuair a thàinig
do phiuthar bha sinn dubhach le chèile.
● Nuair a thàinig
do bhràthair cha do chaomhainn
e ’n èigheadh: bha sinn dubhach
is cràiteach gad amharc an cèin
uainn. ● Tha mo chuid-s’
de na h-eunaibh anns na neulaibh ag
èigheach, tha mo chuid-s’ de
na h-uighean aig a’ bhuidhinn as treubhaich’.
● Gura thall ann an Sòaigh
dh’fhàg mi ’n t-òganach
gleusta, urradh dhèanamh mo thacar
’s tabhairt dhachaigh na sprèidhe,
tabhairt dhachaigh na sprèidhe.
3. Cas na caora Hirtich
o / The St Kilda sheep’s shank
An entertaining piece
of puirt-a-beul – vocal dance-music
– in praise of the nimble St Kildan
sheep: friendly, resourceful, fleet-footed,
fiercely protective of her lambs, and
with such prettily coloured dark wool
that it needs no dye in order to make
a smart pair of trousers! I learned
it from Margaret Fay Shaw’s wonderful
book Folksongs and folklore of South
Uist.
Cas na caora Hirtich
o, Hirtich Hirtich Hirtich o, cas na
caora Hirtich o b’ e siud a’ chas bha
sgiobalta! ● Siud a’ chaora
bha grinn: dh’fhàsadh an dath
air a druim. Cha d’ dh’iarr i crotal
no sùigh ach snìomh na
clòimh gu briogaisean. ●
Siud a’ chaora bha luath: nuair
a thigeadh i mun cuairt cha robh aon
san taobh-tuath an uair sin chuireadh
it’ aiste! ● Chaidh an
t-uan-sa leis fhèin null ann
an-siud leis an sprèidh: sin
nuair chaidh i-fhèin na bèist
nuair theann a seinn ri gliogadaich!
● Siud a’ chaor’ san robh
sgeun: cha do chleachd i bhith air sliabh
– ’s ann aig baile bha i riamh, is grinn
am feur a dh’itheadh i.
4. Do dhà
shùil bheag bhiolach / Your two
beady little eyes
In this eerie lullaby
– guaranteed to keep any infant wide
awake! – everyone in the township has
gone up to the hill pasture except one
woman who tends her baby and looks forward
to the return of her man, and a bird
whose beady little eyes peep out from
a crevice in the rock. Perhaps recognising
a kindred spirit, the woman promises
not to betray the bird’s presence. Calum
Ferguson, whose book Hiort far na
laigh a’ ghrian is an invaluable
source of information on every aspect
of St Kildan culture, says it was recorded
from a Harris woman in the 1950s: the
singer – Janet MacLeod – had learned
it in its original dialect from the
St Kildans who visited the whaling station
before the First World War.
Do dhà shùil
bheag bhiolach (bhiorach: St Kildan
dialect) gam choimhead tron toll
’s cha leig mi ort, cha leig mi ort.
● Tha càch aig a’ bheinn
’s tha mis’ aig a’ chloinn ’s cha leig
mi ort, cha leig mi ort. ● Ma
thig Ailean gu baile ’s gu ruig e dh’alam
(orm) bidh sinn aoibhneach ò,
bidh sinn aoibhneach ò.
5. Òran luaidh
Hirteach / St Kilda waulking-song
In St Kilda the wool
was plucked from the sheep, then carded,
spun and woven. Finally, as was the
custom throughout the Hebrides, the
women waulked (or "fulled")
the cloth, singing rhythmically while
thumping it heartily until it shrunk
in size, becoming thick and matted and
weatherproof enough to protect the men
who braved the seas and scaled the cliffs.
In this waulking-song a girl praises
her sweetheart – hunter of the birds,
sailor of the waves – promising to make
him fine warm tweed and a pair of moccasins
fashioned from the necks of gannets,
and to share with him her grandfather’s
finest gear. The words are in Carmina
Gadelica, the treasure-trove of
vernacular Gaelic songs, prayers and
lore collected by Alexander Carmichael
(1832 – 1912). As its tune has been
lost I borrowed the melody of a Uist
waulking song: after all the Uist people
and the St Kildans seem to have been
mutually supportive, as we shall see
below (track 8). In recent years this
song was re-fashioned into a poem in
English by my sister-in-law, the poet
Valerie Gillies (cf. track 17).
Agus ò iorrach
a’ chuain, agus ò ’s na hiùra
bhòaich, agus ò iorrach
a’ chuain. Dhèanainn an clò
bàn cho blàth dhut, an
snàth mar an sìoman reamhar.
● Dhèanainn dhut
an cuaran iteach, a luaidh ’s a liostaidh
nam fearaibh. ● Bheirinn
dhut a’ mhogais phrìseil ’s am
ball-sinnsir bh’ aig mo sheanair. ●
Mo ghaol sealgair a’ bhigein ’s
moiche thig thar linne choimhich. ●
Mo ghaol maraiche nan tonn, is mòr
am fonn bhiodh air a mhalaidh.
6. Thulgag bhòidheach
/ Lovely "Tulgag"
This is a song in praise
of a boat that took the men of Hirt
over to Soay and the other islands to
tend their animals and hunt birds. Calum
Ferguson points out that the St Kildans
chose names for their boats which reflected
their smallness: "Thulgag"
is no more than a "Little Dent"
in the ocean, and "Faiche"
(in the next song) is a "Little
Hole on the Shore where Crabs and Lobsters
Hide". But of course the importance
of their boats to the community was
immeasurable. The melody and first verse
are traditional St Kildan. Verses 2
and 3 were added by Calum himself, and
published in Hiort far na laigh a’
ghrian.
Thulgag bhòidheach,
thulgag bhòidheach, thulgag bhòidheach
null gu Sòaigh. Thulgag eile
seo, thulgag eile seo, thulgag eile
seo null chun nan eileanan. ●
Ruiteag air sàl i, ruiteag
air sàl i, ruiteag air sàl
i, aotrom, àlainn. Cuinneag fo
ràmh i, cuinneag fo ràmh
i, cuinneag fo ràmh i, aonrag
aighearach. ● Cuideachd
an eunlaith, cuideachd an eunlaith,
cuideachd an eunlaith, aoibhneach, sgiamhach.
Greadhnachas beadarach, greadhnachas
beadarach, greadhnachas ciatach, eun
a’ ceilearadh.
7. Cha b’ e sgioba
na Faiche / Not the crew of the "Faiche"
But of course when
small open boats sailed in wild seas
disasters could happen all too easily,
even to the most experienced and skilful
of crews. And such losses had a hugely
disproportionate impact on the tiny
St Kildan community. Here the drowned
victims included "my son Donald,
my three brothers, my aunt’s only boy,
and hardest of all to bear, my own husband".
The dignified, almost pragmatic way
in which the tragedy is recounted creates
a lament far more heart-breaking than
any wild outpourings of grief. This
song is published in Hiort far na
laigh a’ ghrian.
Cha b’ e sgioba na
Faiche ghabh Diciadain an t-aiseag –
gur e sgeula nan creach mura beò
sibh: gur e chùm sibh cho fad’
uam am muir àrd ’s a’ ghaoth
chas oirbh, chòir nach fhaod
sibh an ceartuair thoirt seòl
dhi. ● Gur e turas gun bhuannachd
thug air falbh an duin’ uasal, gus an
t-aon mhac thoirt uam-sa – seo Dòmhnall;
dh’fhalbh mo mhac ’s mo thriùir
bhràithrean, aon mhac piuthar
mo mhàthar, ’s sgeul as cruaidh’
thig no thàinig – m’ fhear-pòsta.
● ’S e chuir mi tharraing na luatha
’s a thoirt leis air an ruamhair na
fir a bhith uam ’s gun bhrath beò
orr’. Mi gun sùgradh, gun mhire,
’m shuidh air ùrlar a’ ghlinne:
tha mo shùilean a’ sileadh ’s
tric deòir orr’.
8. Na trì
Nèill chalma / The three brave
Neils
Heisgeir, off North
Uist, was evacuated a few decades after
Hirt. This rousing rowing song describes
the feats of three stalwarts – all named
Neil – who, we are led to believe, sailed
overnight from Heisgeir to Hirt with
only the stars to steer by ("the
Great Bear, the Huntsman, the Dog Star
and Orion’s Belt") carrying with
them a Uist bull and some fuel, and
returned home next day bringing with
them a St Kildan bull, some Soay sheep
and feathers! According to Donald Fergusson’s
book From the farthest Hebrides,
this hair-raising journey was undertaken
annually. It would be a rare example
of mutual support, not to mention ecological
farsightedness, if true – and perish
the thought that a Uistman should ever
indulge in tall tales! However Fergusson’s
grandfather emigrated from North Uist
to Cape Breton in 1841, and while his
memory of Hebridean tradition is remarkable
it also seems somewhat uneven, so a
pinch of salt might be salutary here!
I confess to having re-written many
of the lines in Fegusson’s book in an
attempt to repair their splendid rhyme-scheme.
This required educated guess-work, but
I took the precaution of passing the
results under the nose of a scholarly
North Uistman, who approved not only
of my prosody but also of my theory
that no self-respecting Neil would ever
have set sail from Uist to St Kilda
without first fuelling himself heroically
in the inn at Port Roy – if there was
one at the time!
I ho i hiù
hò nuair chàradh iad brèid,
i ho i hiù hò ’s sa bhàthadh
iad ràmh, i ho i hiù hò!
● Bho Heisgeir gu Hirt, bho
Hirt gu Heisgeir, na trì Nèill
chalma ri falbh ’s ri tighinn, ●
gun fheum ac’ air iùl ach Mùig
a’ Mhathain, an Sealgair, ’s an Cù,
is Clàr na Sgalaig. ●
Gu seinn mi air cliù nan
diùlnach cridheil, mac Iain ’ic
Raghnaill, mac Tharmaid ’ic Iain, ●’s
na shuidh aig an stiùir mac Dhùghaill
Ghobha, ’s i treabhadh nan tonn gu fonnmhor
fodhairt. ● Cha bu dhiùbhail
dhan triùir ud suidhe mun bhòrd
is bonn-a-h-ochd òl san taigh-òst’
am Port Ròaidh; ● cur
fodhpa gu h-aighearach, daingeann an
dul, a muineal ri ròiseal, sròn
fulasg ri muir. ● Nuair
ràinig iad Sòaigh ri bòc-thonn
frasach bha feud a’ Ghlinn Mhòir
fan comhair air cladach: ●
fir faire muir làn nach sàraich
fairge ri falbh ’s ri tighinn na trì
Nèill chalma.
9. The Lady Grange
Of all the visits made
to St Kilda over the centuries, none
was more bizarre than that of the 18th
century Scots aristocrat Rachel Erskine,
Lady Grange, whose imprisonment in Hirt
is still remembered with horror in the
Hebrides. Lord Grange was Lord Advocate
of Scotland and a closet Jacobite. In
1730, fearing his wife might betray
his loyalties, he declared her dead
and had a coffin filled with stones
and buried with due ceremony. Meanwhile
the lady was smuggled through the Outer
Hebrides to St Kilda where she was incarcerated
for nine years. She was then shipped
across to Skye where she died in 1742.
In a letter to the King, headed "St
Kilda, 1738", she wrote: "you
know I am not guilty of any crime except
that of loveing my husband to much,
he knowes very well that he was my idol
and now God has made him a rode to scourgeth
me" (sic). A tiny beehive-like
stone hut still standing in Hirt is
believed to have been her cell. In this
poem the Jacobite poetess Carolina Oliphant
(Lady Nairne), a devout Christian born
in Perthshire in 1766, tries to make
some sense of this iniquitous event.
Rhona MacKay’s clàrsach solo
is a variant of Rè an t-samhraidh
(cf. track 14). We first recorded this
poem on an earlier album, White Rose
o’ June, the songs of Carolina Oliphant,
Lady Nairne, Brìgh CD 0002.
10. ’S truagh a Rìgh
nach mi bha thallad o / I wish I was
over there
This song may presage
stirrings of discontent in St Kilda.
A young girl dreams of sailing far away
to the land where her sweetheart has
gone to make a new life: a land very
different from Hirt, where deer roam
the hills, the trees are alive with
birds, and great chieftains lead their
brave heroes to glory in battle. My
mother taught this song to me when I
was very young: she herself learned
it from the Columba Collection of
Gaelic Song.
’S truagh a Rìgh
nach mi bha thallad o anns an tìr
sa bheil mo leannan o: Boch oirinn
ò, boch oirinn oirinn, boch oirinn
ò. ● Tìr
nam beann, nan gleann ’s nam bealaichean,
● eòin air gèig
is fèidh san langanaich, ●
far am biodh na h-uaislean dhan
dual a bhith barrasach, ● rachadh
dhan bhlàr ’n coinneimh nàmhaid
mar dhealanach: ● bha mo
leannan fhèin ann ’s gur beusach
fearail e; ●’s truagh nach
mi bha seòladh thairis leis.
11. Iorram suirghe
/ A courtship rowing song
This most unusual Iorram,
or rowing-song, celebrates spring, young
love, and the return of the birds to
the islands. It was published in Alexander
Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica.
Born in the island of Lismore, Carmichael
travelled throughout the Highlands and
Islands in the course of his work. In
1865 he visited an old St Kildan woman
called Oighrig (Effie) MacCrimmon, a
bearer of much island tradition. Iorram
Suirghe, she told him, had been
composed by her own father and mother
as a "love-duet" before their
marriage – though, sadly, both her father
and grandfather were killed on the cliffs
shortly after the wedding. After whetting
his appetite with Iorram Suirghe
Oighrig begged Carmichael to come back
next day so that she could pass on more
songs to him. But the island’s minister
forbad him to "trouble" the
old lady again: she was nearing the
end of her life, he insisted, and should
be turning her mind to less temporal
matters! And so Carmichael left the
island sadly – and the rest of her songs
died with Oighrig.
Bhuam cas-chrom, bhuam
cas-dhìreach, bhuam gach mìs
is cìob is uan; suas mo lon,
nuas mo rioba, chuala mis’ an gug sa
chuan. Buidheachas dhan Tì thàine
na gugachan – thàine ’s na h-eòin
mhòra cuide riu: cailin dubh
ciar-dubh, bò sa chrò.
Bò dhonn, bò dhonn,
bò dhonn bheidireach, bò
dhonn, a rùin, bhligheadh am
bainne dhut; hò ro rù
ra rì roideachag, cailin dubh
ciar-dubh bò sa chrò,
na h-eòin air tighinn, cluinneam
an ceòl. ● Nàile,
’s e mo chuat am buachaill’ bhagradh
am bata ’s nach buaileadh, cailin dubh
ciar-dubh, bò sa chrò.
● ’S tu mo luran ’s tu mo leannan:
thug thu thùs dhomh ’m fulmair
meala, cailin dubh ciar-dubh, bò
sa chrò. ● M’ eudail thus’,
mo lur ’s mo shealgair: thug thu ’n-dè
dhomh ’n sùl ’s an gearr-bhall,
cailin dubh ciar-dubh, bò sa
chrò. ● ’S tu mo chugar
(chagar) ’s tu mo chearban,
thug thu ’m buit dhomh
’s thug thu ’n gearr-bhreac, cailin
dubh ciar-dubh, bò sa chrò.
12. Òran na
h-ighinne Hirtich / The St Kildan maiden’s
song
This song is also published
in Carmichael’s Carmina Gadelica,
where it is described as a waulking-song.
But many Gaelic work-songs seem to have
begun life in a more lyrical form before
being put to use in the boat or around
the waulking-frame. And so it was with
great excitement that I discovered that,
with a very minor adjustment to the
vocable refrain, these words marry perfectly
with the lovely air Òran na
h-Inghinne published in Ferguson’s
Hiort far na laigh a’ ghrian.
Carmichael says that the song was "composed
by a maiden of St Kilda, who had been
carried away and married in Lewis. She
was not happy in Lewis, and yearned
for her native home and her St Kildan
lover."
B’ fheàrr leam
na na fhuair mi nithinn bhith ’n Hirt
a’ spìonadh nan eun dubha, mar
ri sùlaire a’ ghuib liath a bheireadh
an t-iasg à druim an t-srutha.
Hill ù hill ò hill
ò ro bha hò, hill ù
hill ò mo ghille dubh, hill ù
hill ò hill ò ro bha hò,
bu tu mo thrò nan tigeadh tu.
● Òganaich nam brògan
àrda, thèid thu dhan bhàthach
mun tàr mi suidhe; dhannsadh
tu gu làidir, lùthmhor,
do dhà ghlùn cha lùbadh
lughadh. ● Bheir thu ’m fulmair
’s bheir thu ’n gearr-bhall, ’s bheir
thu ’n sgarbh à calg an rubha;
thèid thu mhòr-thìr
mhòr Chinn t-Sàile mar
ri Ìomhair àrd a’ Bhruthaich.
13. Mo ghaol òigear
a’ chùil duinn / I love the brown-haired
young man
A "brown-haired
young nobleman from Islay" visited
St Kilda in the mid-19th
century, causing a young island girl
– believed to have been called Mòr
Bhàn, or Fair-haired Marion
Morrison – to fall head over heels in
love. According to the MacDonald
Collection of Gaelic Song the young
man was none other than the famous John
Francis Campbell of Islay (1821-1885)
known as "Iain Òg Ìle",
who scoured the Hebrides collecting
Gaelic folktales. Whatever the identity
of her "Islay lord" he has
put the St Kildan girl off all the callow
island boys: "curly-haired Donald
Gillies" and his friends. And now
the gossips of Hirt are whispering that
she has fallen pregnant. If only she
had learned to write, she sighs, she’d
send a letter to Islay to reassure Iain
that there is no truth in these rumours.
But perhaps it’s lucky for us that she
was illiterate! If she had written a
letter it would probably have been consigned
to the flames of an Islay fire long
ago. Instead Marion expressed her most
private thoughts in this beautiful song
which has survived in the oral tradition
for at least 150 years. It is by far
the most precious of the many songs
I learned from the Rev. William Matheson
while his student in the Celtic Department
at Edinburgh University in the early
1960s. Words, music, notes etc are published
in my anthology Songs of Gaelic Scotland
(Birlinn).
Mo ghaol òigear
a’ chùil duinn dhan tug mi mo
loinn cho mòr; dhùraiginn
dhut pòg san anmoch ged bhiodh
càch ga sheanchas oirnn; mo ghaol
òigear a’ chùil duinn
dhan tug mi mo loinn cho mòr.
● Gura mise tha gu h-uallach
on a thàinig an duin’ uasal,
le mo ribeinean mun cuairt dhomh – cumaidh
iad mo ghruag air dòigh. ●
Dhòmhnaill dhualaich ’ic
Gillìosa, bha thu uair a bha
thu strì rium, ach on thàinig
an Tighearn’ Ìleach sguiridh
mi gad bhrìodal beòil.
● Cha dèan mi sùgradh
ri gillean, chan fhaod iad bhith rium
a’ mire: on an Caimbeulach gam shireadh
chan fhaigh iad tuilleadh nam chòir.
● Ged a gheibhinn-sa an
tàillear ’s na chosnadh e dhomh
le shnàthad, ’s mòr gum
b’ annsa bhith air àirigh togail
àil do dh’Iain òg. ●
Ach beul-sìos air luchd nam
farchluais, ’s luchd nam brèig
chan iad as fhasa – ’s mi gun siùbhladh
fad’ air astar dh’èisteachd cantanas
do bheòil. ● Gun
do thog iad orm mar sgeulan gun robh
mo chriosan ag èirigh; giùlainidh
mise siud eutrom o nach dèan
e eucoir orm. ● Ach nam
bithinn-sa cho fìnealt ’s gun
dèanainn litir a sgrìobhadh
rachadh fios thugad a dh’Ìle
nach i ’n fhìrinn thog iad oirnn.
14. Rè an
t-samhraidh bha mo dhùil ris
/ I waited for him all summer
With words by Calum
Ferguson set to an old St Kildan air,
and published in Hiort far na laigh
a’ ghrian, this song continues the
story of Marion Morrison and her noble
sweetheart from over the waves. According
to St Kildan tradition the Islayman
actually kept his promise and returned
to Hirt with the intention of claiming
Marion as his bride. But apparently
the ship he sailed on had guns on its
deck, and the people mistook it for
an enemy vessel and ran to hide in the
hills. Landing on Hirt, the Islayman
wandered disconsolately through the
deserted village calling in vain for
his lover. Receiving no answer he sailed
away, never to return.
Rè an t-samhraidh
bha mo dhùil ris, mo ghean sùrdail
’s mi ga fheitheamh, sùil gu
deas a dh’fhaicinn siùil mu Rubha
’n Dùin tighinn dlùth
ri fearann. ● Cha b’ e gleusadh
fear na fìdhle a rinn inns mo
ghràdh bhith tighinn, ’s cha
b’ e ceilear dheas na pìoba a
thog ruidhle fàilt’ e ruighinn.
● Thog fir sùil-bheachd
sgairt le fiamh gu robh na nàimhdean
air an stairsnich, bagairt creich’ le
daga ’s lann is theich sinn crom ri
fasgadh cladaich. ● Bha mo ghràdh
a’ ruith nan gleann, mac-talla meallta
ris a’ freagairt, ’s a chlaisneachd
geur ri guth na h-òigh a thug
a bòid gum biodh i leth ris.
● Chualas faram chnag is ràmh
is leig mi ràn nuair thug mi
’n aire gu robh mo ghràdh gu
bhith à fàir’ ’s a bhratach
àrd ’s e tilleadh dhachaigh.
●Dh’fhàg e còirean
Hirt gun ghò, Tighearn’ Òg
nam pògan meala, dh’fhàg
e òigh a’ sileadh deòir
an creachadh dòchais chaoidh
bhith maill’ ris. ● Nàile!
Mise a tha caoineadh beatha gaoil mu
sgaoil le sochair, chuireadh aontrachd
orm le faoineas ’s mi nis às
aonais laoich is tochair.
15. Tàladh
cailin an fhuilt òr-bhuidhe /
Lullaby for the golden-haired girl
The words of this gentle
lullaby were composed by my friend the
late Rev. John MacLeod, Minister of
the Parish Church, Oban, originally
from Lewis. The tune is an old St Kildan
air whose words were lost. Words and
music are published in Calum Ferguson’s
Hiort far na laigh a’ ghrian.
Fail èilidh
horo, fail èilidh horo, aghaidh
bhòidheach air a’ phàiste,
falt òr-bhuidh mo ghràidh-sa,
fail èilidh horo, fail èilidh
horo; caidil sàmhach gus
a-màireach, gràdh blàth
an uchd màthar, fail èilidh
horo, riro ri-rinn èile, caidil
sàmhach a ghràidh – caidil
socair chailin bhàn. ●
Tha bò bhainne tighinn bhon àirigh
le bainne math blàth dhi; thig
maorach à tràigh dhi,
thig biadh à muir-làn
dhi. ● Leis na gluaisean,
leis na dùisgean, mo luaidh-sa,
mo rùn-sa; mo luaidh-sa,
mo rùn-sa, bi sàmhach
gun chùram.
16. Ewen and the
Gold
This is the celebrated
Scots song-writer Brian McNeill’s version
of the true story of Ewan Gillies, a
St Kildan who emigrated to Australia
with his new wife in 1853, only to leave
her behind while he went off in search
of gold. Returning with his not inconsiderable
earnings he tried to settle down and
farm in Victoria, but could not make
it pay. Moving his family into rented
accommodation in Melbourne he returned
to the gold, this time in New Zealand.
All the time he was there he failed
to correspond with his wife, and by
the time he returned she had presumed
him dead and re-married. Ewan went off
in disgust to join the US army, but
soon deserted, lured this time by the
goldmines of California. By 1871 he
had made enough money to return to Melbourne
and "claim" his children,
taking them back to be reared in St
Kilda. They were warmly welcomed by
the islanders, but Ewan stayed barely
a month before setting sail once more
for America, leaving his children behind.
He was to spend a further eleven years
in California before eventually returning
home. But by this time his old friends
were gone, and the younger generation
found his stories boring. They earned
him the nick-name "California".
One woman, however, looked kindly on
him: they emigrated together and lived
the rest of their days in America.
You caught the line
they threw you, you helped to make her
fast, you heard the sailors talking
in the rigging; when the captain said
he’d take another hand before the mast
you knew you were halfway to the diggings.
So you rode the ocean’s swell to Bendigo
and living hell in the camps and the
creeks of Castlemaine, for like a million
other souls you were haunted by the
gold and you’d never know a peaceful
day again. And tell me, Ewen Gillies,
did you still believe the dream when
the hard men of Victoria bought and
sold you? When you had to sell the farm
that you’d sifted from the seams did
you curse the tale the sailor laddies
told you?
And did you fight against
the call of the island that you knew
would never hold you? For all the
gold Ewen Gillies ever found could not
buy him peace or freedom from the memory
of the sound of the waves on St. Kilda’s
rocky shore. ● And when the
dream was done you’d lost your children
and your wife and every single thing
you ever had, but you told your friends
the gold was still the centre of your
life and they told you, one and all,
that you were mad. So you wandered through
the years never stopping once to rue,
and St. Kilda saw your footsteps as
you passed; Old Glory even put you in
a coat of faded blue till the older
glory claimed you back at last. And
tell me, Ewen Gillies, did you give
the Lord your thanks when He told you
where the golden riches lay? Or did
you bow your head in prayer on the Sacramento
banks and ask Him should you go or should
you stay? And did St. Kilda call you
home across the mountains at the dawn
of every day? ● Again you
made the journey to that bare and barren
land to end your days among your kith
and kin, to a winter when the Devil
held the island in his hand and the
shadow of starvation rode the wind.
But it’s hard upon St. Kilda for the
folks to keep their pride when every
season brings them to despair, and to
hear you tell the tale of a different
ocean’s tide made their bitter burden
harder still to bear. So though they
knew you for their own you were forced
to stand alone in a solitude that no
man could endure: they made your home
a living grave, until the bravest of
the brave was forced to leave the poorest
of the poor. So you reached out once
again and took hold of the bonnie golden
lure. ● When first I heard
the tale of Ewen Gillies and the gold
I was filled with bitter anger and with
tears to see a traveller return and
then be shut out from the fold drove
a shaft into the deepest of my fears.
For God made Ewen Gillies and God gave
him wings to fly, but only from the
land where he belonged; but I’d fight
with God himself for the light in Ewen’s
eye or with any man who tells me he
was wrong. For there’s men who use their
dreams to tear themselves apart and
there’s men who never find a dream at
all, but how many find the courage to
look deep into their heart to find a
dream they can follow till they fall?
And when my heart cries out to wander
I can hear him answering the call. For
all the gold Ewen Gillies ever found
could not buy him peace or freedom from
the memory of the sound of the waves
on St. Kilda’s rocky shore. And on the
island the greatest story ever told
it was always Ewen Gillies, California
and the gold, so far from St. Kilda’s
rocky shore.
17. St Kilda waulking-song
Òran luaidh
Hirteach (cf. track 5, above) inspired
not only this little poem by Valerie
Gillies, but also a series of paintings
by the eminent artist Prof. Will MacLean.
Poem and artworks were exhibited in
1998, and published as a tiny but exquisite
book (Morning Star Press. It was a limited
edition, but you might find one through
www.arttm.org.uk).
18. From St Kilda
to Kings Cross
Emigration from the
islands is reflected in several St Kildas
dotted around the world, including Melbourne’s
fashionable beachside suburb. And it
seems from Paul Kelly’s song that the
"New World St Kildans" are
still inclined to leave home and go
travelling – if only as far as Sydney
on a bus – while leaving their hearts
firmly at home. This is equally true
of the distinguished Australian pianist
Peggy O’ Keefe who plays on this track.
Peggy began her days on a dairy-farm
in Warrnambool and trained at the Melbourne
Conservatorium. She came to Scotland
on a three-month contract in 1962, and
has been here ever since! But she still
talks with affection of how she began
her professional career while living
in an apartment in St Kilda.
From St Kilda to Kings Cross is thirteen
hours on a bus; I pressed my face against
the glass and watched the white lines
rushing past. And all around me felt
like all inside me, and my body left
me and my soul went running. ●
Have you ever seen Kings Cross when
the rain is falling soft? I came in
on the evening bus, from Oxford Street
I cut across. And if the rain don’t
fall too hard everything shines just
like a postcard, everything goes on
just the same. ●
Fair-weather friends are the hungriest
friends: I keep my mouth well shut,
I cross their open hands. ●
Want to see the sun go down from
St Kilda Esplanade, where the beach
needs reconstruction, where the palm
trees have it hard. I’d give you all
of Sydney Harbour (all that land, all
that water) for that one sweet promenade.
19. St Kilda’s Parliament
– 1879-1979: the photographer revisits
his picture
Douglas Dunn’s powerful
poem (published Faber and Faber, London,
1981) imagines how the Aberdonian George
Washington Wilson might have felt if
he had returned to the scene of his
celebrated photograph a hundred years
later – almost fifty years after the
evacuation of the island. The idea of
the "Noble Savage" fascinated
Post-Industrial Europe, and poets like
Oliver Goldsmith (The Deserted Village,
1770) and Thomas Gray (Elegy
Written in a Country Churchyard, 1750)
idealised rural life "far from
the madding crowd’s ignoble strife".
The modern poet, however, wipes the
mist from the lens, challenging on the
one hand the romantic portrayal of the
isolated St Kildan islands and their
history, and on the other the short-sightedness
of protecting wild life without even
pausing to consider, let alone address,
the profound issues of human ecology
which resonate throughout the Highlands
and Islands, and nowhere more so than
in the deserted houses of Hirt.
- Tuireadh nan Hirteach / The lament
of the St Kildans
This picture of the
sadness, disorientation and homesickness
felt by the departing St Kildan emigrants
was painted by the late Rev. Dr. George
Murray from Ness – the northernmost
tip of Lewis. Himself an exile, he became
minister of the Scots Presbyterian Church
in Boston. He portrays the St Kildans
as "shepherdless sheep" scattered
to the ends of an alien world where
everyone, however kind-hearted, speaks
a different language and has alien customs.
Meanwhile the dear green island of Hirt
lies empty in the midst of the ocean:
the birds still sing but no bell rings
in the cold church, Gaelic is no longer
heard, and the graves of the St Kildans’
ancestors are lonely and unattended.
The words are published in Creighton
/ MacLeod: Gaelic Songs in Nova Scotia
(Ottowa 1964) and the melody can be
found in Calum Ferguson’s book Hiort
far na laigh a’ ghrian.
Tha sinne brònach
’s is beag an t-iongnadh is tha sinn
cianail an-diugh air fògradh;
tha ’n cuan an iar le chuid thonnan
fiadhaich gar sgaradh cian bho ar n-àite-còmhnaidh.
● Tha sinn mar chaoraich
an seo gun bhuachaill, ’s sinn sgabt’
measg sluaigh air nach eil sinn eòlach;
ach ’s tric ar smuaintean ri snàmh
nan cuantan do dh’eilean uaine nan cluaintean
bòidheach. ● Tha
Hiort nam fuaran ’s nan sgeirean gruamach
am meadhan cuain ’s chan eil duine beò
ann: na h-eòin mun cuairt air
ri gabhail uabhais on dh’fhalbh an sluagh
a bh’ ann uair ri còmhnaidh.
● Tha ’n eaglais fuar ’s
chan eil clag ga bhualadh; cha tionail
sluagh ann air madainn Dòmhnaich;
cha chluinnear seinn ann no fonn an
aoibhneis – tha ’n tìr ri caoidh
chionn nach till na seòid ud.
● Cha b’ e gu h-àraidh
a dhol thar sàile chuir sinn
fo àmhghair ’s a dh’fhàg
sinn brònach, ach mar a sgaoileadh
air feadh gach taobh sinn ’s nach fhaic
sinn aon air a bheil sinn eòlach.
● Ged tha an sluagh measg a bheil
sinn truasail, tha ’n cànan cruaidh
’s tha iad fuar nan dòighean;
’s ann bha sinn suaimhneach far ’n d’
thogadh suas sinn, le Gàidhlig
uasal ga luaidh an còmhnaidh.
● Soraidh slàn leibh gun
teich na sgàilean: far bheil
sibh tàmh cha bhi càch
nur còir ann; tha sibhse sìnt’
anns an tìr bu mhiann leibh,
is eòin ri sgreuchail mur n-àite-còmhnaidh.
● ’S e sgur dem òran as
iomchaidh dhòmhsa: le briathran
beòil meud mo bhròin chan
innsear. Ceud soraidh slàn leat,
o eilein ghràdhaich far an deachaidh
m’ àrach ’s bheil tàmh
mo shinnsre.
____________________________
Also available from Brìgh Productions:-
The Lady of the Lake (songs from
Sir Walter Scott’s famous narrative
poem, including Hail to the chief
and Ave Maria, performed
by Anne Lorne Gillies and Rhona MacKay)
Brìgh BR001
White rose o’ June (the songs
of Carolina Oliphant, Lady Nairne, including
Will ye no come back again, Charlie
is my darling, The auld hoose,
The rowan tree performed by Anne
Lorne Gillies with Rhona MacKay, Alistair
McCulloch, Marc Duff, Gordon Cree, Duncan
MacColl, Stuart Forbes, Lindsay McCulloch
and Rick Standley.)
Brìgh BR002
For more information see www.annelornegillies.co.uk
For information about St Kilda see
www.kilda.org.uk
/ www.hiort.org.uk
For information about the work of
the National Trust for Scotland see
www.nts.org.uk
BRIGH BR003 [63’63"]
