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Updated: June 25, 2025
The most famous of all the song-writers of the Western Highlands was Mary Macleod, that was born in Harris Mairi Nighean Alasdair ruaidh, they called her, that is, Mary, the daughter of Red Alister. Macleod of Dunvegan, he wished her not to make any more songs; but she could not cease the making of songs. And there was another Macleod Fionaghal, they called her, that is the Fair Stranger.
"It's an honest brawl among friends, and I could settle the account with them at the next market-day, when my shoulder's mended." "Better if you would settle my account for your last pair of brogues, Alasdair M'Iver," said a black-avised juryman. "What's your trade?" asked the Marquis of the witness. "I'm at the Coillebhraid silver-mines," said he.
"Man, I'll wager we never see the colour of his face when it comes to close quarters." "I wouldn't wonder," I ventured. "He is in no great trim for fighting, for his arm is " Sir Alasdair gave a gesture of contempt and cried, "Faugh! we've heard of the raxed arm: he took care when he was making his tale that he never made it a raxed leg."
"The plan of old Gustavus did it, I'll wager my share of the silver-mine," would John insist; "and who in heaven's name would think Alasdair mosach knew the trick of it? I saw his horsemen fire one pistol-shot and fall on at full speed. That's old Gustavus for you, isn't it? And yet," he would continue, reflecting, "Auchin-breac knew the Swedish tactics too.
He was a short-tempered man of no great manners, and he only grunted his response. "They may well call you Camerons of the soft mouth," said Alasdair, angrily, "that would treat your comrades so." "You left us to carry our own men," said the chief, shortly; "we left you to find your own deer."
But, alas! tragedy was at the door, and early on the wedding morn Lord Alasdair was found cold and dead in the deep lake which formed such a feature of the property. How he died no one could tell; but die he did with life so fair and bright before him, and the girl he loved putting on her wedding clothes for the happy ceremony.
Those three days we call Faoilteaeh, and often they are very genial and cheerful days, with a sun that in warmth is a sample of the mellow season at hand. But this year, as my history has shown, we had no sign of a good Faoilteach, and on the morning of the last day of January, when Alasdair MacDonald's army set over the hills, it was wild, tempestuous weather.
The most notable-looking of these was Alasdair MacDonald, the Major-General, an uncouth dog, but a better general, as I learned later, than ever God or practice made James Grahame of Montrose; with John of Moidart, the Captain of Clanranald, Donald Glas MacRanald of Keppoch, the laird of Glencoe, Stewart of Appin, and one of the Knoydart house, all of whilk we distinguished by their tartans and badges.
I thought we had earned a halt and a bite of meat by this forenoon of labour; and Montrose himself, who had walked the pass on foot like his fellows, seemed anxious to rest, but Sir Alasdair pushed us on like a fate relentless. "On, on," he cried, waving his long arms to the prospect before; "here's but the start of our journey; far is the way before; strike fast, strike hot!
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