Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains—­a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.

His poem entitled the “Song of Age,” is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.

ORAN NA H-AOIS,

THE SONG OF AGE.

    Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay,
      The notes would betray the languor of woe;
    My heart is o’erthrown, like the rush of the stone
      That, unfix’d from its throne, seeks the valley below. 
    The veteran of war, that knows not to spare,
      And offers us ne’er the respite of peace,
    Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan,
      For under the sun is no hope of release. 
    ’Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen
      Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside;
    How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower
      The arm of our power, and the step of our pride. 
    As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale,
      The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky,
    So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress,
      Old age, with that face of aversion to joy. 
    Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead,
      And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age;
    Not a joint, not a nerve—­so prostrate their verve—­
      In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage. 
    To leap with the best, or the billow to breast,
      Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain;
    On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]
      The fever’s hot breath, the dart-shot of pain. 
    Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held
      By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies;
    The friends of our love at thy call must remove,—­
      What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise? 
    They leave us, deplore as it wills us,—­our store,
      Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind;
    Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o’ertakes us,
      Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind. 
    Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face
      To hasten its race on the route to the tomb,
    To whom nothing is dear, unaffection’d the ear,
      Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb;
    Of spirit how void, thy passions how cloy’d,
      Thy pith how destroy’d, and thy pleasure how gone! 
    To the pang of thy cries not an echo replies,
      Even sympathy dies—­and thy helper is none. 
    We see thee how stripp’d of each bloom that equipp’d
      Thy flourish, till nipp’d the winter thy rose;
    Till the spoiler made bare the scalp of the hair,
      And the ivory[128]