All this forms the subject of “Caberfae,” which, without having much meaning or poetry, served, like the celebrated “Lillibulero,” to animate armies, and inflame party spirit to a degree that can scarcely be imagined.  The repetition of “the Staghead, when rises his cabar on,” which concludes every strophe, is enough at any time to bring a Mackenzie to his feet, or into the forefront of battle,—­being a simple allusion to the Mackenzie crest, allegorised into an emblem of the stag at bay, or ready in his ire to push at his assailant.  The cabar is the horn, or, rather, the “tine of the first-head,”—­no ignoble emblem, certainly, of clannish fury and impetuosity.  The difficulty of the measure compels us to the use of certain metrical freedoms, and also of some Gaelic words, for which is craved the reader’s indulgence.

[130] In Stat.  Ac. said to be of Lochbroom, vol. xiv., p. 79.

[131] Hugh Macleod.

CABERFAE,

THE STAGHEAD.[132]

    A health to Caberfae,
      A toast, and a cheery one,
    That soon return he may,
      Though long and far his tarrying. 
    The death of shame befal me,
      Be riven off my eididh[133] too,
    But my fancy hears thy call—­we
      Should all be up and ready, O! 
    ’Tis I have seen thy weapon keen,
      Thine arm, inaction scorning,
    Assign their dues to the Munroes,
      Their welcome in the morning. 
    Nor stood the Catach[134] to his bratach[135]
      For dread of a belabouring,
    When up gets the Staghead,
      And raises his cabar on.

    Woe to the man of Folais,[136]
      When he to fight must challenge thee;
    Nor better fared the Roses[137]
      That lent Monro their valiancy. 
    The Granndach[138] and the Frazer,[139]
      They tarried not the melee in;
    Fled Forbes,[140] in dismay, sir,
      Culloden-wards, undallying. 
    Away they ran, while firm remain,
      Not one to three, retiring so,
    The earl,[141] the craven, took to haven,
      Scarce a pistol firing, O! 
    Mackay[142] of Spoils, his heart recoils,
      He cries in haste his cabul[143] on,
    He flies—­as soars the Staghead,
      And raises his cabar on.

    Like feather’d creatures flying,
      That in the hill-mist shiver,
    In haste for refuge hieing,
      To the meadow or the river—­
    So, port they sought, and took to boat,
      Bewailing what had happened them,
    To trust was rash, the missing flash
      Of the rusty guns that weapon’d them. 
    The coracle of many a skull,
      The relics of his neighbour, on,
    Monro retreats[144]—­for Staghead
      Is raising his cabar on.