"_Macranuil_ selected the flower of the clan, marched during the night and arrived at the Chapel of Cilliechriost on the Sabbath morning, where they massacred the unsuspecting inmates as described in your version of the legend far more graphically than in mine, but they are on all fours, regarding the facts and incidents except that in mine, the Mackenzies overtook and routed the Macdonalds at _Lon na fola_ or the 'Bog of Blood,' near Mealfuarvonie, and that it was at _Ault a Ghiuthais_, across a chasm four hundred feet high, with a fearful and foaming cataract beneath, that Lundi made his celebrated leap, and not in _Ault-Sigh_ as in yours. I am, however, disposed to think your version is the most correct of the two."
We shall now give the following poem composed by Andrew Fraser of Inverness, and inscribed to Sir Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Baronet of Gairloch, during his minority, to whom we are indebted for the manuscript. It corroborates Norman's version of the Raid of Cilliechriost in almost every particular, and has considerable merit of its own as an original composition:--
THE RAID OF MACRANUIL--BURNING OF CILLIECHRIOST.
_Most respectfully inscribed to the Heir of Gairloch, &c., &c._
Gathered are Glengarrie's pride On Lochlundie's mossy side, The Crantara they obey, They are met they know not why, But they bind the broadsword on; And the studded buckler shone As the evening's sunny rays Burnt in summer's orient blaze Through the silent sombre wood That lines the margin of the flood. Mark, O mark that eagle crest, Towering lordly o'er the rest, Like the tall and monarch pine Which waves its head in dark Glenlyne, When the stormy cloud is cast Above that region of the blast. Mark that forehead's fitful glow, Mark that grey and shaggy brow, Mark, O mark that dreadful eye Which glistens but on misery. Now rolling in revengeful mood O'er the thoughts of coming blood, Then casting to the glorious sky A glance of hopeless agony.
Warrior of the savage breast, Fell Macranuil 'twas thy crest, 'Twas the banner of thy race Which the wondering eye might trace, As it wound by wood and brake, Rolling stream and stilly lake, As it fluttered for a while On the brow of dark Torgoil, Or descended the rough side Of the Moristone's wild tide.