Aois is Aithris	Legend and Longevity
Sa gheamhradh 1936-37, chaidh sreath rèidio air an robh "Am Measg nam Bodach" a chraoladh, anns an robh daoine pongail as na h-eileanan Gaidhealach a' cuimhneachadh seann daoine an òige. Seo a' chiad leth dhen aithris aig Niall Mac'illeSheathanaich air Diùra. (teacs tùsail)	In the winter of 1936-37 was broadcast a radio series called "Am Measg nam Bodach", in which eloquent speakers from the Hebrides remembered the old folk of their youth. Here is the first half of the programme by Niall Mac' illeSheathanaich on Jura. (translation)
Fàilte bhlàth is fhuranach dhuibhse tha gam èisteachd agus ged tha mi car tamaill am measg nam bodach, tha mi cinnteach nach gabh na cailleachan mìothlachd rium. Tha an ceann teagaisg a thugadh dhomhsa is do dh'fheadhainn eile, a' dusgadh mhic-meanmain a suain iomadh bliadhna, agus a' toirt crathaidh oirnn, is a' cur 'nar cuimhne gu bheil mòran bhliadhnachan air dol seachad oirnn mar-thà. Is suarach an ùine gus am bi sinn fhèin 'nar bodaich.	A warm and hearty welcome to you who are listening to me and though I might spend a little while amongst the old men, I'm sure that the older women won' t take displeasure with me. The subject for discussion which has been given to me and to some others arouses the imagination from the slumber of many years, and gives a shake, and reminds us that a good number of years have already passed us by. In no time at all we will ourselves be old men.
Is cuimhne leinn uile bodach, no cailleach, a bha math air aithris sgeulachdan beaga is uirsgeulan mòra. Rinn cuid dhiubh drùdhadh air ar n-inntinnean òga, agus air cho sean is gum faod sinn a bhith, bidh cuimhne chùbhraidh againn orrasan a thug toil-inntinn sònraichte dhuinn nuair a bha sinn òg.	We all remember an old man, or an old woman, who was good at telling wee anecdotes and lengthy fables. Some of them left an impression on our young minds, and no matter how old we might be, we will carry a sweet memory of those who gave us a special pleasure when we were young.
Tha cruth is dealbh nan daoine sin ag èirigh cho riochdail fa chomhar mo shùla aig an àm seo, agus gu bheil mi air an dearg mhionaid a' leum thar an t-Sruthain Ruaidh a dhol a chèilidh air Dùghall Darach is Iain a' Ghobha, seanchaidhean barraichte le chèile agus daoine còire gasta; nach iomadh naidheachd èibhinn a chuala sinn bhuatha.	The form and image of those people rise up before my eyes just now so true to life, that it's as if I'm at this very moment leaping the Sruthan Ruadh to go and visit Dùghall Darach and Iain a' Ghobha, both excellent storytellers and fine, affable people; we certainly heard many an amusing tale from them.
Ach 'siad naidheachdan an Tàilleir Mhòir as feàrr a lean ri cuid againn, oir bha iad sin mar bu trice mu dheidhinn shamhlaidhean is eich uisge. Nuair a thigeadh an Tàillear air a chuairt a dhèanamh thrusgan dhuinn anns a' Bhuaile gheibheamaid an toiseach sgeul na dùthcha, oir bha sinne air ar cuartachadh le monadh farsaing, gun cheum rathaid fad ochd mile. Gheibheamaid sgeul air bodaich eile a bha sa Chill, an Taigh a' Chaigein is an Taigh nan Dùnan; bodaich air nach robh agamsa ach eòlas iomraidh.	But it was the tales of the Tàillear Mòr [big tailor] which best stuck with some of us, for they were mostly about apparitions and water horses. When the Tàillear would come on his rounds to the Buaile to make clothing for us, we would first get the district news, as we were surrounded by a wide moor, without any road for eight miles. We would get news of other folk in the Cill, in Taigh a' Chaigein and in Taigh nan Dùnan; folk with whom I was only acquainted at second hand.
Chuireadh m' athair lòchran air ghleus is shuidheadh gach beag is mòr cho faisg air an Tàillear sa gheibheadh iad. Bu ghasta leis an Tàillear a bhith ag innseadh sgeulachdan mu Loch a' Bhaile Mhargaidh agus gun robh a ghrunnd cho rèidh, còmhnard ri cabhsairean Ghlaschu. Faodaidh sinn sin a chreidsinn, oir bha 'leithid seo de bhailtean margaidh feadh an t-saoghail cian mun robh làn cuinneig uisge far a bheil an loch an-diugh.	My father would prepare a lantern and both young and old would sit as close to the Tàillear as they could. The Tàillear loved to recount tales of Loch a ' Bhaile Mhargaidh [loch of the market town] and how its bed was as level and as even as the pavements of Glasgow. We can believe that, for market towns such as this were to be found right around the world before there was a small pail's worth of water where the loch is today.
AAr leam gur ann mar seo a bha aon de na sgeulachdan mun each uisge. Bha bean uair a bha siud a-mach le 'treud, is iad ag ionaltradh faisg air Loch a ' Bhaile Mhargaidh. Bha i 'na suidhe air tolman beag uaine nuair a chunnaic i coltas duin-uasail a' tighinn 'na rathad. Dh'fhan i mar a bha i, is thàinig esan is shuidh e làimh rithe. Cha chuimhne leam co dhiubh thuirt an sgeulaiche gun do bhruidhinn iad ri chèile no nach tuirt ach co-dhiù, chaidil an duin-uasal. Thug a' bhean an sin an aire nach bu dhuine saoghalta e, agus a chum 's nach dùisgeadh i e gheàrr i dhith a h-aparan is leig i sìos ceann a' choigrich cho socair 's a b'urrainn i is thug i a casan leatha, astar bhuaithe.	I think that one of the tales about the water horse went like this. Once upon a time this woman was out with her herd, which was grazing in the vicinity of Loch a' Bhaile Mhargaidh. She was sitting on a small green knoll when she saw what appeared to be a gentleman coming her way. She stayed put, and he came and sat by her. I can't remember whether the storyteller said that they spoke to each other or not but anyhow, the gentleman fell asleep. The women then noticed that that this was no earthly man, and so as not to wake him, she cut off her apron, lay the stranger's head down as gently as she could and made off till she was far away.
Nuair a thill an creutair neo-chneasta seo air ais don loch as an tàinig e, is a mhothaich na h-uilebheistean eile gun robh e an comann neach talmhaidh, ghleac iad cho searbh is gun robh uisge an locha dearg le'm fuil. An cuireadh e iongantas sam bith oirbh ged a chumadh sin astar math eadar sinn is Loch a' Bhaile Mhargaidh? Ann an eilean far a bheil mòran lochan, bu choltach gum biodh mòran sgeulachdan mun each uisge, agus bha sin ann.	When this uncanny creature returned to the loch from whence it had come, and the other monsters realised that it had been in the company of an earthly being, they wrestled so bitterly that the water of the loch was red with their blood. Would it surprise you at all that this would keep us a good distance from Loch a' Bhaile Mhargaidh? In an island where there are many small lochs, it is to be expected that there would be many tales about the water horse, and there certainly were.
Bha Niall Clèireach a bha san Learga Bhric 'na sheanchaidh barraichte agus is duilich leam nach do cheadaich astar dhomh a bhith na bu trice 'na chuideachd. Mu dhà fhichead bliadhna air ais, sgrìobh mi sìos bho sheana bhean chòir an Cnoc Crom, no an Àird Fhearnail, na h-uile facal de Laoidh MhicEalair anns a bheil còrr is sè fichead sreath. Bha am boireannach an uair sin gu math thairis air a' cheithir fichead, ach cha robh mearachd 'na h-aithris.	Niall Clark, who lived in the Learga Bhreac, was an excellent storyteller, and I'm sorry that distance didn't permit me to be in his company more often. About forty years ago, I wrote down from an old woman in Cnoc Crom, or in Ardfernal, every word of the Lay of Mackellar in which there is 120 lines. The woman was by then well beyond 80, but there were no mistakes in her recitation.
Tha sin gam thoirt gu ceann eile, agus 'se sin cho dlùth agus a bheir còmhradh sheann daoine na linntean a dh'fhalbh dhuinn. Chan eil aon de na seann daoine a dh'ainmich mi, agus mòran eile, nach robh eòlach air Màiri Ribeach. Bha m' athair fhèin 'na fhichead bliadhna nuair a chaochail am boireannach aosta seo. A-nis, bha esan agus a' mhuinntir eile a bha 'na choimhearsnachd an còmhradh gach latha ri aon a bha ochd bliadhna deug a dh' aois nuair a chuireadh Blàr Chùl Lodair.	That takes me to another topic, and that is how close to us the talk of old folk can bring past centuries. There is not one of the old folk I have mentioned, and many others, who didn't know Màiri Ribeach. My own father was 20 when this elderly woman died. So he and the other folk who were in his community would talk each day to someone who was 18 years old when the Battle of Culloden was fought.
Chuala an saoghal uile gu lèir gun robh Màiri Ribeach ochd is sè fichead bliadhna nuair a chaochail i. Bha mu cheud bliadhna eadar i fhèin is an Gill ' Odhar, ach nach suarach sin an eachdraidh cinneadh a bha cho fad-shaoghaltach ri Cloinn MhicCràine. Chan eil mòran ri aithris mu Mhàiri, ach gum bu bhoireannach beag speisealta i, agus ged a fhuair i an t-ainm Màiri Ribeach cha robh sin ach ainm a thug a h-athair oirre nuair a bha i ' na caileig bhig is a cuailean beag camagach a' snàmh anns a' ghaoith.	The whole world has heard that Màiri Ribeach was 128 when she died. There was about a hundred years between herself and the Gill' Odhar [lad with yellow-brown hair], but what's that in the history of a race so long-lived as Clan MacCrain. There's not much to tell about Màiri, except that she was a comely wee woman, and though she got the name Màiri Ribeach [hairy, entangling] that was only a name given her by her father when she was a small girl with her small, curly head of hair flowing in the wind.
Tha mòran beul-aithris mun Ghill' Odhar fhèin agus 'se sinn a bhith cho cinnteach mun aois mhòr a fhuair e gun robh duin-uasal air chuairt sna h-eileanan siar mu lethcheud bliadhna an dèidh don Ghill' Odhar am bàs fhaotainn. Dh'innis bodach air choreigin an Diùra dhomhsa gur anns an dòigh seo a fhuair an Gill' Odhar a liuthad de shìneadh làithean:	There is much oral tradition about the Gill' Odhar himself and we can be so certain of the great age he reached since a gentleman was on tour in the western isles about 50 years after the death of the Gill' Odhar. Some old man or other in Jura told me that this was how the Gill' Odhar got such a lenghtening of days:
Nuair a bha e mu dheich is ceithir fichead bliadhna a dh'aois dhìrich e ri aon de na beanntan àrda a tha cho lìonmhor anns an eilean, agus thug e sùil mun cuairt air. Bha na glinn gu h-ìosal foidhe cho feurach, bòidheach, na h-uillt le crònan sèimh a' triall gu tràigh, coilltean ùrar uaine ri oir na mara agus crodh, caoraich, gobhair is fèidh ag ionaltradh gu socair air iomadh slios. Thuirt e ris fhèin gum bu mhòr am beud an saoghal seo fhàgail agus na h-uile nì cho taitneach don t-sùil is don aigne. Dh'èirich e 'na sheasamh, sgaoil e a dhà làimh a-mach o ghuaillean agus ghlaodh e àird a chinn: "Och nach robh mi òg a-rithist." Fhuair e 'mhiann, agus bha e beò deich is ceithir fichead bliadhna as a dhèidh sin.	When he was about 90 years old, he climbed one of the high hills which are so plentiful in the island, and took a look around him. The glens down below were so abundant in grass and beauty, the burns running with a mild murmur to the coast, green, fresh woods by the shore and cattle, sheep, goats and deer grazing peacefully on numerous slopes. He said to himself that it would be a great shame to leave this world with everything so pleasing to the eye and the soul. He stood up, spread out wide his two hands and shouted at the top of his voice: "Oh if only I were young again." He got his wish, and was alive for 90 years after that.
Tha seann duine eile air aithris am measg nam bodach, Murchadh Buidhe nam Fiadh. Bha e 'na shealgair fhiadh agus b'i Beinn an Òir a roghainn àite seilge, agus lean e air a tathaich gus an robh e 'na fhìor sheann duine liath.	There was another old person who was talked about amongst the old men, Murchadh Buidhe of the Deer. He was a deer hunter, and Beinn an Òir his favourite hunting place, which he continued to visit until an extremely old, grey-haired man.
B'ann do na sìthichean a bhuineadh na fèidh, agus bhiodh iad diombach do Mhurchadh air son a bhith cho trom air na daimh. Latha bha e siubhal na beinne chunnaic e damh brèagha air an d'èalaidh e gus an robh e an dlùths saighead a thilgeadh air. Nuair a chaog e a shùil a ghabhail cuimse, thionndaidh an damh 'na dhuine, agus thuirt e: ''Tha thusa an-sin, a Mhurchaidh Bhuidhe nam Fiadh, is tu a' fàs liath 'ad shuidhe air sliabh Beinn an Òir." Fhreagair Murchadh: "Ma tha mise air fàs liath air sliabh Beinn an Òir, is furasta do Dhia mo dhèanamh òg." Air dha seo a ràdh, phill neart na h-òige ris a-rithist agus bha e beò iomadh bliadhna an dèidh sin.	The fairies used to own the deer, and they would get angry with Murchadh for continuously taking stags. One day when out and about in the hills, he saw a beautiful stag and stalked it until he was within the range of a bow shot. When he closed his eye to take aim, the deer turned into a man, and said: "There you are, Murchadh Buidhe of the Deer, having turned grey sitting on the slope of Beinn an Òir." Murchadh replied: "If I've turned grey on the slope of Beinn an Òir, it is easy for God to make me young." On saying this, the strength of his youth returned once more and he lived on for many a year.
Tha beagan ceangal aig an sgeul seo ris an tè eile a dh'aithris mi, ach tha barail agam gun robh Murchadh Buidhe beò linn no dhà ron Ghill' Odhar. Tha an Gill' Odhar air a thiodhlacadh an cladh Chill Arnadail, agus Màiri Ribeach an cladh Chille Chiamhlaig an Àird Lusa. Tha sloinneadh Mhurchaidh gam thoirt gu sgeul eile..	This story has some connection with the other one I recounted, but I suspect that Murchadh Buidhe lived a century or two before the Gill' Odhar. The Gill ' Odhar is buried in Cill Arnadail graveyard, and Màiri Ribeach in Cille Chiamhlaig graveyard in Ardlussa. Murchadh's lineage takes me to another story..
ri leantainn	to be continued

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