Macfadden And Macfee.

[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now, alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]     It was an' aboot the Lammas time,     In sixteen forty-three, sirs,     That there fell oot the awfu' fecht     'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.     Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk     Upon the morn's morn,     Had washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk     An' combed his Sabbath sporran.     An' bein' for the time o' year     Remarkably fine weather,     These articles o' dress were laid     To air upon the heather.     Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre     The bonnie braes o' Lorne,     Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit     Upon Macfadden's sporran.     A piece o' carelessness like this     The brichtest heart would sadden,     An' when he saw the caitiff deed     It fair gaed owre Macfadden.     For he was shavin' at the time,     An' when the sicht he saw, sir,     Wi' rage he shook an' nearly took     His neb aff wi' his raazor.     A while he swore and staunched the gore     An' ere Macfee got ae lick,     Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels     In comprehensive Gaelic.     Syne when his breath was a' but gane,     An' when he couldna say more,     He lat a muckle Heelant yell     An' at him wi' his claymore.     What sweeter sound could warrior hear     Unless it was the daddin'     That echoed oot when'er Macfee     Got hame upon Macfadden?     Nae sweeter soond I weel could ween,     Exceppin' it micht be, sirs,     The soond that hurtled oot when'er     Macfadden hit Macfee, sirs.     An awfu' fecht it was to see,     A fecht baith fell an' dour, sirs,     For ere the tuilzie weel began     The glen was fu' o' stour, sirs.     An awfu' fecht, again I say't,     And on each auld clay biggin',     The freends o' baith, like hoodie craws,     Were roostin' on the riggin'.     And aye they buckled till't wi' birr;     In combat sair an' grievous,     They glanced like lightnin' up Strathyre     An' thundered doon Ben Nevis.     Wha won the fecht, or whilk ane lost,     Was hid frae mortal e'e, sirs,     Nane saw the fearsome end o' baith     Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.     But still they say, at break o' day,     Upon the braes o' Lorne,     Ye'll hear the ghaistly rustlin' o'     Macfadden's Sabbath sporran.