me is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's
report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which
Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story
is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little
with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian,
in the words, "Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic
to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?" "If I have,"
quoth Macodrum, "I fear it is now irrecoverable."

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 fro