Black Duncan and his line did much stern work as “justiciars,” especially on their neighbours, the Macgregors, then under James VI. going down in a changed world, as the Campbells came up. Fetters and shackles made an important part of the furniture at Finlarig, which has comic as well as grim traditions of its rough-and-ready executions, like that of the reluctant Highlander urged by his wife to more alacrity in stepping up to be hanged “to pleasure the laird.” The axe is still shown at Taymouth with which a Macgregor chief was executed; more than one, indeed, coming to such an end, if all tales be true. In one case the legend is that a Macgregor, invited to a friendly conference, was ambushed by armed men, who dragged him to the block at Kenmore, having killed his aged father on the way. But the stories make some confusion of father and son; and it seems doubtful whether this were the same victim as the “Red Macgregor” beheaded before the eyes of his wife, herself a Campbell by birth, who cursed her kindred in a celebrated Gaelic lament, with its burden of-- Ochain, ochain--sad my heart, my child! Ochain, ochain--thy father hears not our moan! On Lammas morn I rejoiced with my love; ere noon my heart was pressed with sorrow. [Illustration: THE DOCHART] Under ban be the nobles and friends who pained me so: who unawares came on my love, and overmastered him by guile. Had there been twelve of his race and my Gregor at their head, my eyes would not be dim with tears, nor my child without its father. They laid his head upon an oaken block: they poured his blood on the ground: oh had I there a cup I would drink of it my fill! Oh that my father had been sick, and Colin in the plague, and all the Campbells in Balloch wearing manacles! I would have put Gray Colin under lock and Black Duncan in a dungeon, though Ruthven’s daughter would be wringing her hands. I went to the plains of Balloch, but rest found not there: I tore the hair from my head, the skin from my hands. Had I the wings of the lark, the strength of Gregor in my arms, the highest stone in the castle would have been the one next the ground. Oh that Finlarig were wrapped in flames, proud Taymouth lying in ashes, and fair-haired Gregor of the white hands in my embrace! All others have apples: I have none, my sweet, lovely apple has the back of his head to the ground. Other men’s wives sleep soft in their homes: I stand by the bedside wringing my hands.