Then did the third wise speaker say,— “Not many days ere this He own’d the whole round world; and now Not seven short feet are his!” “Alexander treasured gold To serve his every whim; And now,” the fourth man sagely said, “’Tis gold that treasures him. “Like gold was Philip’s son—the gold That binds the jewels bright; Like the palm among the trees; the moon Amid the stars of night; “Like the great whale among small fish; The lion ’mid the slain; The eagle when she drives the birds From the rock of her lone reign. “Like Zion hill amid the hills— The hill that holiest seems; Like the great sea unto the floods; Like Jordan ’mid the streams. “He was a man above all men, Save the High King of Heaven; To him were armies, towns, and lands, And herds and forests given.” Thus o’er the great man’s tomb they spoke! Wise do I count their lore; Unlike to women’s idle prate Were the sayings of these four. In the Dean’s Book we have poems by two ladies—the first Gaelic poetesses of whom we have any record. The name of one of them is EFRIC MACCORQUDALE or MACNEILL. This poetess, whose name is written “Effric neyn corgitill,” is the authoress of a very spirited poem. She appears to have been the wife of the last MacNeill of Castle Sween, an ancient strong-hold at the mouth of Loch Sween in Knapdale, Argyllshire. The last constable of this clan was Hector MacTorquil MacNeill, whose name is found on a Macdonald charter in 1472. He was of the Gigha MacNeills, who sprung from Torquil MacNeill, designated “filius Nigelli” in his charter of the lands of Gigha and Taynish with the constabulary of Castle Sween. “MacTorquil,” half Gaelic, half Norse, reminds us of the mixture of Teutonic and Celtic blood in the veins of this clan. When the last MacNeill died, leaving no heir in the direct line, the office and lands connected with Castle Sween were given, in 1431, to the Earl of Argyll. Efric, his wife, here laments the fact. Rosary, thou kindlest sorrow; Thou art ever my delight; Telling of the noble bosom Where I lay until to-night. Death has filled me with its sadness; Where’s the arm I clung to long? Ah! I saw it not departing;— His the valiant and the strong. Joyful voice of softest music; Known it everywhere remains; Lion of Mull of the white towers, Hawk of Islay of smooth plains. * * * * * There’s no joy among our women; At the sport men are not seen; Like the skies when winds are silent, So with music is Dun Sween. On Clan-Neill they’ve taken vengeance; See the palace of the brave! Cause to us of sad lamenting Till they lay us in the grave. The other poetess is—