The _Danes in Islay_ is not the only _cath_ or battle that the bard has sought to immortalise in tough classical Celtic. We have also several vigorous poems on the battles of Scotland’s earlier struggles for independence. Livingston’s muse is nearly wholly of a martial order, which, while it explains his want of popularity among what he would regard as a somewhat effeminate generation, is the more remarkable when it is remembered how purely sentimental the most of his contemporary bards have been. The titles of three other poems are—_The Battle of Mona Phraca_, _The Battle of Dail-righ_—regarded as his best—and that of _Tra-Ghruinard_, where the great Sir Lachlan MacLean of Duart fell, pierced by the fatal shaft of the dwarf _Dubh-Shee_, who offered services the Knight of Duart despised. The dwarf is described by the bard in pretty expressive terms—“_Treoich a ghuir an Diabhul ’san Lag an Diura!_” The best of all his poems is the 100 lines (the number was limited) prize poem on the achievements of the Highland regiments in the Crimean war. There is nothing better, and not many poems equal to it in the whole range of Celtic poetry. The best-known of his poems is _Fios thun a’ Bhaird_, or Word to the Bard, supposed to have been sent to him in Glasgow from a farmer’s wife in Islay, the late Mrs Blair, of Lonban, who showed much kindness to the bard when on a visit to his native island, and whose son is the popular minister, the Rev. Robert Blair, who was a constant friend of Livingston, and who edited the complete edition of his works (1881). In this delightful poem he describes in stanzas of great beauty and tenderness the changes that have taken place, the ruins of the depopulated districts, and the natural scenery of the island. The following are the opening stanzas of the _Message to the Bard_:— The morn is bright with sunshine, And soft the west wind sighs; The loch is calm and quiet, Since peace reigns in the skies. Bedecked with canvas gaily, Barks glide unwearily; To the Bard rehearse the story Of these things I hear and see. This is the month of blossom, When the herds of cattle go To the glens of lonely corries, Where they neither reap nor sow. But in these green-clad inches My kine now never be: To the Bard rehearse the story Of these things I hear and see. On heathy heights in thousands Stray flocks of kine and sheep; And deer rush o’er the wild steeps Where freshening breezes sweep— The noble antlered race Bedewed that tread the hills with glee, To the Bard rehearse the story Of these things I hear and see.