"IN old times, every nation had bards before writing was common. Men naturally relish stories of their own species, and it enhances greatly the pleasure to have such stories put into such a measure as to be accompanied with music; a plain song of that kind was agreeable, it was enchanting when the voice was accompanied with the harp or other musical instrument. It required an ear, a voice, and skill in instrumental music to excel in such a performance, talents which fall to the share of few, hence the profession of a bard was in great request, and an essential member at every festival and in every meeting for amusement" (Lord Kames, 1772). The bards were an important class from the days of Ossian downwards. Every clan had its clan bard, and every parish had its parish bard. The old order has changed, and only place names, such as Baile-Bhaird, near Castle Grant, Cuil-Bhardaidh, in Abernethy, and such like, with some songs and poems, remain as dim memorials of days that have passed away. But though the bards as a class have been long extinct, the spirit of bardhood lived on, and shewed itself at divers times, as circumstances called it forth.

Colonel JOHN ROY STEWART was the best known of our parish bards. His life is sketched in chapter XX. Most of his poems are in Gaelic. His lament for Lady Mackintosh, not the brave lady of the ‘45, as is commonly said, but her predecessor, Mary, daughter of Sir John Menzies of Menzies, is marked by an "intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the element which it contemplates," and his two poems on Culloden. "Catha Chullodair," glow with love for Prince Charlie. and indignation and passionate grief for the wrongs and woe inflicted on his followers. His songs, some of which are still popular, shew that he had much of the light and festive humour and broad sympathies of Burns. It may be said, why not give translations? Captain Macintyre, in the Antiquary, was pressed by Oldbuck to give a sample of the songs of Ossian, which he praised so highly. He tried, and made a "wretched interpreter," as he himself admitted. Others have done better, but all have been free to confess with the gallant captain that they have found it "difficult, if not impossible, to render the exquisite felicity" of the original.

WILLIAM SMITH was born at Rinuigh, a croft high up among the hills, far from the busy haunts of men. He was of a family noted as deerstalkers. Mr Donald Shaw, in his "Highland Legends," says of him, "He was a man of bold and resolute disposition, and of active and powerful frame of body. He was capable of enduring any amount of exposure and fatigue, and long carried on his lawless avocation in open defiance, as it were, of the keepers of the forests, and without any dread of fine or punishment at the hands of the administrators of the law." Smith served for a time in the Strathspey Fencibles. Then, after some years of unsettledness, he joined the army, and died at Portsmouth. His songs deal chiefly with love and hunting. They are marked by simplicity, tenderness, happy descriptions of nature, and a rollicking delight in the chances and charms of a poacher’s life. His best and best known poem is that entitled "Allt-an-Lochan Uaine," or the Stalker’s Dream. William’s brother Lewis succeeded to the croft, and lived to a great age. He was also a famous hunter. It was he that killed the Big Hart of Glenmore, which graced the baptism feast of the heir of Rothiemurchus (1799). Another time he was out with "William the Captain’s Son" (Captain Lewis of the Doune). They found a hind at the Sithans, near the west end of Loch Morlich. Grant said to Lewie, "Take you Macalpin (the gun), as you are the best shot" He said, "No, shoot yourself." Grant took aim, but at once lowered his gun, saying, "It’s not a hind, but an old woman with a mutch." "Nonsense," said Lewie, "try again." He did so, with the same result. When he aimed it was an old woman he saw, when he lowered his gun it was a hind. "This is witchcraft," said Lewie; "put a silver button in your gun." He did so, and took aim, but before he could pull the trigger, he fell down, saying "I’m a dead man." The hind disappeared, but Grant died two days after!

ROBERT GRANT was the fourth son of Mr Charles Grant, farmer, Rothiemoon. He had excellent abilities, and early shewed a taste for music and song. When companion to Lord Seafield (1830-9) he took an active part in local politics, and wrote some clever pieces, in prose and verse, in support of his Tory friends. One squib, "Banff Whigs awa!" was often sung at the convivial meetings of the period. Mr Grant acted for some years as factor of Glen-Urquhart, and died at Rothiemoon in 1858. We give one of his songs ("The House o’ Grant"), with Gaelic translation, executed with much taste and fidelity by another Rothiemoon man, the late

Mr DONALD GORDON. Gordon when a young man travelled as a pack-merchant. This gave him a large acquaintance with the Highlands. Afterwards he kept a small shop at Rothiemoon, and latterly, for several years, he acted as one of the post-runners between Grantown and Forres, walking a distance of 22 miles every day. He was a man of an original and ingenious turn, and an enthusiastic Highlander. He not only played the violin well, but was a skilful maker of violins. He not only loved to don the Highland garb, but deftly manufactured belts and brooches and other Highland dress ornaments. He not only spoke the ancient tongue with rare sweetness and mastery, but he had much of the character of the seanachie and bard, and wrote papers on local traditions, and original poems, which found a welcome and fit place in the "Cuairtear," and were widely popular. It is known that he had been long occupied with a work on the "Bards of Strathspey," with biographies and traditions. This was a congenial task, and one for which he was eminently fitted. Dr Norman Macleod of St Columba wrote to him in kindly and encouraging terms, and offered his assistance as to the publication of the book. At last the work was finished, and sent to Glasgow, but unfortunately the firm entrusted with it failed, and, in the confusion. the MSS. were lost. This was a heavy blow and sore discouragement. The labour of years was gone. Failing health and lack of leisure made it impossible to repair the loss. The modest, simple-minded Highlander made no complaint, but it was easy to see that he never was the same man again. He died 1852, as he had lived, a humble Christian.

De na hùile taobh, o’n seid a ghaoth,
Se’n Airde Tuath mo mhiann
N’ sin tha lasgairean thug barr
‘N seadh, ‘n gradh, ‘san sgiamh,
A’s cailleagan, tha aoidhil, tlàth
A thàladh chridh s’ gach àm,
‘Se leithidibh sin do ghineil alt
Don’ cleachd bhi sloinneadh Grannd.