This song, in which a woman laments Seathan, son of the King of Ireland, may take us back as far as around 1600. The two lovers have been together beneath the woods while Seathan’s enemies are in pursuit of him. Through treachery he is captured and killed, and in this powerful song she mourns him.
There is no evidence that such a man as Seathan ever existed, but “the son of the King of Ireland” frequently appears as a character in old tales.
In 1869, Mòr NicNèill, daughter of Alasdair mac Ruaraidh Bhàin of Ceann Tangabhal in Barra, told Alasdair MacIlleMhìcheil that Seathan was “a great plunderer, killing and raiding in every place whenever he could find the opportunity.”
In 1905, MacIlleMhìcheil received a similar view from Seònaid NicLeòid in Eigg, in connection with “a choice of waulking songs”:
“According to the story, he was not nearly as good as the song makes him out to be. The man he did not kill to the north he would kill to the south, and the plundering he did not do to the west he would do to the east and everywhere else. In the end every township and settlement was searching for him and pursuing him, and he spent three years under wood, three under cairn, and three under kin.”
Seònaid NicLeòid also told how Seathan was killed:
“There was an old woman in Ireland called the Hag of the Three Thorns, and she bore a deadly hatred for Seathan. She was a half-sister of the King of Ireland and intended to have Seathan removed so that her own son would be heir to the king.
She was an evil hag, and death’s venom was in every thorn.
‘Go,’ she said to her son, ‘and gather the six strongest men in the five red divisions of Ireland, and at sunset we shall all reach Seathan’s house.’
This was done.
At sunset Seathan’s wife was in the dairy, and the house had scarcely cooled before the Hag of the Three Thorns was inside on the floor.
‘My dear Seathan,’ she said, ‘a boar’s tusk has pierced my finger. Come and let blood.’
At once Seathan leapt from his hiding place, and there on his back were the mercenaries; and though five of them were killed, the sixth man struck the death blow to Seathan.”
At one time Cumha Sheathain (The Lament for Seathan) was found on the lips of people in many parts of Scotland, although there is no trace of it at all in Ireland. In Ortha nan Gàidheal (Carmina Gadelica), Book 5 (Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh, 1954), Alasdair MacIlleMhìcheil prints a long version of the song, though it may be that he himself embellished what he received from oral tradition.
Fear Chanaigh recorded the following words from Anna NicIain and her brother Calum:
Song Text (Translation)
I loved Seathan roaming the hills,
I weak and he strong;
I carried only a little clothing,
A red coat across my shoulder,
A slender black belt on my shirt,
And I went with Seathan as his beloved.
Many a hill and glen we travelled;
I was in Islay with you, I was in Mull with you,
I was in Ireland of the Five Provinces with you,
And I heard Mass with you in the Yellow Wood.
Often I heard it — though I did not tell it —
That my lover was in Minginish;
Had he been there, he would not have delayed;
He would have sent a boat in search of me,
And I would have sent a great ship in search of him,
With a fine, young, eager crew.
If Seathan were to be ransomed,
Gold would grow beneath the banks;
There would be no goats on barren crags,
And no net without fish in the seas.
I loved Seathan behind a turf wall
More than being with a king’s son in a loft,
Though he might have a comfortable bed,
And silk spread beneath his feet,
And a pillow of glowing red gold.
Seathan is dead tonight,
A tale of joy to the hunters
(And to the son of the Hag of the Three Thorns),
A tale of sorrow to the men of Alba.
(O Seathan, Seathan of my soul,
Beloved son of my king from the land of Conbhaigh!)
Often you told me I would be a happy wife;
Now I am a poor, sorrowful, afflicted woman,
A poor woman who gave her love unwisely.
When I thought you were in pursuit,
You were dead in my company,
Carried on the shoulders of young men.
And when I thought you were in battle,
You were dead, without breath,
Being borne by men
To the slope of the crooked ravens.
And that night they made a “wedding” for you —
Alas, O King! it was only a scaffold!
Did they not wrap your body in linen?
Did they not cover you with earth and soil?
My darling, that hand — though it is cold —
Was often mine, seldom away from me;
With a gift of shining silk
I often received it as a reward.
I would not give you to law or king,
I would not surrender you to gentle Mary,
Nor would I bury you in the Holy Croft,
For fear I might not find you again!
The words from Hebridean Folksongs, vol. 2,
edited by John L. Campbell,
published by Oxford University Press, 1977.