Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Sir Walter Scott” >’

The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day:
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach!

Glen Orchy’s proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We’re landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!

But doom’d and devoted by vassal and lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!

While there’s leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach!
Come then, come then, come then, Grigalach!

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
Oe’r the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!

—————————————————————————————

Sung on Youtube (4:42) – (4:42) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vvdz4yfaag

————————————————————

background: https://www.highlandtitles.com/2015/06/clans-of-scotland-macgregor/

 

 

Read Full Post »

Within this ample volume lies
The mystery of mysteries.
Happiest they of human race
To whom their God has given grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, to force the way;
But better they had ne’er been born
That read to doubt or read to scorn.

 

Read Full Post »

           The Dreary Change

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
   In Ettrick’s vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
   The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
   Bears those bright hues that once it bore,
Though evening, with her richest dye,
   Flames o’er the hills of Ettrick’s shore. 

With listless look along the plain,
   I see Tweed’s silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane
   Of Melrose rise in ruined pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
   The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree –
Are they still such as once they were?
   Or is the dreary change in me? 

Alas, the warped and broken board,
   How can it bear the painter’s dye!
The harp of strained and tuneless chord,
   How to the minstrel’s skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
   To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby’s or Eden’s bowers
   Were barren as this moorland hill.

Read Full Post »

English: The setting of the sun. Deutsch: Der ...

(Photo credit: Danny S. via Wikipedia)


On The Setting Sun

Those evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display
Their great Creator’s praise;
Then let the short-lived thing call’d man,
Whose life’s comprised within a span,
To him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,
And tints so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold.

Read Full Post »

The Rover

A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green –
No more of me you knew
My Love!
No more of me you knew.

‘This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.’
He turn’d his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said ‘Adieu for evermore
My Love!
And adieu for evermore.’

Read Full Post »

Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

(From “The Lay of the Last Minstrel”)

Read Full Post »