Wednesday, November 6, 2024
Message to the Bard
by William Livingston
THE morning is bright and sunlit, and the west wind running smoothly. The sea-
sound is slippery, tranquil, since the strife of the skies has calmed. The ship
is in her beautiful clothing and weariness will not put her to seek rest. As I
found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
This is the crowning of that month's goodliness in which herds of cattle go to
the wilderness, to the glens of the lonely hollows in which no corn is sown or
reaped, meadow-bed of lowing cattle. My quota did not go up with the others
yesterday. As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
Thousands of cattle are on the fields there, and white sheep on the heathery
hill-tops and the deer on the barren peaks, where the floor of the wind is
undefiled, their wild strong progeny wet with the dew of the moist warm breeze.
As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
The plain and the rugged corries, the sea-shore and every smooth corn-land,
have the virtues of the sky's warmth, as we should all wish. The wild shamrock
and the daisy are on the grassy meads in bloom. As I found and as I saw, bring
this message to the poet.
The swift brooks of spring-water come down from behind the hills, from clean
lochs free from red scum, set on eminences far from the shore, where the deer
drinks his abundance, and where beautiful is the covey of wild-ducks swimming.
As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
The great reef of the sea, as ordained by everlasting law, is in the greatness
of nature's majesty, his high head to the waves of the ocean, and with his white
halo extending for seven miles of sand cast up from the mouth of the flood-tide.
As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
The elements, the foundation of creation, warmth and streams and the breath of
clouds are cherishing fresh herbs on which the dew lies gently when the shade of
night falls as if mourning for what is no more. As I found and as I saw, bring
this message to the poet.
Although the beams of the sun impart the mildness of the skies to the bloom of
the meads, and though there is seen stock on the sheilings and folds full of the
young of cattle, Islay is today without people. The sheep have put her
townships to desolation. As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the
poet.
Though the distressed and stranger wanderer came here, and he were beset in
mist, he would not see a glimmer from any hearth on this shore for evermore.
The venomed hate of the Saxons has exiled those who have gone from us and will
never return. As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
Though there be raised Alba's army of famous repute on the field of strife,
the heather banner of the men of Islay will not take its place along with the
rest. Malice has scattered them over the ocean and there are only dumb brutes
left in their place. As I found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
The inherited houses of those who have left us are cold cairns throughout the
land. Gone are the Gaels and they shall not return. The cultivation has
ceased; there is no more sowing and reaping. The stones of the melancholy
larochs bear witness and say: "As I found and as I saw, bring this message to
the poet".
There will not be heard the maiden's ditty, the chorus of songs at the
waulking-board, nor will stalwart fellows be seen as was their wont playing the
game on an even field. The unjust violence of exile took them from us, and gave
the strangers the victory they desired. As I found and as I saw, bring this
message to the poet.
The needy will not get shelter, nor the wayfarer a rest from weariness, nor
the evangelist an audience. Injustice, Rent Exactions, and the Saxons have
triumphed, and the speckled serpent lies in folds on the floors where the fine
folk I knew of old were nurtured. Bring this message to the poet.
The land of Oa has been made desolate, beautiful Lanndaidh and Roinn Mhic
Aoidh. And sunny valleyed Learga has only a woeful remnant on her side. The
glen is a green lea land held by men who hate, without tenantry or crop. As I
found and as I saw, bring this message to the poet.
Sic a Wife as Willie Had
Willie Wastle dwalls on Tweed,
The spot they ca' it Linkumdoddie;
A creeshie wabster till his trade,
Can steal a clue wi' ony body:
He has a wife that 's dour and din,
Tinkler Madgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie's wife,
I wadna gie a button for her. —
She has an e'e, she has but ane,
Our cat has twa, the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper-tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie's wife,
I wad na gie a button for her. —
She 's bow-hough'd, she 's hem-shin'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-bread shorter;
She's twisted right, she 's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie's wife,
I wad na gie a button for her. —
Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,
An wi' her loof her face a washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushian:
Her waly nieves like midden-creels,
Her feet wad fyle the Logan-water;
Sic a wife as Willie's wife,
I wad na gie a button for her.
Poem: Sic a Wife as Willie Had by Robert Burns
by Marion Angus
She was skilled in music and the dance
And the old arts of love
At the court of the poisoned rose
And the perfumed glove,
And gave her beautiful hand
To the pale Dauphin
A triple crown to win-
And she loved little dogs
And parrots
And red-legged partridges
And the golden fishes of the Duc de Guise
And a pigeon with a blue ruff
She had from Monsieur d'Elboeuf.
Master John Knox was no friend to her;
She spoke him soft and kind,
Her honeyed words were Satan's lure
The unwary soul to bind.
'Good sir, doth a lissome shape
And a comely face
Offend your God His Grace
Whose Wisdom maketh these
Golden fishes of the Duc de Guise?'
She rode through Liddesdale with a song;
'Ye streams sae wondrous strang,
Oh, mak' me a wrack as I come back
But spare me as I gang.'
While a hill-bird cried and cried
Like a spirit lost
By the grey storm-wind tost.
Consider the way she had to go,
Think of the hungry snare,
The net she herself had woven,
Aware or unaware,
Of the dancing feet grown still,
The blinded eyes -
Queens should be cold and wise,
And she loved little things,
Parrots
And red-legged partridges
And the golden fishes of the Duc de Guise
And the pigeon with the blue ruff
She had from Monsieur d'Elboeuf.
Alas! Poor Queen by Marion Angus - Famous poems, famous poets. - All Poetry
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