Donal Campbell
DONAL' CAMPBELL
-Donal' Bane-
sailed away across the
ocean
With the tartans of Clan
Gordon, to the Indies'
distant shore,
But on Dargai's lonely hill-
side, Donal' Campbell
met the foeman,
And the glen of Athol
Moray will never see him more!
O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of
bitter sorrow
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro' Athol
Moray's glen
When the black word reached the clansmen,
that young Donal' Bane had fallen
In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant
Gordon men!
Far from home and native sheiling, with the
sun of India o'er him
Blazing down its cruel hatred on the white-
faced men below
Stood young Donal' with his comrades, like the
hound of ghostly Fingal
Eager, waiting for the summons to leap up
against the foe-
Hark! at last! the pipes are pealing out the
welcome Caber Feidh
And wild the red blood rushes thro' every
Highland vein
They breathe the breath of battle, the children
of the Gael,
And fiercely up the hillside, they charge and
charge again-
And the grey eye of the Highlands, now is
dark as blackest midnight,
The history of their fathers is written on each
face,
Of border creach and foray, of never yieldong
conflict
Of all the memories shrouding a stern uncon-
quered race!
And up the hillside, up the mountain, while
the war-pipes shrilly clamour
Bayonet thrusting, broadsword cleaving, the
Northern soldiers fought
Till the sun of India saw them victors o' er the
dusky foeman,
For who can stay the Celtic hand when Celtic
blood is hot?
But the corse of many a clansman from the far-
off Scottish Highlands
'Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying cold
and still
With the death-dew on its forehead, and young
Donal' Campbell 's tartan
Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heather
of the hill!
Mourn him! Mourn him thro' the mountains,
wail him women of Clan Campbell!
Let the Coronach be sounded tii it reach the
Indian shore
For your beautiful has fallen in the foremost
of the battle
And the glen of Athol Moray will never see
him more!
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Lord Ullin's Daughter
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,--
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they row'd amid the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:--
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!--oh my daughter!"
'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;--
The waters wild went o'er his child,--
And he was left lamenting.
poem by Thomas Campbell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Highland Lassie, O
Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Shall ever be my muse's care;
Their titles a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen sae bushy, O,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O,
I sit me down wi' right good will,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O.
Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...
But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow
I'll love my highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her bosom burns with honor's glow,
My faithful highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...
For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland Lassie, O.
Within the glen...
She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred troth and honor's band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my highland Lassie, O.
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O!
poem by Robert Burns
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Wound in Cellophane
The older women come to coffee
with cookies wound in cellophane.
They talk of children
or their children's children
or their garden.
Or they simply sew
and watch the young girls trickle in,
buy berry rolls and coffee,
nibble, sip, lick fingers, blow
small parachutes of smoke,
and laugh a young girl's
world of willy-nilly.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Widow Of Glencoe
Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell-
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him-
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom-
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered
Meet before their Judge's eye!
Nay-ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon-
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir-
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not-but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,
And thy foot is swift and steady
On the mountain and the muir-
Let thy heart be hard as iron,
And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire;
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
Rise a louder shriek of woe
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe;
Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,
When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast;
When thy noble father bounded
To the rescue of his men,
And the slogan of our kindred
Pealed throughout the startled glen;
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing,
And their dearest dead below.
Oh, the horror of the tempest,
As the flashing drift was blown,
Crimsoned with the conflagration,
And the roofs went thundering down!
Oh, the prayers-the prayers and curses
That together winged their flight
From the maddened hearts of many
Through that long and woeful night!
Till the fires began to dwindle,
And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo;
Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona
Plunging through its naked den.
Slowly from the mountain-summit
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the gray December dawn.
Better had the morning never
Dawned upon our dark despair!
Black amidst the common whiteness
Rose the spectral ruins there:
But the sight of these was nothing
More than wrings the wild dove's breast,
When she searches for her offspring
Round the relics of her nest.
For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning
On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest-
Dearest charge had everyone-
Left the maiden with her lover,
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless-
Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom,
And the frown upon his brow-
Till I found him lying murdered
Where he wooed me long ago.
Woman's weakness shall not shame me;
Why should I have tears to shed?
Could I rain them down like water,
O my hero, on thy head,
Could the cry of lamentation
Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep.
But I will not waste my sorrow,
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field;
I had mourned thee hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble
Died around the dauntless Græme.
But I will not wrong thee, husband!
With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body,
Stricken by the traitor, lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
Other hearts be rent in twain,
Ere the heathbells on thy hillock
Wither in the autumn rain.
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,
Praying for a place beside thee,
Dearer than my bridal-bed:
And I'll give thee tears, my husband,
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foemen
Cry the coronach for thee.
poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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Four Schoolboys And A Dog
The countryside around wore Summer colours
The haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.
Four School going boys climbed the slopes of Clara mountain
Donal Hickey, Jerry and John Mahony and I
And Donal had his terrier 'Bonzo' with him
On that sunday long ago in mid July.
Four Primary Schoolgoing boys on Clara mountain
The countryside was beautiful to view
We picked and eat the whortleberries from the heather
The whortleberries small and ripe and blue.
The whortleberries ripe fruits of the heather
In July when ripe so beautiful to eat
You find them on the Cork and Kery mountains
Towards east Kerry from Macroom and Millstreet.
Old Bonzo trailed a fox up through the bracken
The ageing dog had known a better day
He puffed uphill the fox had long since bolted
Perhaps by then a half a mile away.
Twenty minutes later Bonzo came back exhausted
He panted heavy he was out of puff
He lay by his master Donal on the bracken
And stretched himself as if to say enough.
That day we climbed to wooden cross on top of Clara
That overlooked the streets of Millstreet Town
The uphill crawl on energy demanding
Though it was quite an easy journey down.
Our shirt sleeves soiled from the juices of whortleberries
Of Nature's fruits that day we'd ate our fill
And that night I climbed into my bed exhausted
From day of climbing on the bracken hill.
Jerry Mahony and Donal Hickey still in Millstreet
And John Mahony lives in England I've been told
And the boys back then long years beyond their prime day
And by the younger generation seen as old.
And poor old Bonzo he died on the roadway
I heard he was run over by a car
And I am living far away from Millstreet
From the fields by Clara mountain I live far.
Four Schoolboys and a dog on Clara mountain
And the singing lark towards heaven's gate did fly
And the ripened whortleberries tasted juicy
On that sunday long ago in mid July.
The countrysiode around in summer colours
And the haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Young actors are pretty fantastic. I can't even imagine doing stuff like that when I was a kid.
quote by Donal Logue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pipes At Lucknow
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of bloom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer, -
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear; -
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle-serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
'Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -
Pray to-day!' the soldier said;
'To-morrow, death's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.'
Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden.
With her ear unto the ground:
'Dinna ye hear it? - dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!'
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true; -
As her mother's cradle-crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,
She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell's call:
'Hark! hear ye no MacGregor's,
The grandest o' them all!'
Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's;
'God be praised! - the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!'
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far-off dust-cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithesomely
The pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow.
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne.
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaper
And plaided mountaineer, -
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain, glen, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Flora Macivor's Song
There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded —- it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!
The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
O high-minded Moray! the exiled! the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the Standard uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun’s latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe!
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,
To launch the long galley and stretch to the oar.
How Mac–Shimei will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder’d Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum–More!
MacNeil of the islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle -— but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch’s shrill summons - but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath:
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,
Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Battle of Alma
'Twas on the heights of Alma the battle began.
But the Russians turned and fled every man;
Because Sir Colin Campbell's Highland Brigade put them to flight,
At the charge of the bayonet, which soon ended the fight.
Sir Colin Campbell he did loudly cry,
Let the Highlanders go forward, they will win or die,
We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here,
So forward, my lads, and give one ringing cheer.
Then boldly and quickly they crossed the river,
But not one amongst them with fear did shiver,
And ascended the height, forming quietly on the crest,
While each man seemed anxious to do his best.
The battle was fought by twenty against one,
But the gallant British troops resolved to die to a man,
While the shot was mowing them down and making ugly gaps,
And shells shrieking and whistling and making fearful cracks.
On the heights of Alma it was a critical time,
And to see the Highland Brigade it was really sublime,
To hear the officers shouting to their men,
On lads, I'll show you the way to fight them.
Close up! Close up! Stand firm, my boys,
Now be steady, men, steady and think of our joys;
If we only conquer the Russians this day,
Our fame will be handed down to posterity for ever and aye.
Still forward! Forward! My lads was the cry,
And from the redoubt make them fly;
And at length the Russians had to give way,
And fled from the redoubt in wild dismay.
Still the fate of the battle hung in the balance,
But Sir Colin knew he had still a chance,
But one weak officer in fear loudly shouted,
Let the Guards fall back, or they'll be totally routed.
Then Sir Colin Campbell did make reply,
'Tis better, Sir, that every man of the Guards should die,
And to be found dead on this bloody field,
Than to have it said they fled and were forced to yield.
Then the Coldstreams on the highlanders' right
Now advanced to engage the enemy in the fight,
But then they halted, unable to go forward,
Because the Russians did their progress retard.
But now came the turning point of the battle,
While the Russian guns loudly did rattle;
Then Sir Colin turned to the plumed Highland array,
And in stirring tones to them did say--
Be steady, keep silence, my lads, don't be afraid,
And make me proud of my Highland Brigade;
Then followed the command, sharp and clear,
While the war notes of the 42d bagpipes smote the ear.
The soldiers, though young, were cool and steady,
And to face the enemy they were ever ready,
And still as the bare-kneed line unwavering came on
It caused the Russians to shake and look woebegone.
And now as the din of the fight grew greater,
Fear filled the hearts of the Russian giants in stature,
Because the kilted heroes they fought so well
That they thought they had come from the regions of hell.
Oh! it was a most beautiful and magnificent display
To see the Highland Brigade in their tartan array,
And their tall bending plumes in a long line,
The scene was inspiring and really sublime.
Then, terror-stricken by this terrible advancing line,
The Russians broke down and began to whine,
And they turned round and fled with a moaning cry,
Because they were undone and had to fly.
Then the crisis was past and the victory won,
Which caused Sir Colin Campbell to cry, Well done,
And, raising his hand, gave the signal to cheer,
Which was responded to by hurrahs, loud and clear.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Gordon Of Brackley
Down Deeside cam Inveraye
Whistlin' and playing,
An' called loud at Brackley gate
Ere the day dawning--
'Come, Gordon of Brackley.
Proud Gordon, come down,
There's a sword at your threshold
Mair sharp than your own.'
'Arise now, gay Gordon,'
His lady 'gan cry,
'Look, here is bold Inveraye
Driving your kye.'
'How can I go, lady,
An' win them again,
When I have but ae sword,
And Inveraye ten?'
'Arise up, my maidens,
Wi' roke and wi' fan,
How blest had I been
Had I married a man!
Arise up, my maidens,
Tak' spear and tak' sword,
Go milk the ewes, Gordon,
An' I will be lord.'
The Gordon sprung up
Wi' his helm on his head,
Laid his hand on his sword,
An' his thigh on his steed,
An' he stooped low, and said,
As he kissed his young dame,
'There's a Gordon rides out
That will never ride hame.'
There rode with fierce Inveraye
Thirty and three,
But wi' Brackley were nane
But his brother and he;
Twa gallanter Gordons
Did never blade draw,
But against three-and-thirty
Wae's me! what are twa?
Wi' sword and wi' dagger
They rushed on him rude;
The twa gallant Gordons
Lie bathed in their blude.
Frae the springs o' the Dee
To the mouth o' the Tay,
The Gordons mourn for him,
And curse Inveraye.
'O were ye at Brackley?
An' what saw ye there?
Was his young widow weeping
An' tearing her hair?'
'I looked in at Brackley,
I looked in, and oh!
There was mirth, there was feasting,
But naething o' woe.
'As a rose bloomed the lady,
An' blithe as a bride,
As a bridegroom bold Inveraye
Smiled by her side.
Oh! she feasted him there
As she ne'er feasted lord,
While the blood of her husband
Was moist on his sword.
'In her chamber she kept him
Till morning grew gray,
Thro' the dark woods of Brackley
She shewed him the way.
'Yon wild hill,' she said,
'Where the sun's shining on,
Is the hill of Glentanner,--
One kiss, and begone!''
There's grief in the cottage,
There's grief in the ha',
For the gude, gallant Gordon
That's dead an' awa'.
To the bush comes the bud,
An' the flower to the plain,
But the gude and the brave
They come never again.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Dropped by a Peacock
I can no more justify these poems
than can the pyromaniac
his conflagrations. We both
stand back, the pyromaniac
in his alley, I on my hill,
each of us loving
the leap of our flames.
His are gazelles but mine
are just feathers
dropped by a peacock.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Storming of the Dargai Heights
'Twas on the 20th of November, and in the year of 1897,
That the cheers of the Gordon Highlanders ascended to heaven,
As they stormed the Dargai heights without delay,
And made the Indian rebels fly in great dismay.
"Men of the Gordon Highlanders," Colonel Mathias said,
"Now, my brave lads, who never were afraid,
Our General says ye must take Dargai heights to-day;
So, forward, and charge them with your bayonets without dismay!"
Then with a ringing cheer, and at the word of command,
They bounded after their leaders, and made a bold stand;
And, dashing across the open ground with their officers at their head,
They drove the enemy from their position without any dread.
In that famous charge it was a most beautiful sight
To see the regimental pipers playing with all their might;
But, alas! one of them was shot through both ankles, and fell to the ground,
But still he played away while bullets fell on every side around.
Oh! it must have been a gorgeous sight that day,
To see two thousand Highlanders dressed up in grand array,
And to hear the pibroch sounding loud and clear
While the Highlanders rushed upon the foe with a loud cheer.
The Gordon Highlanders have gained a lasting fame
Which for ages to come will long remain :
The daring gallantry they displayed at the storming of Dargai,
Which will be handed down to posterity.
Methinks I see that gallant and heroic band
When brave Colonel Mathias gave them the command,
As they rushed upon the rebel horde, which was their desire,
Without the least fear through a sheet of fire.
Then the rebels fled like frightened sprites,
And the British were left masters of the Dargai heights;
But, alas! brave Captain Robinson was mortally wounded and cut down,
And for his loss many tears from his comrades fell to the ground.
Success to the Gordon Highlanders wherever they go.
May they always be enabled to conquer the foe;
And may God guard them always in the fight,
And give them always strength to put their enemies to flight.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Big Meeting at the Corporate Office
When a young woman like that
sails into the conference room,
all masts billowing,
there's nothing the men
around the table can do
except take a breath
and wait for her
to settle in her chair,
open her laptop
and fuss for a moment
with some errant hair
before she fixes her stare
on the podium to wait
for the chairman to arrive
and take it from there
if he possibly can.
The chairman won't know
the young woman has said
everything his men
will remember tomorrow
without saying a word.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Old Pine Tree
'Listen my child,' said the old pine
tree, to the little one nestling near,
'For the storm clouds troop together to-night,
and the wind of the north I hear
And perchance there may come some echo of
the music of long ago,
The music that rang when the White Host
sang, marching across the snow.'
'Up and away Saint George! up thro' the
mountain gorge,
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and
the great white flakes are flying
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry
men,
Follow the trail, tho' shy moon hides, and
deeply the drifts are lying.'
'Ah! mother.' the little pine tree replied,
'you are dreaming again to-night
Of ghostly visions and phantom forms that for-
ever mock your sight
'Tis true moan of the winter wind comes
to my list'ning ear
But the White Host marching, I cannot see,
and their music I cannot hear.'
'When the northern skies were all aflame
where the trembling banners swung,
When up in the vaulted heavens the moon of
the Snow Shoe hung,
When the hurricane swept the hillside, and the
crested drifts ran high
Those were the nights,' said the old pine tree,
'the great White Host marched by.'
And the storm grew fiercer, fiercer, and the
snow went hissing past,
But the little pine tree still listened, till she
heard above the blast
The music her mother loved to hear in the
nights of the long ago
And saw in the forest the white-clad Host
marching across the snow.
And loud they sang as they tramped along of
the glorious bygone days
Whan valley and hill re-echeoed the snow-
shoer's hymn of praise
Till the shy moon gazed down smiling, and the
north wind pause to hear
And the old pine tree felt young again as the
little one nestling near.
'Up and away Saint George! up thro' the
mountain gorge.
Over the plain where the tempest blows, and
the great white flakes are flying.
Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry
men.
Follow the trail, tho' the shy moon hides, and
deeply the drifts are lying.'
poem by William Henry Drummond
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The Gay Gordons
(Dargai, October 20, 1897)
Whos for the Gathering, who's for the Fair?
(Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there,
(Highlanders! march! by the right!)
There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air,
There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare;
But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare
When they hear the pipers playing!
The happiest English heart today
(Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may;
(Steady there! steady on the right!)
He sees his work and he sees his way,
He knows his time and the word to say,
And he's thinking of the tune that the Gordons play
When he sets the pipers playing.
Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide,
(Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied;
(Bayonets! and charge! by the right!)
Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide,
And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside;
But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride,
To the skirl of the pipers' playing.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Land Grievances
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
Death Death March legally signed
before young Maori intensely pined.
Killed was ancient ancestral spirit
cleaving Celtic Isle mist lost lands.
Butchered guttered tie affixed lost
birthright mystic Celtic legendary lands.
Blood washed uprooted cast out are clans
purged from beloved Celtic ancestral lands.
Umbilical cord was cut brutally severed
with stealing steal tongue beastly fire.
For more sheep landlord pasture profit
Scottish smashed in are cottages homes.
Flocks free bleating beasts tended roam
rule ruined outcast vacated ghost villages.
Starvation claims sickening women children
destitute dying in London’s stinking slums.
Scottish men die dye red ranging regiments
across stolen globe with British firing guns.
Scottish bag-pipes screaming brave Scotsmen heard
wounds silhouette bleeding sunset blood-red suns.
In Ireland peasants dye starvation stained
with green mouths on bitter famine food.
Eating grass inland coastal eating seaweed
bounty stock free for rash starved Irish peasants.
British blight plague infests deflowered land
bloated corpses manure pastures Irish rued.
Providential not pestilent genocide inflicting Ireland;
English lords taxing life breath to death never sued.
Sweeping rubble rabble forth dark memories purge
upon ship passage exiles permanently migration move.
Homeland is lost family plot burial land
countless wakes memories survivors ban.
Get in line. Young Maori. Get in line.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Ye Mariners of England
Ye Mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze,
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow!
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow!
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep:
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow!
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow!
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow!
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
poem by Thomas Campbell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Donal Hickey
We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.
He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.
I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.
One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.
One of the nicest people that one could wish to meet
He still lives in the old homeplace at Inchaleigh in Millstreet
In that green and fertile countryside where the Finnow waters flow
And we were in the same classroom more than forty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Serial Killer
The puma of the will
has pounced again
This time, a doe
too slow through snow
The fangs are in
The kill's the will's
The stomach roars
as it devours
the blood and gristle
in its lair
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Urara
Euroka, go over the tops of the hill,
For the ~Death-clouds~ have passed us to-day,
And we'll cry in the dark for the foot-falls still,
And the tracks which are fading away!
Let them yell to their lubras, the Bulginbah dogs,
And say how our brothers were slain,
We shall wipe out our grief in the blood of their chief,
And twenty more dead on the plain -
On the blood-spattered spurs of the plain!
But the low winds sigh,
And the dead leaves fly,
Where our warriors lie,
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
The Wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,
And crawl to their coverts for fear;
But we'll sit in the ashes and let them pass
Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear!
Oh! our hearts will be lonely and low to-night
When we think of the hunts of yore;
And the foes that we sought, and the fights which we fought,
With those who will battle no more -
Who will go to the battle no more!
For the dull winds sigh,
And the dead leaves fly,
Where our warriors lie,
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Oh! the gorges and gullies are black with crows,
And they feast on the flesh of the brave;
But the forest is loud with the howls of our foes
For those whom they never can save!
Let us crouch with our faces down to our knees,
And hide in the dark of our hair;
For we will not return where the camp-fires burn,
And see what is smouldering there -
What is smouldering, mouldering there!
Where the sad winds sigh -
The dead leaves fly,
And our warriors lie;
In the dingoes' den - in the white-cedar glen
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
Urara! Urara!
On the banks of the gloomy Urara!
poem by Henry Kendall
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