Got to say, there are poets I prefer. Thomas Grey, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the like. The English poets.
John
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
JohnW
Well my husbands fathers family - were from Paisley and someone has done the family tree back to the Mid 1600s and there are some McIntyres, Stuarts in the lineage as well and in the late 1790's there was an emmigration to Canada.
His Mother's family were from Ayrshire - and had Bells, Browns, Reids and other side of Wallace's related to the current Clan Chief. So I am told!
Our Welsh daughter in law didn't understand the irony in calling our first grandson William and he is a redhead!
As for Poetry prefer, Byron and Shelley myself and not forgetting the War Poets that I did at school.
My contribution to Burn's night, it nearly made it into the Scottish Field last year, but was unfortunately dropped, never mind, I'm working on a set of illustrations to go with it, and hopefully some other poetry and pieces:
The Ballad of Slainte Mhor
Far in the highlands of Scotland,
Where haggis roam wild through the glens,
Lived a terrible wee little beastie,
And Slainte Mhor was his name.
Slainte Mhor was fearsome,
With a wicked mad one-eyed glare,
Dagger like claws and teeth,
And shaggy long black hair.
The local men lived in fear of him
And uttered his name with guilt,
For none dared face Slainte Mhor
Who ran and nipped up their kilts!
Once, not so long ago,
A warrior fierce and brave,
Had gone to face Slainte Mhor
Tod was the young man’s name.
Tod now sits in the corner,
And Todger, he’s called, in jest,
For Slainte Mhor had run up his kilt
And none of his todger was left.
Now Flo is a young sheepherder,
She tends her father’s flock,
Her brother is Tod the warrior
Her poor mother, she died from the shock.
Flo was out on the hillside,
Keeping an eye on said flock,
She lit a fire to warm her supper
Of coney stew in a pot.
Down the valley was Slainte Mhor
Resting in his lair,
When all of a sudden he caught a whiff
Of something nice in the air.
Now Slainte Mhor, tho’ fearsome,
Was not the brightest wee beast,
His appetite was his weakness,
And conies his favourite feast.
Up the valley stalked Slainte Mhor
Following his nose,
When he spotted Flo with her coney stew,
So he circled around to get close.
Flo was not particularly brave,
Although it has to be said,
When she saw her chance for revenge,
The wee lass kept her head.
She lifted the lid of the pot,
And stirred the coney stew,
Then put the lid back on,
Making sure it was slightly askew.
Flo stretched, and yawned, and settled down
And made as if to sleep,
And all the while, Slainte Mhor
Got as close as he could creep.
Slainte Mhor waited patiently
Until he heard Flo’s snores,
Then he crawled up to the pot of stew
And stood up on his back paws.
He stuck his head into the gap
Between the lid and the pot,
And was so engrossed in the coney stew
Hadn’t noticed the snoring had stopped.
While Slainte Mhor was feasting
With his fearsome snarls and bites
Flo jumped up and with all her strength
She held the pot lid tight.
Slainte Mhor struggled mightily
But Flo held the pot lid fast,
And tho’ she was wounded by Slainte Mhor’s claws,
Held on till she heard his last gasp.
Now Flo was a selfless wee lass
And she worked on through the night,
She skinned Slainte Mhor, and made of him
A sporran by first light.
Flo let Tod take the glory,
And gave him the sporran to wear,
And he became known as Todgerless Tod,
With the sporran, with the mad one-eyed glare.
So I propose a toast
To all men, wide and far,
Here’s to Flo, and Todgerless Tod,
And the beastie, Slainte Mhor!
(Copyright retained by Joanne Elrod)
For those who may be struggling with Slainte Mhor, it's the traditional toast, pronounced slanjivar
Have a good one, no haggis here tonight, although I do love it, and it makes a good stuffing as well!
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