BANNOCKBURN

The Carse was wet with morning dew,
the sun was low in the sky,
I walked alone through the fallen leaves,
where the Bannock Burn runs by.
But as I stopped to view the land,
I felt a tear in my eye,
for in this Nation of my birth,
Freedom's blood ran dry.

For here's where many patriotic Scots,
laid down their lives to be free,
for their pathetic descendants,
to mock their noble deeds,
I pray, Bruce and Wallace cannot see,
the Legacy they left behind,
lost in vain and ignorance,
and mocked by their own kind.

(D.McQueen '92)

THE HIGHLANDS

When the house is deserted,
the hearth moist and the thatch reverting
to earth, the beds rotting,
the blankets and covers decaying,
we will believe then that the family is dead.

Though the next-door children
were enjoying themselves to the full,
playing with shards, and jumping on the chairs
that once supported their forebears' friends,
we may say truthfully there is no life there.

I am depressed,
seeing now so many rafters bared,
missing the fire with its welcoming flames;
the moon sheds light through the ribs
of this Highland-Lowland house tonight.

(D.Thomson)

Scotland the Brave?

Given time all wounds will heal
at least that's what they say
But how can wounds so fresh and real
Ever go away?
Where's the sense in what we believed
or what we felt and thought?
Where's the sense in being deceived
It's either truth or not.
We chose to believe what suits our ends
knowing it was a lie
Now it's too late to make amends
We've destined our land to die.
For we have failed and that's the truth
though oft times the truth is sad
We've let our young men trade their youth
to die for good or bad.
Oh where's the sense in what we've done
Am I too blind to see?
Somewhere out there must be one
With truth enough for me.
Little by little, bit by bit
Our land is falling apart
And we're just sitting watching it
Oh can't you hear my heart?
It's calling out for a gentle ear
Someone in whom to confide
It's calling out for one to hear
What's going on inside.
For pain cuts deeper than a knife
I doubt each fleeting breath
How can we be this far from life
And yet this close to death.
I know my heart is fit to break
For confusion reigns in me
And how much more can this heart take
Before you begin to see
That I am not what I appear
For I have pain and doubt
And within my soul there burns a fear
That is not seen without
And all my childish ways
It's not as foolish as it seems
In these enlightened days
And all my pride and all the blood
That used to burn so strong
Has washed my heart like a coursing flood
'Till I dont know right from wrong.
For today and tomorrow will soon be past
And look what we've become
We've lived our lives hard and fast
And there's no sense for some
For this rose that I love has its thorns
That draws blood from the depths of my heart
I've watched my dreams get ripped and torn
And my soul being pulled apart
But things will change, I know they will
For we can't go on this way
Too long we've swallowed the bitter pill
Now we will have our say
The time to choose has come at last
Make sure your anchor will hold
Too many chances we have passed
Too many lies been told
But we know our present and our past
We're not too blind to see
That it's too late the die's been cast
My nation cries to be free
So open your eyes and look around
Before it disappears
And cast your gaze on the hallowed ground
Thats upheld us through the years
The land that holds us is all ours
It's all we'll ever need
And we'll break free from foreign powers
And foreign lust and greed
This land is ours and we will choose
Who will govern and rule
For we have nothing left to lose
Are we Scotland the Brave or Scotland the Fool?

(M.Hill)

THE GREAT RED SHEEP

Noo Scotland is an ancient land, Tae the north o' Solway Firth,
But there's a loat o' folk in Scotland who dinnae see the worth
Of a nation free and sovereign, tae choose its forward way
Withoot past ties tae bind us an' lead our thochts astray
An' mony ithers are jist too feart tae think aboot it deep
An' trek alang oan votin' day like a flock o' Great Red Sheep!!

The Great Red Sheep o' Scotland are a' curious beasts indeed, fur they
a' think wi their arses instead o' usin the heid.
"Ma family huv voted Labour a' oor lives," they'll say,
An never gie a single thocht tae the wey things are today.
There's nane sae blin' as them that disnae want to see,
That they kin vote Labour a' they want Efter Scotlands Free!

Support fur Scotland means for some, a tartan scarf an' tammy
But vote fur Scotland's Freedom? They'd need tae ask their mammy.

Anon.

BEFORE

Looking at last o'er Loch Rannoch
remember the young girls laughter combust along the shore
no more boats score the shingle
on their way to sanctuary
beneath once poignant trees

Insidious time.

Brave Schiehallion fairies guard
the lands long surrendered
to the whims of indulgence
water of deep secret lying still
amid the echo of our own

Insidious time.

Within the landscape reforms
to the point of embrace
forgotten at the dawn
Sweet Heather lies choked
smothered by the Saxon weed.

Insidious time.

Daibhidh

STREETS

Dark wet wandering course of toil
Laid upon our native soil
Monument of forgotten hope
Guiding chain where once was rope
Around the neck of honest right
Of ways to reach the coming night
On streets a symbol of deliverance
Named in desperate significance.

Destinations yet uncertain
Familiar force of occupation
Within the sanctuary of our pride
Our new found voice, the coming tide
Of insignificance undeserved
Jock Tamson's bairns unpreserved
Among the gathered sycophants
Who are the crude inhabitants.

Sussex, Surrey, Gloucestershire
The London fog uprooted mire
The fashion conscious take the floor
Obscurity behind the door
Where once the lion rampant flew
A sickened beast, red white and blue
So raise the voice in noble lede
And remember those among our deid.

Daibhidh

SCOTLAND

I make you what you are not
Mean land in the winter
The eye remembers rain
Homeless miles over grey wind
Mist like ghosts, hands rough shod
Cut from leather, and the trees are dead.

There are times I did not love you
Old woman on rickety frame
The broken ruins of your dying bed.

In the flutter of a pulse-were battles
Echoes of a long-gone drum
Or the frail cries of the peewit
In lament over burning lands.

Why do I remain faithful to the wedding ring of pure gold
These fragments I panned from your rivers. Year after cold year?
Perhaps in your poverty I find my home, in these bones - my own heart.

(K.C.S)

FICHEAD BLIADHNA / TWENTY YEARS

Freedom of the moor.    Freedom of the hill.
And then to school at the end of summer
Children, five years of age
Without a word of English in their heads.

Here's your book.    Here's your pen.
Study hard, That's what they told me
And you will rise up in the world
You will achieve.

I learnt many things;
The English language
The poetry of England
The music of Germany
The history of Spain
And even that was a misleading history

Then on to further education
Following education, more education
Like puppets, on the end of a string
And I did rise in the world
I found my suit, I found my shirt
I found a place in the eyes of men
Well away from the freedom of the moor

But why did they keep our history from us?
I'll tell you they are frightened
In case the children of Gaeldom awake
With searching and penetrating questions
Twenty years for the Truth
I had to wait, I had to search
Twenty years of deceit

They denied me knowledge of myself.

(C.MacDonald/R.MacDonald)

THE LAST WOLF

When I despair on these long miles of loss
And History slipped from source to sea
I catch a glimpse of the last wolf of Scotland
That blows through the embers of the fire.

(KCS)

THE SHOT

A long time ago
A bullet hit the deer of Scotland
That first cry is lost
But for the splinters and echoes
Whose blood is still dripping
from my hands and pen.

(KCS)

RAB & NIGEL'S LITTLE CHAT

Nigel expounds:
"Independence is a quaint ideal
But come on Jocko, let's be real -
Is not the Scot a simple child
The edified must view as wild?
He and all his 'Celtic ilk'
Would die without their mother's milk,
The milk of gracious England's breast
And monies from her treasure chest."

Rab stirs his coffee.
"For England's breast read Auld Nick's udder,
The Scots are more than cannon fodder.
Your Saxon milk's a septic brew
Inducing us to die for you.
Around the globe on fields of battle
Scots have bled like slaughtered cattle,
And how did England pay their keep??
These heroes in eternal sleep?
- For some they burned their families out,
Replaced their bairns with black-faced sheep!

But some of us remain at home
And fought like hell to strive
To keep the outlawed cultures
And the Gaelic tongue alive.
And as for independence, pal,
There's something I must say -
'CUIR A MACH NA SASANNAICH'
For independence day.

Your two-faced leaders in the south
Have blinkered views and twisted mouths,
And every promise that they make
We know's a lie they're bound to break.
When they encounter ancient cultures
They scavenge like a pack of vultures -
They pick away and steal the riches
Then make our people dig their ditches.
Well, I will work for them no more
nor sing 'God save the German whore'
-Just get to hell and leave us be and let us have our country FREE"

Macmhuirich '92

A'GHÀIDHEALTACHD

Nuar a bhios an taigh fas,
a' chagailt tais 's na leapannan a'breothadh,
creididh sinn an uair sin gun d'fhuair an teaghlach bas.

Ged a bhiodh clann
an ath dhorais aig mullach an sonais
a' cluiche le pristealan 's a' leum air na cathraichean
a chum taca uair ri cuideachd an athraichean,
faodaidh sinn a radh le firinn nach eil beatha ann.

Bidh mi fo sprochd
a' faicinn a-nis uiread de cheanglaichean ris,
ag ionndrain an teine a b' aoidheile lasraichean;
's i a' ghealach a tha a'deanamh soillse troimh asnaichean
an taighe Ghall-Ghaidhealaich seo na-nochd.

(Ruaraidh MacThomais)

CRUAIDH

Cuil-lodair, is Briseadh na h-Eaglaise,
is briseadh nan tacannan -
lamhachas-laidir da thrian de ar coms;
's e seoltachd tha dhith oirnn.
Nuair a theirgeas a'chruaidh air faobhar na speala
caith bhuat a' chlach-liomhaidh;
chan eil agad ach iarann bog
mur eil de chruas nad innleachd na ni sgathadh.

Is caith bhuat briathran mine
oir chan bhuat briathran agad;
tha Tuatha De Danann fon talamh,
's nuair a ruigeas tu Tir a' Gheallaidh,
mura bi thu air t'aire
coinnichidh Sasannach riut is plion air,
a dh'innse dhut gun tug Dia, brathair athar, coir dha anns an fhearann.

(Ruaraidh MacThomais)

ANTHEM FOR MANKIND

(Postscript to Scots Wha Hae)

Twa thousan years o storied fame
'gainst Rome an Saxon's baseless aim
clans the morn will warm tae claim
they, like us, are free;

In smeddum strang our sons hae gane
tae fremmit lands tae staun alane
wi Scotia's boast in ilka vein,
man maun aye be free;

It maitters nocht whaure'er we bide,
in Scotland's tryst we aye confide,
Lat Freedom rush like awesome tide,
Lat us dae--no dee.

Send Scotia's creed 'cross every main,
nae tyrant yet but tried in vain,
tae haud for aye in servile chain,
the man wha will be free.

Tae brithers aa wha'll claim the gree,
we'll shout the sang o free men, free,
in slogan clear fae historie,
Lat us dae -- no dee.

NO GODS, AND PRECIOUS FEW HEROES

I was listening to the News the other day
I heard a fat politician who had the nerve to say
He was proud to be Scottish, by the way
With the glories of our past to remember
Here's tae us, wha's like us? Listen to the cry
No surrender to the truth and here's the reason why
The Power and the Glory's just another bloody lie
they use to keep us all in line.

For there's no Gods and there's precious few heroes
But there's plenty on the dole in the Land o' the Leal
And it's time to sweep the future clear
Of the lies of the past that we know were never real.

Sae farewell tae the heather an the glen.
They cleared us off once and they'd do it all again.
FOR THEY STILL PREFER SHEEP TO THINKING MEN
AH BUT MEN WHO THINK LIKE SHEEP ARE EVEN BETTER.
There's nothing much to chose between the old laird and the new,
They still don't give a damn for the likes of me and you.
Just mind ye pay your rent to the factor when its due,
And mind your bloody manners when ye pay.

And tell me will we never hear the end,
Of puir bluidy Charlie at Culloden yet again?
Though he ran like a rabbit doun the glen,
Leaving better folk than him to be butchered.
Or are ye sitting in your council house dreaming o your Clan?
Waitin' for the Jacobites tae come free the land?
Try goin doun the burroo wi your claymore in your hand
And count a' the princes in the queue.

So don't talk to me of Scotland the Brave,
For if we don't fight soon there'll be nothing left to save.
Or would you rather stand and watch them dig your grave,
While ye wait for the tartan messiah?
He'll lead us tae the promised land wi laughter in his eye,
We'll all live on the oil and the whisky by and by,
Free heavy beer, pie suppers in the sky,
Will we never have the sense to learn?

That there's no Gods and there's precious few heroes,
But there's plenty on the dole in the Land of the Leal
AND I'M DAMN SURE THAT THERE'S PLENTY LIVE IN FEAR
OF THE DAY WE STAND TOGETHER WITH OUR SHOULDER'S AT THE WHEEL.


© Brian McNeill