Ma Heroes o' History
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: Groin’ up in the Sixties I discovered ma trinity o’ personal Scottish heroes. For ma generation much of our heritage and culture was disseminated tae us by the writtin’s o’ Nigel Tranter an’ the music o’ The Corries. Tae these, as a Rugby player, A ay’ add the commentaries o’ Bill McLaren. A wrote and sent tributes tae them aw’ an’ A’m proud tae say that A received gracious replies. This is ma tribute tae Nigel Tranter.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Groin’ up in the Sixties I discovered ma trinity o’ personal Scottish heroes. For ma generation much of our heritage and culture was disseminated tae us by the writtin’s o’ Nigel Tranter an’ the music o’ The Corries. Tae these, as a Rugby player, A ay’ add the commentaries o’ Bill McLaren. A wrote and sent tributes tae them aw’ an’ A’m proud tae say that A received gracious replies. This is ma tribute tae Nigel Tranter.
A wis fortunate tae hae a Primary teacher, Mrs Samuel, wha immersed us in Scottish history an’ awakened ma love o’ the past. Durin’ secondary school, A did Higher History but we covered “Modern British an’ European History”. Scotland wisni even a divertin’ aside! A mind lookin’ at the Medieval Scottish questions in ma Higher paper, never realisin’ that this wis a possible area o’ study, an’ saw, for the very furst time, the words “Declaration of Arbroath!” While A’m oan an’ Educational omissions rant, why did A hae tae study Chaucer, yet only heard o’ Barbour when A wis 25! “The Bruce” predatin’ “The Canterbury Tales” by decades! Ok, rant ower! A re-engaged wi’ Scottish History when A picked up the furst o’ Nigel Tranter’s trilogy about Robert Bruce, wow A wis hooked!
A wee aside on this furst poem, mind when teachers confidently gelt ye whit this or that writer meant? Well sometimes, it surprises them! A wrote the poem as a tribute tae Mr Tranter an’ decided tae entitle it in Gaelic, A had tae look up ma wee bookie tae fine the word for voice, “Guth”. There A had a guid title “An Guth na h-Alba.” (The voice of Scotland.) It wis only then that A had just gone an bluidy well translated the furst, bluidy, line o’ the poem!
A wee aside on this furst poem, mind when teachers confidently gelt ye whit this or that writer meant? Well sometimes, it surprises them! A wrote the poem as a tribute tae Mr Tranter an’ decided tae entitle it in Gaelic, A had tae look up ma wee bookie tae fine the word for voice, “Guth”. There A had a guid title “An Guth na h-Alba.” (The voice of Scotland.) It wis only then that A had just gone an bluidy well translated the furst, bluidy, line o’ the poem!
An Guth na h-Alba
Voice o' Scotland's ancient story,
Voice o' battles, grim an' gory,
Voice o' honour, love an' glory,
Auld Scotia's fame,
Deceit, betrayal, dark an' hoary,
Oor Scottish shame!
Your writtin's broucht us, back oor past,
Revived oor consciousness at last,
Stirred oor blood, he'rts beatin' fast,
An' made us proud!
A livin' canvass, auld an' vast,
Nae faded shroud!
Your work's enthralled oor nation's mind,
As through oor past you, skillf'ly, wind,
An' agile as a youthful hind,
Your stories leap,
An' Tranter fans, o' every kind,
Will laugh an' weep.
I mind when I, first read the Bruce,
An' lived his fight, for mair, than truce,
The pride an' passions you let loose,
Kept me enrapt,
But the hero, just postponed the noose,
In which we're trapped.
Because we've lost, oor Scottish say,
We need your like, tae show the way.
For leadership, we Scots must pray,
So that we should,
Stand proudly, on some future day,
In Nationhood!
You an' the Corries, gave the lead,
Oor culture, baith tae sing an' read,
In many Scots you've sown the seed,
O' ancient pride.
Oor love an' thanks, are your's indeed,
An' mair beside!
Voice o' Scotland's ancient story,
Voice o' battles, grim an' gory,
Voice o' honour, love an' glory,
Auld Scotia's fame,
Deceit, betrayal, dark an' hoary,
Oor Scottish shame!
Your writtin's broucht us, back oor past,
Revived oor consciousness at last,
Stirred oor blood, he'rts beatin' fast,
An' made us proud!
A livin' canvass, auld an' vast,
Nae faded shroud!
Your work's enthralled oor nation's mind,
As through oor past you, skillf'ly, wind,
An' agile as a youthful hind,
Your stories leap,
An' Tranter fans, o' every kind,
Will laugh an' weep.
I mind when I, first read the Bruce,
An' lived his fight, for mair, than truce,
The pride an' passions you let loose,
Kept me enrapt,
But the hero, just postponed the noose,
In which we're trapped.
Because we've lost, oor Scottish say,
We need your like, tae show the way.
For leadership, we Scots must pray,
So that we should,
Stand proudly, on some future day,
In Nationhood!
You an' the Corries, gave the lead,
Oor culture, baith tae sing an' read,
In many Scots you've sown the seed,
O' ancient pride.
Oor love an' thanks, are your's indeed,
An' mair beside!
A wis waitin’ in the sunshine fir ma students tae return frame an Orienteerin’ course A’d set on Cathkin Braes, just days efter the announcement o’ the death o’ Nigel Tranter. A wis lookin’ ower the city an’ sadly remembered hearin’ that Mr Tranter had been born here. A had the bones o’ the poem written doon afore the furst student toddled back. The Cathkin braes overlook Glasgow tae the sooth, right nixt tae Castlemilk, it must be the only place whaur the Orienteerin’ map should hae a symbol fir “burnt oot Mini!” A colleague o’ mine wis once there wi’ a class, again waitin’ fir the students tae complete the course. He saw a Police helicopter hoverin’ aboot, then it came ower tae him. The followin’ wis his report o’ the, bowel distrubin’, ensuin’ conversation. “Hello, this is the police, what are you doin?” “A’m frae Langside College, A’ve students daein’ an’ Orienteerin’ course.” “Oh, aw’ right. If they find a died boady, will ye let us know!” This is ma Eulogy tae a man wha taught me sae much, the title translates as Scotland’s Story Teller.
An Seannachaidh na h-Alba
Cauld January’s low winter sun,
Illuminates the Cathkin Braes,
An’ shines oan auld St. Mungo’s toon,
Whaur first began, the Tranter days.
Though his licht has passed awa’,
In Gullane’s quite privacy,
This slender, frail an’ aged man,
Has left a giant’s legacy!
He gave oor country back it’s past,
Retold it’s ancient glory,
Put flesh oan auld historic bones,
Made Human, Scotland’s story!
His Novels were accessible,
An’ moved wi’ easy pace,
Distilled his love o’ Scotland,
An’ chronicled his Race.
His work, held nae pretention,
His books hae found their station,
Tae entertain the Common Man,
An’ educate a Nation!
He filled ma he’rt wi’ joy an’ hope,
Caused passions, sad an’ hot,
Exposed ma native culture,
Made, me a, prouder, Scot!
Beannachd Leibh! An t-Seannachaidh,
Story teller o’ oor land,
Amang the heroes o’ the Scots,
Wi’ the Great, yell stand!
Cauld January’s low winter sun,
Illuminates the Cathkin Braes,
An’ shines oan auld St. Mungo’s toon,
Whaur first began, the Tranter days.
Though his licht has passed awa’,
In Gullane’s quite privacy,
This slender, frail an’ aged man,
Has left a giant’s legacy!
He gave oor country back it’s past,
Retold it’s ancient glory,
Put flesh oan auld historic bones,
Made Human, Scotland’s story!
His Novels were accessible,
An’ moved wi’ easy pace,
Distilled his love o’ Scotland,
An’ chronicled his Race.
His work, held nae pretention,
His books hae found their station,
Tae entertain the Common Man,
An’ educate a Nation!
He filled ma he’rt wi’ joy an’ hope,
Caused passions, sad an’ hot,
Exposed ma native culture,
Made, me a, prouder, Scot!
Beannachd Leibh! An t-Seannachaidh,
Story teller o’ oor land,
Amang the heroes o’ the Scots,
Wi’ the Great, yell stand!
Whit follows are sangs/poems aboot Scottish Heroes (an’ yin Italian Prince), inspire by Mr Tranter’s work.
Although my personal hero is The Bruce, A ken mony folk consider William Wallace tae be the greater hero, because he didni’ fecht for personal gain but for the novel idea of Scotland as a Nation. Wallace had nae choice bit tae continue fechtin’ because Edward I would by nae means tak’ him I tae his peace! He gave his aw’, heroic as he wis, he ultimately failed. Perhaps he started Scotland’s pride/forbearance/affliction (delete as appropriate) wi’ glorious defeat.
The Smithfield Legacy
(Tune:- The Minstrel Boy)
The Wallace stood on the Abbey Craig,
Wi' the Carse o' Stirling, laid below him,
His head held an' his sword in hand,
An' his enemies ranked before him.
He led the charge an' he won the day,
Nae Englishman withstood his way.
He cleansed oor land an' he set us free,
An' the common people aw' adore him!
At Falkirk field he fought an' bled,
Wi' his countrymen slain around him.
As an' outlaw he still battled on,
Nae hardship, ever, could confound him.
Betrayed, he was, by a so-called friend,
An' southward sent, tae meet his end.
Like a merket beast, they drove him on,
In captive chains they had bound him!
They marched him doon tae London toun,
In a farce o' justice, there, they tried him.
For Scotland's cause he had gone tae war,
But an English traitor, still, they cried him!
They stripped him o' his dignity,
A treat, for aw' the crowd tae see,
Then through their streets, the Wallace, drew,
Tae a lowly hurdle they had tied him!
At Smithfield market their butchers leered,
As savagely, there, they killed him.
But the Wallace courage has never died,
Nor the love o' freedom that had filled him.
An' example tae every Scottish man,
Wha' through the years, hae made their stan',
Like the Wallace, heroes, they've ay'ways foucht,
For the love o' Scotland, that had thrilled him.
Nae greater Scot has e'er been known,
On courage's summit, we maun raise him.
A freedom fighter abin them aw',
Oor subjugation, noo, betrays him!
Hae courage now, for the task in hand,
As Masters o' oor native land,
In Nationhood, as the Wallace planned,
Oor greatest hero, we will praise him!
(Tune:- The Minstrel Boy)
The Wallace stood on the Abbey Craig,
Wi' the Carse o' Stirling, laid below him,
His head held an' his sword in hand,
An' his enemies ranked before him.
He led the charge an' he won the day,
Nae Englishman withstood his way.
He cleansed oor land an' he set us free,
An' the common people aw' adore him!
At Falkirk field he fought an' bled,
Wi' his countrymen slain around him.
As an' outlaw he still battled on,
Nae hardship, ever, could confound him.
Betrayed, he was, by a so-called friend,
An' southward sent, tae meet his end.
Like a merket beast, they drove him on,
In captive chains they had bound him!
They marched him doon tae London toun,
In a farce o' justice, there, they tried him.
For Scotland's cause he had gone tae war,
But an English traitor, still, they cried him!
They stripped him o' his dignity,
A treat, for aw' the crowd tae see,
Then through their streets, the Wallace, drew,
Tae a lowly hurdle they had tied him!
At Smithfield market their butchers leered,
As savagely, there, they killed him.
But the Wallace courage has never died,
Nor the love o' freedom that had filled him.
An' example tae every Scottish man,
Wha' through the years, hae made their stan',
Like the Wallace, heroes, they've ay'ways foucht,
For the love o' Scotland, that had thrilled him.
Nae greater Scot has e'er been known,
On courage's summit, we maun raise him.
A freedom fighter abin them aw',
Oor subjugation, noo, betrays him!
Hae courage now, for the task in hand,
As Masters o' oor native land,
In Nationhood, as the Wallace planned,
Oor greatest hero, we will praise him!
A mind thinkin’, years ago, that A’d mak’ sure that A wis at Bannockburn on the 700th anniversary o’ the battle. A chose the 23rd o’ June, the anniversary o’ the furst day’ o’ the engagement, because A’d written this song/ poem aboot the Burce/De Bouhn encounter. Ma description wis based on Mr Tranter’s.
The Broken Axe
(Tune:- The Lammas Tide)
Well, it fell aboot mid-summers' day,
When the English van appeared.
File-on-file o' armoured might,
The 'hale o' Chris'ndom feared.
Their colours few richt gallantly,
Their horns sound brazenly,
They would live as conquerors,
But we'd die, tae be free!
Ranked upon the Borestane brae,
Oor pikes held straight an' true,
A Nation, standin' side by side,
We’d mak' the English rue!
Oot afore the Scottish lines,
Rode the mighty Bruce,
Mounted on his hie'lan grey,
His battle-axe hung loose.
Then frae oot the English ranks,
There spurred a single knight.
Wi' the gauntlet, thus, thrown doon,
The Bruce, took up the fight.
Sir Hendry Bohun spied the King,
Wi' keen an' youthful eyes,
An' wavin' aw' the others back,
Spurred tae claim his prize.
The armoured Bohun thundered on,
His horse was huge an' strong,
His colours 'blazened on his shield,
His lance couched low an' long.
Burce wi' battle-axe in hand,
Drove on tae meet his foe,
Featly dodged the English spear,
An' dealt the fatal blow.
As De Bohun lumbered by,
His stroke was sure an' deft,
Sheared richt through the English helm,
An' splintered in the heft.
Bruce just turned an' left the field,
Where Hendry Bohun lay dead.
"I hae Spoiled my guid' axe."
Was aw' he ruefully said!
The battle's won, oor land is free,
The Englishmen hae fled.
The river Forth an' Bannockburn,
Are fu' o' southern dead.
Though we focht agin' the odds,
Oor chances werena’ sma’!
For the fecht was won, in Scottish he'rts,
When we saw De Bohun fa’!
Well, it fell aboot mid-summer's day,
When the English van appeared,
File-on-file o' armoured might,
The 'hale o' Chris'ndom feared.
Their colours flew richt gallantly,
Their horns sound brazenly,
They would live as conquerors,
But we'd die, tae be free!
(Tune:- The Lammas Tide)
Well, it fell aboot mid-summers' day,
When the English van appeared.
File-on-file o' armoured might,
The 'hale o' Chris'ndom feared.
Their colours few richt gallantly,
Their horns sound brazenly,
They would live as conquerors,
But we'd die, tae be free!
Ranked upon the Borestane brae,
Oor pikes held straight an' true,
A Nation, standin' side by side,
We’d mak' the English rue!
Oot afore the Scottish lines,
Rode the mighty Bruce,
Mounted on his hie'lan grey,
His battle-axe hung loose.
Then frae oot the English ranks,
There spurred a single knight.
Wi' the gauntlet, thus, thrown doon,
The Bruce, took up the fight.
Sir Hendry Bohun spied the King,
Wi' keen an' youthful eyes,
An' wavin' aw' the others back,
Spurred tae claim his prize.
The armoured Bohun thundered on,
His horse was huge an' strong,
His colours 'blazened on his shield,
His lance couched low an' long.
Burce wi' battle-axe in hand,
Drove on tae meet his foe,
Featly dodged the English spear,
An' dealt the fatal blow.
As De Bohun lumbered by,
His stroke was sure an' deft,
Sheared richt through the English helm,
An' splintered in the heft.
Bruce just turned an' left the field,
Where Hendry Bohun lay dead.
"I hae Spoiled my guid' axe."
Was aw' he ruefully said!
The battle's won, oor land is free,
The Englishmen hae fled.
The river Forth an' Bannockburn,
Are fu' o' southern dead.
Though we focht agin' the odds,
Oor chances werena’ sma’!
For the fecht was won, in Scottish he'rts,
When we saw De Bohun fa’!
Well, it fell aboot mid-summer's day,
When the English van appeared,
File-on-file o' armoured might,
The 'hale o' Chris'ndom feared.
Their colours flew richt gallantly,
Their horns sound brazenly,
They would live as conquerors,
But we'd die, tae be free!
Medieval politics might hae delayed Robert Bruce’s fu’ commitment tae the Scottish cause but when he set his resolve tae the task, he endured mair than human sanity could be reasonably expected tae thole! Bruce could be baith savage an’ forgivin’, he wis a man o’ his time but he gave his an’ other’s all tae the cause. Aye, he wis lucky tae be pitted agin perhaps the least effective English king ivir bit he prevailed agin’ the most powerfu’ army in Europe! Bannockburn wis the turnin’ point bit perhaps the greatest gift Bruce left tae posterity wis The Declaration o’ Arbroath! This sang feenishes, wi’ the dyin’ Bruce triumphant bit his great comrades in arms Douglas, Hay an’ Moray were aw’ died wi’in twa years o’ his death. England showed her true self, in the style to become known as “Perfidious Albion!” by renagin’ oan the Treaty o’ Edinburgh within’ a few months o’ the King’s passin’! Dis that pit ye in mind o’ ony other broken vows?
Cardross
(Tune:- The Heidless Cross)
Dark is the night, that blears my eyes,
That aince could see, sae clearly.
An' wasted, here my body lies,
That yince, was far frae weary.
I mind yon day in grey Dumfries,
My dagger flashed, sae barely,
The Comyn's blood, the alter stained,
For which I've paid, richt sairly.
Aince, I had brave brothers, four,
An' three, I lou'd richt dearly,
But mighty Edward, took their lives,
An' butchered them, severely.
My womenfolk, they spared nae shame,
But showed them hate an' cruelty,
Cages hung frae castle walls,
Deprived o' human dignity.
Crowned the King o' beaten men,
My reign began disastrously,
Wi' but a few, brave, loyal friends,
We foucht against adversity.
I mind the day we stood up tall,
An' faced the English squarely.
Against their flaunted, armoured, might,
We fought an' beat them fairly.
Oor realm united, strong an' true,
Declared oor rights fu' honestly,
Tae the warld, proclaimed oor fame,
An' we would live, but freely.
I've fought the English aw', my reign,
For freedom not for glory!
A treaty now secures my realm,
fulfillin' my life's story.
I leave a bairn upon my throne,
By right, if not securely.
Hero's wha' wi me hae foucht,
Death will claim, fu' early.
But Scotland's he'rt, I hae forged,
Her head held high an' truely,
Amang the nation's o' the warld,
She’ll tak her place, fu' nobly.
My earthly work is now complete,
My place in Scotland's story,
My he'rt, at last, may now crusade,
Tae fecht for Christ's ain glory.
(Tune:- The Heidless Cross)
Dark is the night, that blears my eyes,
That aince could see, sae clearly.
An' wasted, here my body lies,
That yince, was far frae weary.
I mind yon day in grey Dumfries,
My dagger flashed, sae barely,
The Comyn's blood, the alter stained,
For which I've paid, richt sairly.
Aince, I had brave brothers, four,
An' three, I lou'd richt dearly,
But mighty Edward, took their lives,
An' butchered them, severely.
My womenfolk, they spared nae shame,
But showed them hate an' cruelty,
Cages hung frae castle walls,
Deprived o' human dignity.
Crowned the King o' beaten men,
My reign began disastrously,
Wi' but a few, brave, loyal friends,
We foucht against adversity.
I mind the day we stood up tall,
An' faced the English squarely.
Against their flaunted, armoured, might,
We fought an' beat them fairly.
Oor realm united, strong an' true,
Declared oor rights fu' honestly,
Tae the warld, proclaimed oor fame,
An' we would live, but freely.
I've fought the English aw', my reign,
For freedom not for glory!
A treaty now secures my realm,
fulfillin' my life's story.
I leave a bairn upon my throne,
By right, if not securely.
Hero's wha' wi me hae foucht,
Death will claim, fu' early.
But Scotland's he'rt, I hae forged,
Her head held high an' truely,
Amang the nation's o' the warld,
She’ll tak her place, fu' nobly.
My earthly work is now complete,
My place in Scotland's story,
My he'rt, at last, may now crusade,
Tae fecht for Christ's ain glory.
Bruce wis a hero but perhaps a flawed yin. Many other people suffered fir the Bruce crown. He lost 3 brothers to the same fate as Wallace, his wife was locked up in a nunnery, his sister Mary an’ Isabella Countess o’ Buchan were hung in cages frae Castle wa’s. Perhaps the maist tragic victim o’ the struggle wis his daughter Marjory. Hung, fir a while, frae the wa’s o’ the Tower o’ London, then confined in a Nunnery, where no one was tae talk tae her. When she wis returned tae her native land, she was died within 2 years. Married aff fir dynastic reasons an’ died in childbirth. Lookin’ at the Stewart's, apart frae James I an’ IV, they wereni’ worth the sacrifice!
Marjory
(Tune: Fiddler’s Green)
In these, bloody sheets, you maun row me,
An’’ in the cauld ground, you’ll then, bury me,
Maybe in God’s peace, there-after, I’ll be,
‘Cause this warld’s been nae freen’ tae me!
Chorus:
Wrap her up in your goodness an’ love her,
A lonely wee orphan she’s been,
She’s been through the mill Lord,
O’ grief had her fill Lord,
Her young life was blighted,
By a warld, cruel an’ mean!
There’s nae Mither’s kisses nor cuddle, for me,
My Faither fu’ rarely, would I ever see.
Up in Kildrummie’s, I’’d walk by my lain,
Sae naeb’dy would see the depth o’ my pain!
Yin, glorious springtime was gi’en tae me.
As Scotland’s gay Princess, I was tae be.
But colour an’ laughter at my Faither’s court,
By betrayal an’ battle, was, cruely cut short.
Chorus:
They dragged us, unheedin’ frae oor sanctuary,
Nae common mercy was e’r shown tae me.
King Edward condemned me, in hatred an’ rage,
Tae hing frae the wa’s o’ The Tower, in a cage!
Young Edward allowed me tae live as a Nun,
But talked tae by nane an’ kept frae the sun!
My spirit was broken an’ when freedom came,
A wraith, no’ a bairn was aw’ they brocht hame!
Chorus:
The life o’ a Princess is glamour an’ flare?
Naw! Duty demands you are jist a brood mare!
The Succession insisted that I maun be wed,
Sae willin’ or no’, took Young Stewart tae my bed!
I hope they are happy, I brocht forth a lad,
A’m feart it took the last strength that I had.
Scotland’s new Prince, aw’ handsome an’ dairin’?
Or jist anither, wee, lonely bairn?
Chorus:
In these, bloody sheets, you maun row me,
An’’ in the cauld ground, you’ll then, bury me,
Maybe in God’s peace, there-after, I’ll be,
‘Cause this warld’s been nae freen’ tae me!
(Tune: Fiddler’s Green)
In these, bloody sheets, you maun row me,
An’’ in the cauld ground, you’ll then, bury me,
Maybe in God’s peace, there-after, I’ll be,
‘Cause this warld’s been nae freen’ tae me!
Chorus:
Wrap her up in your goodness an’ love her,
A lonely wee orphan she’s been,
She’s been through the mill Lord,
O’ grief had her fill Lord,
Her young life was blighted,
By a warld, cruel an’ mean!
There’s nae Mither’s kisses nor cuddle, for me,
My Faither fu’ rarely, would I ever see.
Up in Kildrummie’s, I’’d walk by my lain,
Sae naeb’dy would see the depth o’ my pain!
Yin, glorious springtime was gi’en tae me.
As Scotland’s gay Princess, I was tae be.
But colour an’ laughter at my Faither’s court,
By betrayal an’ battle, was, cruely cut short.
Chorus:
They dragged us, unheedin’ frae oor sanctuary,
Nae common mercy was e’r shown tae me.
King Edward condemned me, in hatred an’ rage,
Tae hing frae the wa’s o’ The Tower, in a cage!
Young Edward allowed me tae live as a Nun,
But talked tae by nane an’ kept frae the sun!
My spirit was broken an’ when freedom came,
A wraith, no’ a bairn was aw’ they brocht hame!
Chorus:
The life o’ a Princess is glamour an’ flare?
Naw! Duty demands you are jist a brood mare!
The Succession insisted that I maun be wed,
Sae willin’ or no’, took Young Stewart tae my bed!
I hope they are happy, I brocht forth a lad,
A’m feart it took the last strength that I had.
Scotland’s new Prince, aw’ handsome an’ dairin’?
Or jist anither, wee, lonely bairn?
Chorus:
In these, bloody sheets, you maun row me,
An’’ in the cauld ground, you’ll then, bury me,
Maybe in God’s peace, there-after, I’ll be,
‘Cause this warld’s been nae freen’ tae me!
After the Bruce, we only really had yin great monarch, James IV. He was a true Renaissance Prince, settin’ up the Scottish Parish School system, increased Scottish trade an’ at the time of his death, he wis the longest reignin’ monarch in Europe. He had reigned ower a lang period o’ peace, that he threw it aw’ awa’ ior the Auld Alliance an’ flatterin’ words an’ a ring frae the Queen o’ France, is yin o’ the greatest tragedies o’ Scottish history!
Jamie Stewart
(Tune:- Weep Ye by Athol)
I see the grey sky through my visor,
See, the spears that are my fate,
See their leerin' eyes an' laughter,
Hear their triumph an' their hate.
Standin' wi' the youth o' Scotland,
How my heart was filled wi' pride,
Tall an' strong an' educated,
Like my son, there, by my side.
Surrey would not heed oor challenge,
Stole aroon' us, in the night.
Would not charge the hill o' Flodden,
Had not courage, for the fight!
Abandonin' oor strong position,
Wheeled aroon' yon hill o' sedge,
Gallantly we sought for battle,
As we cam' by Branxton Edge.
Had oor horse but done it's duty,
Turned aroond an' struck again!
Had oor clansmen's, fearsome torrent,
Survived the archer's deadly rain!
Had we never crossed the border,
Jist tae please the Queen's o' France!
"Marched oor yard on English soil,
There tae break a bloody lance!"
My country would not lie in ruin,
Strewn across this gorey brae,
The generation I hae cherished,
An' years o' peace, here, tae betray!
Wi' or French spears held afore us,
Slaistered doon yon muddy hill.
Jist hoo many reached the bottom,
For the English pikes tae kill?
I hacked my way tae bloody Surrey,
His life, tae make but small atone,
King o' Scots, or simple soldier,
Here I fight an' die alone!
They can kill but Jamie Stewart,
A link, just, in my chain o' shame,
But Scotland's courage, can't be conquered,
An' surely she will rise again!
I see the grey sky through my visor,
See the spears that are my fate,
See their leerin' eyes an' laughter,
Hear their triumph an' their hate!
(Tune:- Weep Ye by Athol)
I see the grey sky through my visor,
See, the spears that are my fate,
See their leerin' eyes an' laughter,
Hear their triumph an' their hate.
Standin' wi' the youth o' Scotland,
How my heart was filled wi' pride,
Tall an' strong an' educated,
Like my son, there, by my side.
Surrey would not heed oor challenge,
Stole aroon' us, in the night.
Would not charge the hill o' Flodden,
Had not courage, for the fight!
Abandonin' oor strong position,
Wheeled aroon' yon hill o' sedge,
Gallantly we sought for battle,
As we cam' by Branxton Edge.
Had oor horse but done it's duty,
Turned aroond an' struck again!
Had oor clansmen's, fearsome torrent,
Survived the archer's deadly rain!
Had we never crossed the border,
Jist tae please the Queen's o' France!
"Marched oor yard on English soil,
There tae break a bloody lance!"
My country would not lie in ruin,
Strewn across this gorey brae,
The generation I hae cherished,
An' years o' peace, here, tae betray!
Wi' or French spears held afore us,
Slaistered doon yon muddy hill.
Jist hoo many reached the bottom,
For the English pikes tae kill?
I hacked my way tae bloody Surrey,
His life, tae make but small atone,
King o' Scots, or simple soldier,
Here I fight an' die alone!
They can kill but Jamie Stewart,
A link, just, in my chain o' shame,
But Scotland's courage, can't be conquered,
An' surely she will rise again!
I see the grey sky through my visor,
See the spears that are my fate,
See their leerin' eyes an' laughter,
Hear their triumph an' their hate!
This goes awa’ frae the Hero, tae Anti-Hero, theme. It’s an enigma that sae mich has been written aboot Charles Edward Stewart, a drunken arrogant Italian waister! His uprisin’ ended in negligent failure an’ the devastation o’ the Celtic culture an’ depopulation o’ the Highlands an’ Islands! This is ma take oan the campaign that ended at Culloden!
As a “technical” aside, when A wis writtin’ this, A got easily tae the last verse, A got the furst twa rhymes nae bother at aw’, “Breath an’ Death”, richt you think o’ another yin! Richt again “Beth.” Ok, whae the hell is she? Ye canny jist pit her intae the last verse! Sae A had tae go back an’ stick in a new third verse tae get her introduced at the beginnin’ o’ the bluidy sang! Ho Hum!
By the wy’ Alba has 3 beats an’ can be pronounced Al-u-ba or Al-u-pa.
Culloden
(Tune:- Bonnie Gallowa')
Under April's weeping skies,
Blood an' sleet baith blear my eyes,
This musket ball, my only prize,
Wae for Alba!
I mind yon, long-gone, summer's day,
Oor clansmen, marshalled, in array,
Camerons marchin', tae the frae,
Aw' for Alba!
Lochaber rang wi', gallant, cheers.
My sweetheart, Beth's face stained wi' tears,
Her heart, baith filled wi' pride an' fears,
Aw' for Alba!
We cleansed the English, frae oor land,
For the Prince, we made oor stand,
But southern throne, was his demand,
Wae for Alba!
Though, we suffered nae defeat,
Frae Derby, made oor lang retreat,
starvin' men on' blistered feet,
Wae for Alba!
On dark Drumossie Muir we fought,
One mair victory we sought,
But Stuart's cause, is dearly bought,
Wae for Alba!
Locheil lead the Cameron charge,
The English lines, tae hack an' barge,
But bayonets, overcame the targe,
Wae for Alba!
Oh! Had fate, been on, oor side,
The Clans, that, could hae turned the tide,
Lie slaughtered, aw' for Stuart pride,
Wae for Alba!
As my life, now, drains away,
For my country I maun pray,
But wi' the seer's eyes, I say,
Wae for Alba!
I see, oor culture's shattered pride,
I see, oor clansmen scattered wide,
Oor Nation, intae bondage slide,
Wae for Alba!
I look at death, now, in the face,
Tae die, in battle's, nae disgrace,
As bayonets come, tae bring me grace,
Wae for Alba!
I see, the face, o' my ain Beth,
But at this hour o' my death,
Pray wi' my last conscious breath,
God Bless Alba!
(Tune:- Bonnie Gallowa')
Under April's weeping skies,
Blood an' sleet baith blear my eyes,
This musket ball, my only prize,
Wae for Alba!
I mind yon, long-gone, summer's day,
Oor clansmen, marshalled, in array,
Camerons marchin', tae the frae,
Aw' for Alba!
Lochaber rang wi', gallant, cheers.
My sweetheart, Beth's face stained wi' tears,
Her heart, baith filled wi' pride an' fears,
Aw' for Alba!
We cleansed the English, frae oor land,
For the Prince, we made oor stand,
But southern throne, was his demand,
Wae for Alba!
Though, we suffered nae defeat,
Frae Derby, made oor lang retreat,
starvin' men on' blistered feet,
Wae for Alba!
On dark Drumossie Muir we fought,
One mair victory we sought,
But Stuart's cause, is dearly bought,
Wae for Alba!
Locheil lead the Cameron charge,
The English lines, tae hack an' barge,
But bayonets, overcame the targe,
Wae for Alba!
Oh! Had fate, been on, oor side,
The Clans, that, could hae turned the tide,
Lie slaughtered, aw' for Stuart pride,
Wae for Alba!
As my life, now, drains away,
For my country I maun pray,
But wi' the seer's eyes, I say,
Wae for Alba!
I see, oor culture's shattered pride,
I see, oor clansmen scattered wide,
Oor Nation, intae bondage slide,
Wae for Alba!
I look at death, now, in the face,
Tae die, in battle's, nae disgrace,
As bayonets come, tae bring me grace,
Wae for Alba!
I see, the face, o' my ain Beth,
But at this hour o' my death,
Pray wi' my last conscious breath,
God Bless Alba!
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!