General Category > General Scottish
Scottish Poetry
Stirling Thompson:
On the anniversary of her coronation... a poem by Her Majesty Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.
Diamond Speaks
'Tis not because my strength outranks both flame and brand,
Nor because my facets display a cunning hand,
Nor because, set in fine-wrought gold, I shine so bright,
Nor even that I'm pure, whiter than Phoebus' light,
But rather because my form is a heart, like unto
My Mistress' heart (but for hardness), that I'm sent to you.
For all things must yield to unfettered purity
And she is my true equal in each quality.
For who would fail to grant that once I had been sent,
My Mistress should thus, in turn, find favour and content?
May it please, from these omens I shall gather strength
And thus from Queen to equal Queen I'll pass at length.
O would I could join them with an iron band alone
(Though all prefer gold) and unite their hearts as one
That neither envy, greed nor gossip's evil play,
Nor mistrust, nor ravaging time could wear away.
Then they'd say among treasures I was most renowned,
For I'd have two great jewels in one setting bound.
Then with my glitt'ring rays I should confound the sight
Of all who saw me, dazzling enemies with my light.
Then, by my worth and by her art, I should be known
As the diamond, the greatest jewel, the mighty stone.
cheryllwith2ls:
Very nice, Thank you :)
Stirling Thompson:
The Maister and the Bairns by William Thomson
The Maister sat in the wee cot hoose
By the Jordan's waters near,
An' the fisherfolk crushed an' crooded roon'
The Maister's words tae hear.
An' even the bairn's frae the near-haun streets
Were mixin' in wi' the thrang,
Laddies an' lassies wi' wee bare feet
Jinkin' the crood amang.
But yin o' the twal' at the Maister's side
Rose up and cried alood:
'Come, come, bairns, this is nae place for you,
Rin awa' hame oot the crood.'
But the Maister said as they turned awa',
'Let the wee yins come tae Me'.
An' he gaithered them roon' Him whaur He sat
An' lifted yin on His knee.
Ay, He gaithered them roon' Him whaur He sat
An' straiked their curly hair,
An' He said tae the wonderin' fisherfolk
That crushed an' crooded there:
'Send na the bairns awa' frae Me
But raither this lesson lairn:
That nane'll win in at Heaven's yett
That hisna the hert o' a bairn.'
An' he that wisna oor kith or kin
But a Prince o' the Far Awa',
He gaithered the wee yins in His airms
An' blessed them yin an'a'.
Stirling Thompson:
On the eve of Scotland's referendum vote for independence... a posthumously published poem by Tobias Smollett.
To Independence
Strophe.
Thy spirit, Independence, let me share,
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Deep in the frozen regions of the north,
A goddess violated brought thee forth,
Immortal Liberty! whose look sublime
Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime.
What time the iron-hearted Gaul,
With frantic superstition for his guide,
Arm'd with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied;
The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,
In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow;
And red the stream began to flow:
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood!
Antistrophe.
The Saxon prince in horror fled
From altars stained with human gore;
And Liberty his routed legions led,
In safety, to the bleak Norwegian shore.
There in a cave asleep she lay,
Lull'd by the hoarse-resounding main;
When a bold savage pass'd that way,
Impell'd by destiny, - his name Disdain.
Of ample front the portly chief appear'd:
The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest;
The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard;
And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast.
He stopp'd - he gazed - his bosom glow'd,
And deeply felt th' impression of her charms:
He seized th' advantage Fate allow'd;
And straight compress'd her in his vigorous arms.
Strophe.
The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew;
The light he saw in Albion's happy plains,
Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
Wile Philomel renew'd her warbled strains,
Th' auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born -
The mountain dryads seized with joy
The smiling infant to their charge consign'd;
The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy;
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.
As rolling years matured his age,
He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire;
While the mild passions in his breast assuage
The fiercer flames of his maternal sire.
Antistrophe.
Accomplish'd thus, he wing'd his way,
And zealous roved from pole to pole,
The rolls of right eternal to display,
And warm with patriot thoughts th' aspiring soul.
On desert isles 'twas he that raised
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave,
Where Tyranny beheld amazed
Fair Freedom's Temple, where he mark'd her grave.
He steel'd the blunt Batavian's arms
To burst th' Iberian's double chain;
And cities rear'd, and planted farms,
Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain.
He, with the generous rustics, sate
On Uri's rocks in close divan;
And wing'd that arrow sure as fate,
Which ascertain'd the sacred rights of man.
Strophe.
Arabia's scorching sand he cross'd,
Where blasted Nature pants supine,
To Freedom's adamantine shrine;
And many a Tartar-horde forlorn, aghast,
He snatch'd from under fell Oppression's wing;
And taught amidst the dreary waste
Th' all-cheering hymns of Liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffused through every baser mould,
E'en now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore,
And turns the dross of Corsica to gold.
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise:
My lips, by him chastised to truth,
Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.
Antistrophe.
Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,
Where varnish'd Vice and Vanity combined,
To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread;
And forge vile shackles for the freeborn mind.
Where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious Fancy blow;
And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow;
Where ever dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale Profession's froth;
And pale Disease, with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of Gluttony and Sloth.
Strophe.
In Fortune's ear behold that minion ride,
With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd:
so moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride,
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string;
Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay;
And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring;
Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene;
And Nature, still to all her feelings just,
In vengeance hang a damp on every scene,
Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust.
Antistrophe.
Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts
By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell,
Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants,
And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell.
There Study shall with Solitude recline;
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains;
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering Life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste, unspoil'd, the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night;
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.
Tobias Smollett
Mary:
Either I just like the "Master and the Bairns".............or, I could decipher enough of it to enjoy it! :)
Thanks Stu!
Navigation
[0] Message Index
[#] Next page
[*] Previous page
Go to full version