Thistle Down
Whether in band by Bruce led,
Or with Wallace among the dead;
Or, by chance, with Charlie flown,
Glory we've seen and victory known
From a kingdom ancient in a land
Where stormy sea meets rocky strand
To distant shores by hopes borne
Where new lives are forged and loyalties sworn
Like thistle down blown by wind
On a journey restless without end;
Our fate and fortunes, never certain,
Lie shrouded behind Future's curtain.
Yet, though we've wandered far from home,
Our hearts from Scotland will never roam;
For there, in some misty Highland glen,
Lie still the dreams of Jacobite men.
Or with Wallace among the dead;
Or, by chance, with Charlie flown,
Glory we've seen and victory known
From a kingdom ancient in a land
Where stormy sea meets rocky strand
To distant shores by hopes borne
Where new lives are forged and loyalties sworn
Like thistle down blown by wind
On a journey restless without end;
Our fate and fortunes, never certain,
Lie shrouded behind Future's curtain.
Yet, though we've wandered far from home,
Our hearts from Scotland will never roam;
For there, in some misty Highland glen,
Lie still the dreams of Jacobite men.
Icolmkill
Come me lad, aye, come awa' wi' me,
And let us gang doon yont the stey glen,
Tae the scarry shores o' the cauld sea,
That lies far frae oor wee but and ben.
And tak we there the coracle sure,
O'er the sea now, tae yon isle sae fair
Where our hearts ken rest on the braw muir,
And oor minds forget baith wae and care.
And let us gang doon yont the stey glen,
Tae the scarry shores o' the cauld sea,
That lies far frae oor wee but and ben.
And tak we there the coracle sure,
O'er the sea now, tae yon isle sae fair
Where our hearts ken rest on the braw muir,
And oor minds forget baith wae and care.
Highland Journey
Through heather wet with autumn rain
I make my way across the moor,
Past standing stones and fields of grain,
Past wretched houses of the poor.
The shepherd with his cromach stands
Looking upon the weathered flock;
The crofter with his callused hands
Pries loose the soil from the rock.
With plaid drawn close I face the wind
Bracing myself against the cold;
Coming to yet another bend
I see the roads as they unfold.
Beneath the castle grey that looms
Above the bracken-crowded glen
I walk in awe of the great rooms
That once were courts of Jacobite men.
Across the bonnie brig of Dee
That spans the river's currents broad
Emptying into the North Sea
Grampian's snows in summer thawed.
Before clachans and wee stone kirks
That dot the Highland countryside
I stroll along the lanes of birks
Their leaves now seem a golden tide.
Going nowhere in general,
Going nowhere perhaps, at all;
Stopping for a brief interval,
Then moving on before nightfall.
I make my way across the moor,
Past standing stones and fields of grain,
Past wretched houses of the poor.
The shepherd with his cromach stands
Looking upon the weathered flock;
The crofter with his callused hands
Pries loose the soil from the rock.
With plaid drawn close I face the wind
Bracing myself against the cold;
Coming to yet another bend
I see the roads as they unfold.
Beneath the castle grey that looms
Above the bracken-crowded glen
I walk in awe of the great rooms
That once were courts of Jacobite men.
Across the bonnie brig of Dee
That spans the river's currents broad
Emptying into the North Sea
Grampian's snows in summer thawed.
Before clachans and wee stone kirks
That dot the Highland countryside
I stroll along the lanes of birks
Their leaves now seem a golden tide.
Going nowhere in general,
Going nowhere perhaps, at all;
Stopping for a brief interval,
Then moving on before nightfall.