The Girl That Lost Things - Poem by George MacDonald

There was a girl that lost things-
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed-why, most things,
As if they had been sand!

She said, 'But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!'

That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and-bob in-
Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair;
But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said-not much about it.

But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple-
She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead;
Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self-
But that she threw away;
And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it;
But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind
Away from her it whirled-
But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping,
Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
'Mong them she found-why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.

George MacDonald  (10 December 1824 – 18 September 1905)

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Huntly Castle

Huntly Castle sits on the edge of the small market town of Huntly, beside the River Deveron in Aberdeenshire.


Photo: Wikipedia

The magnificent ruin of this motte and bailey style castle dates from the 12th century. With its splendid architecture, Huntly Castle served as a baronial residence for five centuries. The earliest stronghold on the site sheltered Robert the Bruce in the 14th century.

 

[caption id="attachment_593" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

[caption id="attachment_594" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

[caption id="attachment_595" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

 

 

 

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Address to the Deil

O Thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sooty
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor, damned bodies bee;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d, an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-win’d Tempest flyin,
Tirlan the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my rev’rend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld, ruin’d castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman,
Aft ’yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boorties coman,
Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan light,
Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
Wi’ waving sugh:

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor, quaick, quaick,
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let Warlocks grim, an’ wither’d Hags,
Tell, how wi’ you, an ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howcket dead.

Thence, countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For Och! the yellow treasure’s taen,
By witching skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the Bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great absue,
On Young-Guidman, fond, keen an’ croose;
When the best warklum i’ the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes dissove the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglan icy boord,
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted Trav’llers are allur’d
To their destruction.

An ’aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is;
The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.

When Masons’ mystic word an’ grip,
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock, or cat, your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to H–ll.

Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the Soul of Love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on a man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds, an’ reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’.
While scabs an’ botches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d, wicked Scawl
Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In Prose or Rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkan,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkan,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan,
An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake.
Robert Burns

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Address To Edinburgh

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs:
From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in they honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise:
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their liberal mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,
Or modest Merit's silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
And never Envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own His work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid Law cries out 'twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Robert Burns

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Robert Burns - Scottish Poet

Robert Burns (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) (also known as Robbie Burns,[1] Rabbie Burns, Scotland's favourite son, the Ploughman Poet, Robden of Solway Firth, the Bard of Ayrshire and in Scotland as The Bard)[2][3] was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. He is the best known of the poets who have written in the Scots language, although much of his writing is also in English and a light Scots dialect, accessible to an audience beyond Scotland. He also wrote in standard English, and in these writings his political or civil commentary is often at its bluntest.

He is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement, and after his death he became a great source of inspiration to the founders of both liberalism and socialism, and a cultural icon in Scotland and among the Scottish Diaspora around the world. Celebration of his life and work became almost a national charismatic cult during the 19th and 20th centuries, and his influence has long been strong on Scottish literature. In 2009 he was chosen as the greatest Scot by the Scottish public in a vote run by Scottish television channel STV.

As well as making original compositions, Burns also collected folk songs from across Scotland, often revising or adapting them. His poem (and song) "Auld Lang Syne" is often sung at Hogmanay (the last day of the year), and "Scots Wha Hae" served for a long time as an unofficial national anthem of the country. Other poems and songs of Burns that remain well known across the world today include "A Red, Red Rose"; "A Man's a Man for A' That"; "To a Louse"; "To a Mouse"; "The Battle of Sherramuir"; "Tam o' Shanter"; and "Ae Fond Kiss".

Source: Wikipedia

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Langsyne, When Life was Bonnie

Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the skies were blue,
When ilka thocht took blossom,
An' hung its heid wi' dew,
When winter wasna' winter,
Though snaws cam' happin doon,
Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
Spring gaed a twalmonth roun’.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the days were lang;
When through them ran the music
That comes to us in sang,
We never wearied liltin'
The auld love-laden tune;
Langsyne when life was bonnie,
Love gaed a twalmonth roun'.

Langsyne, when life was bonnie,
An' a' the warld was fair,
The leaves were green wi' simmer,
For autumn wasna there.
But listen hoo they rustle,
Wi' an eerie, weary soun',
For noo, alas, 'tis winter
That gangs a twalmonth roun'.

Alexander Anderson (30 April 1845 – 11 July 1909)

Image Source: Wikipedia
James Anderson was born in Kirkconnel, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland when he was three, his family moved to Crocketford in Kirkcudbrightshire. James Anderson seems to have taken inspiration from his walks in the hills in his later poetry. At sixteen he was back in his native village working in a quarry; some two years later (1862), he became a surfaceman or platelayer on the Glasgow and South-western railway, and generally wrote under the name of Surfaceman.

He mastered German, French, and Spanish enoughto read the main masterpieces in these languages. His poetic vein, which was true if somewhat limited in range, soon manifested itself, and in 1870 he began to send verses to the ‘People's Friend’ of Dundee, and subsequently his fist book ‘A Song of Labour and other Poems’, was published in 1873 by the Dundee Advertiser in a run of 1000. Thanks to the support of The People's Friend this issue sold out within a fortnight. He was also aided by the support of the Rev George Gilfillan, a poetry critic in Dundee. Gilfillan wrote to Thomas Aird “You will be greatly interested in his simple manner and appearance-an unspoiled Burns is these respects and not without a little real mens divinor. Of course you know his poetry and his remarkable history”. and there followed Two Angels (1875), Songs of the Rail (1878), and Ballads and Sonnets (1879). In the following year he was made assistant librarian in the University of Edinburgh

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Dunnottar Castle

Situated on a rocky outcrop on the north east coast of Scotland, a few miles south from the town of Stonehaven, is Dunnottar Castle. Surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs to the North Sea and only accessible via a narrow strip of land, it is clear from the first glance that the castle holds an impressive defensive position. It is for this reason a castle has stood on the rock for over 1300 years. The castle is one of the most visually impressive in the country.



Originally a wooden Pictish fort which is long gone, the earliest part of the stone castle which remains today is the church, built during the 13^th century. The castle has been destroyed and rebuilt several times over history in battles to control it. The final battle at the castle took place in 1651 when Oliver Cromwell’s army attacked it. Cromwell had earlier executed King Charles 1, king of both England and Scotland, and upon hearing that Charles’ young son had arrived in Scotland and was journeying south to claim the crowns, Cromwell led an invasion on Scotland. Charles II was hastily crowned at Scone Palace near Perth. The Scottish crown jewels should have been returned to Edinburgh following the event, but Cromwell’s forces had already taken Edinburgh, and so they were sent north to Dunnottar. Cromwell’s army attacked the castle for eight months, but an army of just seventy Scots held it. Eventually Cromwell brought heavy guns to the battle, and after being shelled by the canons for ten days, the castle was surrendered. By that time the crown jewels had been successfully smuggled out of the castle and so Cromwell failed in his attempts to take them.

The remains of the castle were later used as a prison where around one hundred and eighty men and women were imprisoned in the building now known as the Whig’s Vault. The Whigs were a political party that opposed the Stuart Kings, and because of their refusal to acknowledge the king they were taken to the vault, where they were held for over two months in the cellar in terrible conditions and with almost no food or water. Thirty seven of the Whigs eventually took the oath to the King and were released. Twenty five escaped, although fifteen were recaptured, and two fell to their deaths. Five prisoners died inside the vaults due to the conditions. Those who survived were deported to the West Indies.

With so much death and destruction in the castle’s history, it is not surprising to learn that it is considered to be the home of several spirits. The ghost of a young girl wearing a tartan skirt is frequently witnessed in the brewery within the castle walls. The tartan she is said to wear is dull, making it impossible to identify the clan it could belong to. Little else is known regarding the identity of this girl, although it is likely she is connected to another ghost seen in the same area described as a lady in green. It is even possible they are the same ghost with people misinterpreting what they see. The lady if green is also witnessed in the bakery area of the castle and is described as looking upset. She is believed to date back to Pictish times and to be seeking the Picts, who converted to Christianity in the 5th century when St. Ninian established a church at Dunnottar as one of the bases to spread Christianity. These Picts are referred to as ‘her lost children,’ implying she may be the spirit of an important religious figure from Pictish times who was saddened by some of her followers moving to a different religion, although with so little records belonging to Pictish times, it is not possible to establish who she may be.

Another phantom of Dunnottar is a soldier who has been seen around the guardroom and main entrance of the castle. He is normally described as a tall man, sometimes said to be of Scandinavian appearance, suggesting he may date back to the time of the Viking invasions. He is said to stand looking out to sea, possibly still guarding against an attack on the castle.

At night, when the castle is quiet, it is also said that cries of pain and terror can be heard within it’s walls, cries that are associated with the suffering endured by the Whigs during their time of imprisonment in the Whig’s vault.

A visit to Dunnottar is well worth the journey, although the steep access path that winds first down the hillside and then back up to the castle is not suitable for those with any mobility issues. However, the most impressive feature of the castle is indeed the location, which can be appreciated without having to enter the castle itself. It is easy to see why the position of the castle made it almost impenetrable to invading forces. At the time of my visit to the castle, I felt nothing untoward although, with such a long history, if any castle is truly haunted, I suspect Dunnottar is very high up on the list.

 

Written by Greg Stewart - Extract from Greg's new book (Haunted Scottish Castles and Houses http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00EG47ZKY).

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