Poems inspired by Lochaber

[Ailean Glas]

LOCHABER

"Lochaber is the name of my father's small farm,
And its a long way from Scotland, his name was not made there,
Even if the blood comes from Letterfinlay and sweet Glen Nevis,
With an ancestor or two from Clunes, brave and highland with charm,
Two great grandparents made meaning for me, above my other Nations,
Distant cousins from the five families lands uniting in love,
Fleeing the long sad years of bitter war and reluctant migration,
They lasted well in the dry air of Australia beyond their wishes;
So environment's rule may form a character or make it vanish,
Still my uncle's bright wavy red hair and welcoming style,
Or granny's quiet voice, dark black eyes, and freckled pale skin,
With dad's proud reserve and strong courage powered heart,
Just brings back their bloodlines again and again.
In the books we read, old and new Camerons show an inherited strain,
Beyond climate, or History, a good soul comes through to their exiles,
Strong and refreshing like the mad Summer rains.


Through all the generations from the state of Victoria's golden age,
To this new Century rebinding us all to a more catholic stage,
I shall reunite with Lochaber as Australia's loyal son,
Just half Scotland's child born here to live with new tribes,
Made from old Celtic and newer distraught refugees;
As my children smile at the old Highland tales, and tease me away,
Talking of other things in our makeup shaping our days,
Their father too stubborn, an arthritic mind working only when warm,
Just can't leave a family's ravishing past behind,
I'll not fight for Charlie or cross his narrow seas,
But my heart's with generous Lochiel in the lost forty five,
Even in Melbourne baking quietly in mid January,
Reading, thinking, and dreaming of the battles displaying our clan.

There is still great sorrow for loyal Donald's fate and his people's loss,
We can all forget the great things that followed their fiery cross,
As our Lord's inspiration revived the fading warrior hearts,
Sailing slowly to Australia's ragged land and other wind blasted shores.
Flaming the sky it helped us escape a harsh History,
From bleak Drumossie's stark sacrifice and bloody Imperial wars,
The clansfolk march on through our mighty bush to the Southern seas,
In the hills of New Zealand, Nova Scotia, Ontario and the Carolinas,
Their passion still lingers uplifts and defines us,
And Lochaber will always be the name of my father's farm.

This is a reworked (even since the poetry contest) version of the first poem done on this thread under my old signon name. It has been much improved I hope, and tries to express how much my Cameron heritage means to me.

[Ailean Glas]

A second poem inspired(a little indirectly) by both Lochaber and its History and the Australian experiences of her sons and daughters.

"The Jacobites Children"

My people were Jacobites although they recovered quickly from that affliction,
Despite being able to read the works of the great Sir Walter-a kind man and tall,
As his dreams of highland virtues wore very thin indeed off they went to Australia,
Dreaming gently of an heroic future beyond past deeds sung in Hebridean Halls,
And brought them to a slow birth, more soberly than any Chiefly bacchanalia.

These Clansfolk were not pretty boys wearing fancy trews, or lace at their throats,
But were solid rawboned men and spritely neat women deep eyed with honest bent,
With ears like rugby forwards-hands worn more by labour than in battle,
They hated few loving their families more than those who once took their rents,
And filched blood soaked sacred land where they had grazed their cattle.

Our jacobites fought like Scots in two big wars beyond Culloden's gesture,
Hating no Englishman or conscripted German in a muddy trench,
Falling in love with pretty French girls while getting a spell from the line,
Their hearts were kind and souls too full to leave such loves behind
Unless death called them, like earlier lives wasted in gentlemens adventures.

No romantic bones lie with them in France or sun bleached Australian graves,
The women and men I knew in boyhood left only soft accents behind them,
And whisky warmed memories to season those truth filled tales they told me
Of times gone only yesterday, as they faded gracefully toward a century's end,
Surviving in good style as faith in an old and braver world remained to set them free.

[Alans]

"ANZAC* DAY 2003" Dedicated to Robert Alexander Slocombe.

I took my old man to town today for a last March with his mates,
The "thirty niners" **are thin on the ground and fading fast,
Dad and old Charlie, sitting in a Jeep, are among the last,
The Pipes sound loud bellowing defiance of fate,
As the Old Diggers***wave at the cheering crowds on St.Kilda Road,
And struggle on toward their monumentally secular shrine,
Walking sticks poised dangerously like a cattle goad,
Youths who once soldiered roughly are strangely refined.

My daughter walks beside him wearing his Uncles medals,
A man of Clan Fraser sacrificed in Northern France,
From Amiens to Melbourne on sunny days weighed down with metal,
My attempt to follow and march behind forms a strange dance,
Above tram tracks beaten regularly by his well shod stick,
Mixed with jingling decorations glinting in the soft Autumn sun,
Most of the veterans drop out before the end and very few are sick,
But are bound for reunions in the pubs mixing sadness with fun.

This year he sits at a tramstop representing well weathered sporting gentry,
Jaunty tartan cap keeping his shiny pate warm as the crisp day slowly thaws out,
And tells my youngest child quick stories of the banners passing by,
Then nags us back to the Cathedrals well stepped lookout,
Where the bands return by minibus the infantryman becomes a piper,
As he did through all those years in in a Bavarian prison camp,
Taught by Scots "cousins" of the 51st his fellow three stripers,
Memories and the skirling music warm his heart and fend off cramps.

GLOSSARY OF AUSTRALIAN TERMS

* ANZAC means Australian and New Zealand Army Corps
** Those men who joined up as soon as Britain declared war on Nazi Germany in 1939.
*** Australian term for soldiers

[Cameronian]

Well Allan, we very well understand the emotions that are abroad on this day, so here is my second only attempt in honour of your continuing effort

ANZAC DAY IN SYDNEY 2003

Each ANZAC Day ‘round 12pm when the greater march has ended
We gather down at Sydney Square in tartans bright and splendid
We of the Clans and Scottish Groups are waiting at the ready
For those who marched within the ranks of those found brave and steady

The Pipes have marched through the Parade to mark the even beat
Of the services who mark the day with their presence on the street
The day is hot, the pipers tired full plaided, bonnets squared
There’s no intent to leave it there now Scots are all prepared.

The Pipe Bands massed and to the fore, the tartans now show bright
The kilted Highland Dancers lined in rows all straight and tight
Police have formed a Cavalcade to lead this Grand March onward
We fall in place with wreath in hand to march on hearing “Forward”

This display is not for Glory but pride felt by those attending
For Australian Scottish Regiments formed here with Honour never ending
All Camerons know the loss of life our Regiments recorded
The Black Watch near and Scots Guards here and the 30th when ordered

All these have served Australia well on ANZAC Day remember
How they proudly marched their kilts to war not all came back to be here
And so we march to mark their lives and place our wreaths of memory
Upon the place that marks their name in Honour, Pride and Glory

[Alans]

Bhal,
Glad to see you doing the "Sydney take" on ANZAC Day and keep those poems coming. I was originally registered as Ailean glas but the gremlins struck and I am now Alans. I hope you'll do at least one more effort for Tom's Poetry contest!

Dia duit a Bhal na Camshronaich!
Ailean glas.

[Alans]

" Working on Lochaber" *

As the kaleidoscoped leaves of September fall about Achnacarry,
Spring ends a long drought for the Camerons of the South,
Life seethes with green growth, dripping silver glistens on bushes as lovecrazed magpies hurry,
Swooping through gum and tea trees music pouring from ever busy mouths,
Sweeping and harrassing our earthbound lives as they go into flapping dives;
Stopping me at times as I move the sheep to higher ground,
Rustling feathers in a crashing blur of black and white,
Just miss my ducking head forcing me to turn around,
To do earnest battle with these black and white Vikings of the air,
Rude heralds of Spring's new growth alerting us all to a holy world,
Made sacred by a million delicate touches and real by the bleat of dying lambs,
Eyes gone with the crows as accepting ewes munch the new grasses,
That will nourish newlife at the next season's rebirth,
With that spirit of eternity calming the mad changes of climate and soil,
Landscaping our future with necessity and toil,
Promising rest in different disguises as heavy Summer gathers on this slab of earth.

[Alans]

Am slowly updating the poem that commenced this thread. Its very close to the one that I entered in the contest; but still a work in progress. I don't know that I'll ever be satisfied?

[Alans]

A small poem for "Culloden Day" and my fellow Camerons.

Drumossie's Harvest

They will tell you its a sad place to be,
Especially if the weather is wild and unfriendly;
But more than two decades have gone past steadily,
And so have the trees that made it so hard to see
The great story that John Prebble had to tell.
Its a book for the ages and so is the holy place
Where the great hounds' sons still quietly dwell,
The mighty dead of the five fathered race,
Are marked by simple stone enduring like their hearts
That give us a pride beyond our small selves,
To inspire scattered exiles and make them depart,
From mundane concerns birthing small private hells.
A rich harvest lies about Drumossie for all Camerons;
Whether its read, or felt on the captured moor,
Legends are made into truth's glorious battalion,
That courage and honour stays on Culloden evermore;
For simply enclosed in Clan Cameron's quiet grave,
Are our teachers who show us how not to be slaves.

[Thomas Cameron]

Alan,

A fitting modern tribute to the Camerons at Culloden. I especially liked the reference to John Prebble, a legendary author, in my opinion. I'll say no more (though I certainly could!) other than "well done" my friend!

[SherbrookeJacobite]

What a great poem Alan. You certainly have captured the spirit of Culloden. I was able to visit the Battlefield in 1999, and it is indeed a sad place. We must never forget the sacrifices made by our ancestors - your poem pays honour to them in a special way.

I agree Tom with your assessment of John Prebble (Canadian by the way!). One of my favourite authors. I have reread his books on Culloden, Glencoe, and the Clearances several times. I highly recommend them to those who would like to gain some understanding of who we are.

A son of the hounds,

John

[Alans]

Thanks John for your kind words. April 25 is when Aussies remember 100,000 dead from C20th wars-especially WW1(60,000) and WW2(35,000) but also Korea and Vietnam. With April 17th so close its makes it a reflective month for Australians of Scots descent particularly.

Dias Mhuire duit a Iain na Camshronaich!

[SherbrookeJacobite]

Alan,

Thank you for sharing your poems with us. You have a gift. Alans a' seanchaidh!

I really appreciate those who take the time to share their writing with us. Often your words convey thoughts and feelings that match my own - but I could never express them the way that you do.

Moran taing,

John

[Alans]

"Uncle Bill"

Driving quickly to a slow and peaceful funeral,
Way up in the mighty soft hued endless bush,
Its happening so early in the day as well,
And even in a fast car we really have to rush.

Watching for speed traps out on the dry flat Mallee land,
Behind clumps of trees at dangerous crossroads,
The checkered tax collector's car almost blends,
A green and yellow bonnet justly pokes beyond the bend.

My cousin laughs at foul speech as the wandering road roams,
And the country music brings us both back home,
To the silo lands where we once felt so young,
And shared with Uncle Bill when he was fit and strong.

From eleven to sixty seven he busted his guts,
Fate and retirement stalked him like an enemy,
Sheer stubborn refusals that have so betrayed the Scots,
Pushed a brave hard man into final jeopardy.

We arrived just in time at the tiny wooden church,
In the little iron shod wintry wheatbelt town,
To hear many joy filled stories and fond research,
Before the Mass gently laid a grand life down.

Back at the football club the beers went round,
Old women sipped their muddy tea and dropped crumbs,
So wisely as childhood's brightness hoped to be found
In talk, and mild memories of aged youth gone dourly numb.

After the brief thaw in death's hard endless grip,
John and I dash South to relieve the constant pain,
Four hours of the engines hum cannot soothe the jagged rip,
Of sad reality from our family circle 's temporary gain.

[Alans]

" The macDonalds of the Hound"

Alasdair bhan agus Tormodh mac Ailean dubh MacDhomnuill,
In Victoria were just called Alex and Norm by all but their family,
Surnamed by Island blood and one who'd quickly loved a Nevis girl,
She singly raised a son well met with Jessie child of folk from Letterfinlay,
Indirectly out in the grey bush to blend Lochaber and the Hebrides,
Gaelic giving way slowly to the rasping argot of the Southern lands,
A mallee farm helped raise black Alan's eight sun browned babies,
Well fed and stark as all the race had been before princely demands,
Tore the Cameron soul apart and spread the fragments into Empire.
The eldest boys worked like warriors with black Alan the fiddler,
As the new century began with their hope growing in Australia;
For the despairs of the old tired world were set to expire,
But Sarajevo bullets set recuiting hands on broad shoulders for war,
Sending them out of safety and freedom to save Hanover's spawn
From their greatest folly, plunging into seducing Europe's red maw
Just as their new country arose well loved in a noisy childish dawn.

Two young men with the five families hot hearts could not linger,
Or ignore Kitchener's braying call for them to save their King,
As the great Walrus of the Imperial court pointed an anxious finger,
The wheat towns below the Murray's slow waters let bells ring;
Over bonfires, fireworks and flowery alcholic speeches,
Making Glenfinnan's doubtful rallying calls seem honest and true,
Southern grandsons of the gael returned to ape ancestral dooms,
With less doubt than Lochiel and Clunes, gulled by political leeches
The offspring of their clan were neatly woven into Moloch's loom.
They walked to Bendigo's golden city from the mining towns,
Out of Charlton , Dunolly, Castlemaine, Maldon and Jeruk
Came Highland names far beyond the numbers of their kin,
Farmers, blacksmiths, drovers, bank clerks and many artisans,
Irish, Welsh, and English joining Alba in a new federated look,
My uncles trained in arms as children were roughly gathered in;
And made to march a bit by screeching sergeants going by the book.

In those long slow wounded years in France ignoring regulations,
Reliant on solid cultural ground in the stench of slimy trenches,
The brothers and martial siblings,almost family, made a new Nation
Well beyond an official state fussed by war bonds and debentures,
The stubborn honour driven sacrifice made on British foundations,
Was often Highland in its rawness and spasmodic sudden fury,
Too much like ancient times in its cost demanded by newer chiefs;
For modern weapons punished their devotion even more strongly,
Exacting random suffering, death's sting became a very frugal thief,
Conferring no glory, bardic praises or legends to relate at the hearth,
Except early in the ANZAC*war, France made the family go numb
As one died at Paaschendele of an eighth and final wound at last,
And Norman dragged his brother in to save him from the mud,
Laid low by success and grief covering him with brethren blood,
He returned to war until gassed at Amiens to live on as an invalid,
And would it all still have been the same had Culloden been undone?


* ANZAC means:Australian and New Zealand Army Corps ,which assaulted the beaches of the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey on 25thApril 1915**. 8000 Australians( And 2000 New Zealanders) died on Gallipoli in a campaign that lasted from April to December. About 50,000 Australians were also killed in France between 1916 and Novemeber 1918, much the same as US deaths in WW1, but from a population of only 4 million at that time..

This poem is dedicated to my paternal Grandmothers' elder brothers, who served in France with the 38th Battalion, Australian Imperial Force, as volunteers: Pvt.: Alexander Cosmo McDonald was Killed in Action at Paaschendaele on 13th Oct 1917 (Wounded seven times in the proceeding two years) and Sgt.Allan Norman McDonald always called Norman to distinguish him from his father, ( Wounded at Paaschendale and Amiens in 1918) was invalided back to Australia at the end of the War. Despite their surnames, they had much more Cameron ancestry being descended from Clunes and GlenNevis tenant farmers, and McMartins from Letterfinlay, through a paternal grandmother and a maternal grandfather. My own Dad served as an Infantry sergeant in WW2. All of them were very conscious that they were following a particularly Cameron tradition, in voluteering for Military service, for what they saw as the upholding of civilized values and the combating of the forces of darkeness and barbarity.

April is a very significant month for all Australians and particularly those of Cameron descent who I think particularly remeber Culloden and its effect on the Clan.

**This date is a Public Holiday in Australia and is considered the date that Australia's National spirit was first truly manifested in a starkly physical way, with the death of over 2000 young soldiers in desperate hand to hand fighting above ANZAC Cove during the inital stage of the Gallipoli campaign. Although the Anniversary of the start of European Settlement on 26th January 1788( Australia Day) is also a National Holiday, its mainly a good excuse for a day off work. ANZAC day is, in my view, Australia's, and New Zealand's, equivalent of Bunker Hill or the Easter Rising, not that we were fighting the British Government; but it also marked the emotional creation of a true National feeling in both Antipodean democracies marked by blood sacrifice- as distinct from a legal political entity's actual existence.
A very large pecentage of both the Australian and New Zealand forces at Gallipoli were either Scots born, or the sons and grandsons of Scots. The pipes get a lot of work on the 25th of April downunder and that fits the History well especially if you also had ancestors at Culloden- on any side..

[Alans]

alans said:

A small poem for "Culloden Day" and my fellow Camerons.

Drumossie's Harvest

They will tell you its a sad place to be,
Especially if the weather is wild and unfriendly;
But more than two decades have gone past steadily,
And so have the trees that made it so hard to see
The great story that John Prebble had to tell.
Its a book for the ages and so is the holy place
Where the great hounds' sons still quietly dwell,
The mighty dead of the five fathered race,
Are marked by simple stone enduring like their hearts
That give us a pride beyond our small selves,
To inspire scattered exiles and make them depart,
From mundane concerns birthing small private hells.
A rich harvest lies about Drumossie for all Camerons;
Whether its read, or felt on the captured moor,
Legends are made into truth's glorious battalion,
That courage and honour stays on Culloden evermore;
For simply enclosed in Clan Cameron's quiet grave,
Are our teachers who show us how not to be slaves.

[Alans]

John's got me going now- I might pop this one up to although most of these will be of more interest to Aussie Camerons; but my piece on Culloden is for all of us- both our finest and saddest day.

Dias Mhuire duit a Camshronaich.
Ailean Glas

[Alans]

Up we go again!!