Post by Ealasaid on Jul 11, 2003 10:04:19 GMT -6
Feasgar Mhath a h-uile duine.
I was introduced to this forum by Val. Smith when she stayed with us for a few days last month. Val's Camerons and mine come from Sunart and Corrie Beag. Mary Cameron MacKellar, Bardess to the Clan Cameron, was my great aunt so I thought that perhaps I might enclose one of her poems, taken from her " Gaelic and English Poems"
To A Sprig of Heather Sent to Me
From a Highland Glen
Thou hast come with the smell of my dear native mountains,
And tales of the freshness of moorland and lea;
From the wild, misty, glens where in glory thou bloomest,
A whisper of love thou hast brought unto me .
O dear to my heart are thy sweet purple blossoms,
That grow 'mong the brackens that curl on the braes,
And by the green banks of the clear winding rivers,
Whose murmurs I hear as upon thee I gaze.
Thou hast brought me the fragrance of briar and myrtle,
The bright shining gold of the furze and the broom,
The plover's wild cry and the whirr of the heathcock,
That sleeps on thy bosom and feasts on thy bloom.
Methinks I behold the the soft fringe of the pine-tree,
The beautiful rowan, in scarlet and green,
The white foaming streamlets that rib the steep corrie,
Whose life-giving breezes are bracing and keen.
Thou hast whispered of cot and high mountain sheiling,
Where heroes were reared in days that are gone;
Of maidens that sang in their beauty and gladness,
Where now there is sadness, so still and so lone.
The clear silver fountains that gleam in thy bosom,
No longer give life to our brave Highland men;
They refresh but the deer and the sheep, while our heroes
Are exiled afar from the strath and the glen.
Thou honey-sweet heather 'mid visions of beauty,
And sweet songs of love that for me thou dost weave,
And memories soft, as the down of the canach,
That waves in the breath of the mild summer eve;
Methinks the last breeze that stirred thy red blossoms
Had chanted the wail thou hast borne unto me,
A dirge for the brave, who will ne'er tread the heather,
Nor see thy dear mountains, thou land of the free.
Her husband was a sea captain and she sailed all over Europe with him. She was shipwrecked three times.I wonder, was she writing this amid the salty air of the high seas?
I was introduced to this forum by Val. Smith when she stayed with us for a few days last month. Val's Camerons and mine come from Sunart and Corrie Beag. Mary Cameron MacKellar, Bardess to the Clan Cameron, was my great aunt so I thought that perhaps I might enclose one of her poems, taken from her " Gaelic and English Poems"
To A Sprig of Heather Sent to Me
From a Highland Glen
Thou hast come with the smell of my dear native mountains,
And tales of the freshness of moorland and lea;
From the wild, misty, glens where in glory thou bloomest,
A whisper of love thou hast brought unto me .
O dear to my heart are thy sweet purple blossoms,
That grow 'mong the brackens that curl on the braes,
And by the green banks of the clear winding rivers,
Whose murmurs I hear as upon thee I gaze.
Thou hast brought me the fragrance of briar and myrtle,
The bright shining gold of the furze and the broom,
The plover's wild cry and the whirr of the heathcock,
That sleeps on thy bosom and feasts on thy bloom.
Methinks I behold the the soft fringe of the pine-tree,
The beautiful rowan, in scarlet and green,
The white foaming streamlets that rib the steep corrie,
Whose life-giving breezes are bracing and keen.
Thou hast whispered of cot and high mountain sheiling,
Where heroes were reared in days that are gone;
Of maidens that sang in their beauty and gladness,
Where now there is sadness, so still and so lone.
The clear silver fountains that gleam in thy bosom,
No longer give life to our brave Highland men;
They refresh but the deer and the sheep, while our heroes
Are exiled afar from the strath and the glen.
Thou honey-sweet heather 'mid visions of beauty,
And sweet songs of love that for me thou dost weave,
And memories soft, as the down of the canach,
That waves in the breath of the mild summer eve;
Methinks the last breeze that stirred thy red blossoms
Had chanted the wail thou hast borne unto me,
A dirge for the brave, who will ne'er tread the heather,
Nor see thy dear mountains, thou land of the free.
Her husband was a sea captain and she sailed all over Europe with him. She was shipwrecked three times.I wonder, was she writing this amid the salty air of the high seas?
