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				OLD MYSIE
	“As crazy as Old Mysie” my grandma used to say.

Land company made promises, too good to be true,
To fisherfolk from Isle of Skye, it seemed the thing to do.
Cleared up land and new built homes, tools for every need.
New colony in progress, the future guaranteed.

Marjorie MacDonald, called Mysie by and by,
Eight years old and living on the Scottish Isle of Skye.
Her family and others trapped in endless poverty,
Willing then to take the risk and cross the northern sea.

Dropped into New Brunswick woods in late November snow.
No cleared land, no roofs on huts, nowhere else to go. 			
Betrayed by greed, with every need not met by those who knew
They would not have the skills or tools to start their lives anew.

A raging winter took its toll, the deaths were forty-eight.
Three hundred more so very near death's ever waiting gate.
Land company not caring if they lived or if they died,
No way to dig the needed graves, dead kept in trees up high.

As year by year the ones still left gave up and moved away,
Mysie and her brother Charles stayed by their stream called Tay.
When he died she carried him eight miles upon her back,
To a consecrated graveyard far from their forest tract.

Back alone to forest home while shedding bitter tears.
No-one there to love or care, for all the lonely years.
No human voice to call hello, no help if needed then.
So many memories to quell, so many graves to tend.

Wide brimmed hat and ragged clothes, no shoes upon her feet.
She made her way from day to day through cold or rain or heat.
Refusing offers to come in, might choose the barn to stay.
Perhaps too painful to come in then have to go away.

Home made brooms prepared from twigs, she carried trade or sale.
Berries picked along her way to offer from her pail.
Sitting on a thousand steps forgetting for a while
The solitude and sadness felt in each unending mile.

The Tay and Nashwaak valleys, all the way to Miramichi.
Everyone along the way would know that it was she.
Trademark hat and piercing eyes, long dress to the ground.
Face reflecting long hard years, no smile to be found.

Tough as frozen leather she endured where most could not.    
Every day a hardship, every day a battle fought
Against the pain, the snow, the rain, danger often nigh,
Night sounds in the forest, the unknown to terrify.

It's said that she told fortunes, one more thing to sell.
Some people said she was a witch, a harbinger from hell.
Some just called her crazy, eccentric safe to say,
A legend in her bygone time, a legend still today.

The ghost of dark eyed Mysie may still wander near the Tay,
Where the bones of her companions from the Isle of Skye still lay.
Close your eyes and feel her tears, the loneliness, despair,
Years and years the only one with no-one left to care.

Close your eyes and feel her tears, the loneliness, despair,
Years and years the only one with no-one left to care.

“As crazy as Old Mysie” my grandma used to say.

Ellis Craig, 2023.
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