Best Jacobite Poems
When a child if gifted with a book it transforms into a key to unlock the mind. The gate to the secret garden of imagination is pried from its forgiving hinges and the child is free to expand their imagination to galaxy proportions.
The simple pages of a book provide a passport for a passenger seat next to the likes of Captain Biggles in his Tibetan adventures to locate the forbidden city of Shangri Lah, or a magical flight to Neverland with Pan and the lost boys. Who knows how each “child’s mind’s eye will envisage the loathsome creature that is Mr Hyde or the demure Dr Jekyll?
It captures the heart of a parent to witness their young boy, lying on his bed, engrossed in the pages of Stevenson’s Kidnapped. His imaginings transform him into the character of David Balfour, fighting alongside the Jacobite rebel, Alan Stewart. Such a comforting vision is a young girl, lounging on the couch on a rain soaked winters afternoon, fanning through a copy of Anne of Green Gables, engrossed in the character of Anne Shirley, wishing to emulate her outgoing spirit and giving nature.
The abundant bread basket of literary expositions act as a conduit, unlocking a child’s ability to make judgements about morality, injustices and an understanding of consequences in decision making. All the while the simple act of quietly reading procures an incalculable and surreptitious response to education for a lifetime to come.
The nostalgic aroma of floral vanilla and almonds that emit from the pages of an old book invokes a sense of anticipation to the imaginary adventures about to be embarked upon, creating an atmosphere of ambivalence.
An implore to parents across the globe to leave the television set and so-called social media, bombarding a child’s mind like a tidal wave, leaving in its wake a desolate landscape of nothingness. Embrace the tactile feel of pages in hand, gently stroking the mind, embedding feelings of, wonder and imagination. Read to your children every day and encourage them to jamb their noses into literary masterpieces from the likes of Stevenson, Doyle, Dickens and many more worthy exponents that have stood the test of time.
Early in the morning of 13 February 1692, in the aftermath of the Glorious Revolution and the Jacobite uprising of 1689 led by John Graham of Claverhouse, a massacre took place in Glencoe, in the Highlands of Scotland. This incident is referred to as the massacre of Glencoe, or in Scottish Gaelic Mort Ghlinne Comhann, or murder of Glencoe. The massacre began simultaneously in three settlements along the glen—Inverness, Inverrigan, and Achnacon—although the killing took place all over the glen as fleeing MacDonalds were pursued. Thirty-eight MacDonalds from the Clan MacDonald of Glencoe were killed by the guests who had accepted their hospitality, on the grounds that the MacDonalds had not been prompt in pledging allegiance to the new monarchs, William and Mary. Another forty women and children died of exposure after their homes were burned.
the air brisk
as it moves across the clover
rolling thistledown
heart tendered tears cascade
through, sacred sod of Glencoe
Look at me now, sitting below darkening skies
Cast out from our Highland home
The Clans now is spiteful despise
To the Glens we shall head, us the fortunate to roam
Away from the Jacobite scum, for us they'll continue to comb
These clearances they declare to be right
What gives them this credence this crime
In the name of their false King, once again we'll stand and fight
Soon the loyal to Alba, shall await their very time
To infiltrate, retaliate, in silence we'll strike so primed
The days pass into weeks, nowhere can we be found
On our peripheral they search and seek us
The clever in us, disappear deep underground
You can hear their English voices searching in our lush
Foul mouthed tirades of sectarianism, voiced in hatred cuss
It's now twenty eleven, to this day it beggars belief
That I read about my fellow past Clansmen
And their greed to betray, for ripened grief
Our day is not so far away, when the true Clans men
Shall vote for total autonomy, it's just a matter of when
.
Heathen warriors dressed in the plaid
Victims of time and an evil brigade
Pursue their beliefs far into the South
Gaelic words from a Jacobite mouth
Like bairns against many a gun
The highlanders decided to run
Not for home and to safety for sure
But on, eyes glowing with revenge and more
Years ago when those from the south they came
Leaving thousands on our hillsides, all slain
They stole our life and what we had made
With their falseness, cowardice and anti-accolade
But now the tables are turned time about
Revenge is found now, many lessons will be taught
Against those who fight with machines of steel
May defend, but our devilry will help us kill
Once again we'll live alone in peace
Sad how it had to end as massacre
Resentful we are but necessary to achieve
So let the pipers play and broadswords sag
And dance below the Fairy Flag
With jigs and reels to please the folk
Voices of the aged in the darkness, do croak
The waters of the loch are crystal clear
Only one shall disturb me, brother of mine
his barren land that we love so dearly
Only hours ago we lost it nearly
We fought as only Scots know how
Completely fearless, pipers in the line
Until we defeated- was only a question of time
Our life, life.....wonderful tartan life of mine
On These Plains I Lay
White fire and heat, blinding light, blinding bright.
Shot down on these plains,
My soldiers, My warriors,
Fading from my sight.
Battle lost? Battle won?
Battered men, moaning in the morning sun.
I believe I am dying,
Not too old, definitely too young.
Fading. Now floating.
Moving forward to the light.
A pull on my cloak.
My eyes closed, but open to this sight,
of a man in kilt,
Arm outstretched to mine.
I reach for his hand, battle scarred
for all time.
My eyes closed and still,
but I see his face clear.
I know this man. I fought this man.
Still he calls me near.
"James" he beckons.
"Its Charles of Culloden, the man you spared."
"In the moor,
on the field in Scotland".
Indeed I did,
this Jacobite I spared,
This wounded Fraser,
laid down in despair.
Cumberland's' order gave no dignity,
Gave no honour,
to this brave Scot.
He was not my fodder.
Why are you here,
my mind speaks in silence.
This "Fraser" replies,
Men of honour have earned this quietness.
Walk with me, to our God, to our Saviour.
Pay no heed to this battle.
You have fought. You have died,
with honour and with favour.
Come to heaven and stand with pride.
Your life distinguished, and now time to rest,
beside our saviour.
By His side.
I reach out to grasp,
this Jacobite Fraser.
He holds me, and comforts me,
on our way to heaven,
on our way to our Saviour.
And now I rest.
Graham Alexander Devenish
I experience inappetence, yet nevertheless hunger for victuals
Mine corporeal complex edifice
unleashes convulsions of anxiety.
Lack of appetite
to savor even smallest bite
unlike Pavlov's dog,
I neither salivate nor excite
at prospect (parking) body
against table not low but fahrenheit
unfair punishment fates did indict,
whereby yours truly decreed
to suffer wraith inflicted
akin to ghastly revengeful Jacobite
asitia struck with vengeance
sucker punched pit of stomach
with furious dog forsaken might
unsavory predicament figuratively
eating away me passion
to relish comestibles day and night,
hence feeble effort to craft poem quite
lame rhyming for no reason right?
Yours truly cannot remember,
how many days, weeks, months... ago
elapsed, whereby with voraciousness I ate
(above mentioned statement veracious -
food for thought) I plainly communicate
hoop fully buzzfeeding, dishing out quandary
in fortified effort to elucidate
thee dear anonymous reader great
if newfound (albeit tenuous) intrigue
awoke courtesy mine artful ruse to initiate
reciprocity, cuz regret iz the stealer of joy
thus verbally athletic, cryptic, enigmatic,
generic, idiotic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic
quixotic, solipsistic (ha) troubadour
who heartily hales within
southeastern keystone-state
dares himself to reach out across cyberspace
in an cautiously optimistic effort to mitigate
and extend his metaphorical (albeit empty) plate
maintaining netiquette, an amorphous,
yeah flirtatious nebulous groovy savoir faire,
which mine body, mind, spirit triage
suddenly seems restoration of natural craving
toward sustenance doth oscillate.
What relief long starved taste buds to appease
cuz methought (courtesy obsessive compulsive
worst case scenario catastrophizing)
one garden variety guy
acquired some generic disease
A deep sigh of relief he dryly heaves!
Actual aptitude and action almost always align aright.
Beautiful bliss, beastly belligerent behaviors: both burn bright.
Caringly convinced, cantankerous curmudgeons collapse, contrite.
Disdaining darkness, devoted disciples dig deep, discover delight.
Erudite, eager efforts encourage, energize, even excite.
For faithful few, fortitude, ferocious fight favors failed, feeble flight.
Gesticulating graders generate ghastly groans grinding graphite.
Happily, Horton has highly honed hearing; howler has humble height.
Invite ideas, ignite ingenuity, illumine insight.
Jaundiced jackboot juxtaposing "justice", jubilation: Jacobite.
Kindly koala kid keeps knitting knotted kaleidoscopic kites.
Levity lifts languishing leanings, leaves listeners luminous, light.
Mellifluously mild merriment mellows mad, malevolent might.
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Lol, this is an abecedarian monorhyme of alliterative monokus.
Not sure I'll get to the second half
Tak oor grund from beneath oor hurdies
Burn oor birches aside the lough,
Besmirch hard fecht fur freedom,
Dictating oor days tae come,
No from the pint o a gun,
Fae laws an promises broken.
Lees an lees spout forth like watter
Lives expended as if they dinnae matter,
Feel the Jacobite spirit again,
Ready tae fecht like scotsmen again,
Like warrior poets risen from the glen,
Fae the mists o the past remember,
Oor freedom wis wun sending Edward hame,
Yon wis the past a new war begun noo,
No wi claymores ,targes an guns,
This time its ideals an Eton buffers,
Those who wid sell oor birthrights
Tae mak us slaves an servile peasants,
Using stealth ,treachery an unco ither weys
Rogues they be crooks ,cheats and thieves
Seeming beyond reproach wi things hidden
Frae us puir mortals aye they wull dae us doon,
Sic a time as this tae fecht fur whit is oors
Naw mair begging fur aa few scraps
Fae a table fu wi guid things ,
Scraps urny fur us we ur free loons
Burthit free an deeing we wull be free,
Ur ye ready tae rise yince agin?
Andrew P mcintyre 14/09/2020
Time bracketed between
December first nineteen fifty nine and
December first two thousand twenty three
represents sixty six orbitz
one prized Earthling
named Amélie Beth Harris-McGeehan
completed round the sun.
About half her life linkedin
with spousal enrichment,
(while hunkered down livingsocial
in Woodbury, New Jersey),
hence the hyphenated married name.
Though said endearing eldest sister
approximately thirteen plus months my senior,
ofttimes during mein kampf,
she displayed maternal (motherly) mien.
Back during mine boyhood
dark shadows along the edge of night
(emanating from outer limits
of the twilight zone)
spooked me to flinch
as did appearance
of the boogeyman induce affright
only exacerbated my delicate mental health
punctuated psyche of mine
with disequilibrium psycho-social blight
above named sibling a protector I cite
twilled me in the valley
of love and delight,
an emotional refuge rescued sought
deliverance from anguish
loving succor proffered
peace upon mine body, mind, and soul,
she did immediately expedite
warming cockles of me heart
analogous to affecting, creating,
forging, jumpstarting, offering, and ushering
ideal paradise island temperature
if measured by degrees balmy fahrenheit
pointing, revealing, shining,
and training a guiding-light
unafraid to defend diminutive
docile, inordinately meek brother,
when threatened courtesy bullies
that significantly towered over mine
below average stature height
a measly little skinny, yet zany
(when within comfort of home) lad
naively oblivious to our mother,
when her first born daughter dynamic,
especially smoldering contention
kindled figurative tinder, which squabble
escalated in intensity
sparking vehement feud to ignite
loosing volatile verbal exchange
triggering The Emergency Alert System
to issue warning
lest clear and present danger
(at 324 Level Road)
recorded in history books
licking, overshadowing, rivaling,
and undermining revolution
kickstarted and hashtagged as Jacobite.