Best Scotland Poems
I love your heathered highlands,
steep cliffs and rugged islands,
hedges and gardens under
rainclouds of grey.
Old steeples rise above
those small rural towns I love;
your hillsides of sunny yellow,
rolled bales of hay.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
O, highland games of yore
with racers and tug-of-war,
the cabers are tossed asunder
by mighty men.
I love your farmlands rustic,
mountains and lochs majestic,
as kilts of many tartans
hike through the glen.
Pipers will play their part
stirring each Scottish heart
binding together a nation
drenched with pride.
"Scotland the Brave" is ringing,
dancers are highland flinging -
proud Scottish hearts are singing,
joy wells inside.
Castles with ancient hist'ry,
Celt runes of ancient myst'ry,
we sing an "Auld Lang Syne"
and toast Robbie Burns.
Clans clad in plaid will whistle
fondly of Lion and Thistle,
dressing with tartan kilts
their wee bonnie bairns.
Hands high, your dancers dance -
crossed swords, I'm in a trance,
pipes heard for miles
with that old familiar blare.
St. Andrews' cross - the flag is
don't ask what's in the haggis!
Just eat your shortbread
and be glad you were there.
//These reflect some of my favorite memories from the 6 months I lived in Scotland, in 1990. I miss her dearly and hope I may be able to return some day. These words may be sung to "Scotland the Brave", a beloved anthem of Scottish national pride. You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzK2PWVQYX0
The tempo of this recording is much faster than I prefer, but I include it here in case you have never had a chance to hear this wonderful patriotic song. //
Written 24 Mar 2021
Clans, Ilks and Tartans
Woven into threads of red and black,
Girded by grids of white,
Distant plaintive bagpipe memories
Of sunset over Kilmaurs –
A crest that bears a unicorn
Touches royal roots
As a poet’s tribute to a patron lost
Watches neighbors Campbell and Montgomerie
Then looks out on the seas from tidal lands
Of Ayrshire in flings and reels with swirling kilts
When explorer’s feet recall on new world shores
The mew of seagulls soaring –
Politicians, engineers and entrepreneurs -
Over Fork Over – Cunningham, a clan of auld.
Blocks of green and wine
Stripped with blue
Look back into the heather
Covering highland hills of country dances
Where spring wanders in hunting kilts
Beneath clear cerulean heavens,
Boldly enduring;
A crest that bears a coronet
Of storied noble and knight
Whose melancholy legend
Whispers in glens and gloaming
Of standard bearers for a king
Watched by Ogilvy and Stewart
Lindsay, a clan of auld.
Like sunlight bouncing off of autumn leaves
In crimson, golden amber, umber greening hues -
A sword dance of squares and lines in twirling kilts -
Near the sparkling waters of Loch Lomond;
Clan neighbor Graham and cousins MacCammon
See the crest adorned by a coronet
Prize of battle;
The wind remembers
Tiny windswept island Clarinch -
A battle cry of Clar Innes -
Campaigns of kings and exiled queens –
Chieftain’s seat sees a president and prospector -
Hence the brighter honor – Buchanan, a clan of auld.
Cousins of the same ilk
Bear the names of families -
Of highland lands
And lowland memories -
Seaside and mountain territories -
Kilts wearing colors interwoven patterns
Born of clans with
Tartans telling legends and the stone of destiny,
Plaids dancing at the piper’s hand,
Ancient names, though maybe hidden, still live –
Cunnyngham, Lindsey and MacCammon
Of Buchanan –
In Celtic refrains like iridescent whispers
Woven through clans of auld.
This is the story of my Scottish heritage through the mottos, the tartans, the history and geographic references to the clan homes.
I grew up on granddaddy's ranch
There wasn’t a bull I couldn’t conquer
My cowboy boots only came off
When I changed my clothes for soccer
I love the smell of fresh green grass
The sound of the ball hitting the goal post
I love racing down the field
Ya’ll listening? I love soccer it’s the most
Well. let me tell you a little story ‘bout
Flying on a plane
Our team went to Scotland
To play in a big game
My excitement turned to fear
I was just a mess
The players came from the other team
and each one had on a dress
John gave me a flower
I think I saw it wilt
My coach whispered in my ear
Calm down that is a Kilt
Now ya’ll I know I am from Texas
We’re called the Lone star State
We love our fellow man
Ain’t a neighbor that I hate
But to see a handsome boy
Smile and try to flirt
Reach his hand to shake mine
while wearing a wool skirt
I know I know it’s called a Kilt
and it’s a part of their tradition
but what is a girl to do
I’ve never dealt with such conditions
They come in many colors
John’s was green and red
His friend had one of grey and blue
Matched the hat upon his head
The goalie for their soccer team
Was a boy called David Heath
He laughed and whispered in my ear
“We wear nothing underneath.”
Did I mention I’m from Texas?
Well, I ain’t no Southern Belle
The thoughts I had while practicing
Would’ve made my Mama yell
I looked it up in history books
Researched in magazines
To wear one of those in Scotland
Is like a Texan wearing jeans
I tried to act naturally
but all my head could do was tilt
I just had to go back home
and tell the story of the Kilt
finally, about the time the game was at an end
That cute boy from the airport
reached for the ball and had to bend
I still don’t know if he made the goal
I’ll have to ask Coach Milt
because all I saw was what he didn’t wear
underneath his Kilt
03/07/2021
Written for Scotland-One Rule Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
My tour made me really content
I was pleased with where I was being sent
The Air Force said go
I couldn't say no
so over to Scotland I went.
The tour could not have been better
I knew SHE was the one when I met her
It really was strange
How my whole life would change
cause I knew I would never forget her.
My time in Scotland I'll never forget
I've never been to a nicer place yet
I bought home a wife
she's the love of my life
so to Scotland I owe a great debt.
In the skies over Inverness
is light-play on an annual quest
and pipers in kilts come to play along
with the aurora’s lovely song.
Moonbeams shy in aurora’s light
give way to flowing waves so bright.
Cosmic charged particles from the sun
are sure to leave no coloring undone.
Echoes of piped tunes will dance
while colors in sky do entrance;
as high above the highland lakes
the sky performs a waltz of grace.
3-13-2021
Scotland - One Rule Poetry Contest
Julia Ward
seagulls surf the wind
my escorts home
across the waves
streamlined gannets
sacred isle in view
saffron tints
ocean flower breezes
with scents of heather mingled
island essence
rites of spring
frolicking hares
scattering morning dew
eagles flying high
above the pagodas
sharing with angels
spectral in shadows
castle walls in moonlight
white stag foraging
eloquent landscape
shrouded in mists of time
stones with stories
ears pricked on full alert
deer transfixed in morning mist
ice cracks the silence
snow on distant hills
wind in ancient rowans
new stars twinkling
melting ice
slips down stippled bark
weeping cherry
beyond the twisted gate
flag irises bedeck the shore
beloved playground
fragile and fleeting
foxgloves in summertime
granite enfolded
exotic rhododendrons
sumptuous and alluring
bumblebees besotted
by the waterfall
dippers watching
trickle or torrent?
rhythmic shoreline
ageless slumbering hills
touching paradise
music for the soul
the lilting of the seasons
an Arran symphony
home again, my soul refreshed,
pilgrimage complete.
with Arran heath beneath my feet,
content- and feeling blessed.
Argyle socks, kilts,
Scottish tartan scarves
and Knox — aye
Mary, Queen Mary
shall you marry Darnly
for love? Nay...
Torches, kilts and song.
Heather in hands, waving
but Knox knocks their merry
socks off, eccentrically calling
Mary, a Jezebel queen.
Stuart clings to her Catholicity,
as she permits worshipping
as Protestants — not good
enough for Knox. Of kilts and tales
told, no dancing, singing or drinking fold —
bearded and bold John rattles.
Knox’s mentor burned at the stake.
His ire, his hand raised, will not accept
the same fate, so he rains down hellfire.
Kilts and bagpipes, boots marching,
music playing. Aye, Mary Queen of Scotland
with drumsticks banging, the pretty thing
rules with her heart...loses her head.
3/22/2021
Julia Ward’s Scotland
Surely a country with it beauty is it wealth
Come visit not just the big city but it towns
Once you see the rustic charms they'll give
Take a tour through hills yon mighty glens
Life shouldn't be all bustle and strife relax
Awhile, visit the Isles, take a walk up braes
Nothing will fill your lungs like the fresh air
Depart noo oan yir journey have yir holiday
Scots they be a hardy bunch in any weather
Ceilidhs yae dance to bagpipes and drums
Oats might be simple, but they are our fuel
Tourists are strangers but are true friends
Laughter like fine medicine, so a wee dram
A wee walk oot in fields of Heather yae go
Nothing will beat open doors and fresh air
Did yae get a wee chill, or find life in the hill
SCOTLAND
Very big sign on highway A1 going southways
Out of Scotland into England,
Painted with thistles, tartans, bagpipes, says
“Haste ye back to bonnie Scotland”.
The other side of road has a small squat
Stone saying one word - “England” - and that’s that.
I am not Scottish: there’s nobody perfect about.
But I’m the closest thing to I reckon:
I am a Geordie, a Scot with brains knocked out.
But mother often told me I was not born -
But conceived in Scotland - the Trossachs;
But nevertheless, still one of the Sassenachs.
I know Scotland as well as I know my hand:
Have crossed the mighty Forth bridges countless times,
Know the “charms” of Dundee’s sandstone tenement-land,
Breakfasted at the huge dining table with clock chimes
In Carbisdale Castle youth hostel, at ease;
And sawed logs for firewood from its fir trees.
I’ve hitched with Glaswegian drivers on the Campsie Moors
And listened to their pleasant chatter
In heavy dialect for twa hoors
Without understanding a word, for that matter;
And often had a dram and been merry
With the crewmen on the Ballachulish ferry.
The fact is that Scotland is the most
Beautiful part of the world I’ve ever known
And the Scots are a warm generous host
Always pleased to help a stranger on his own.
A pub-reading of Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter
From a soft Scots lilt is a real enchanter.
And when you go south on the A1,
All you find is just England.
That’s probably why they want
You to haste back to their bonnie land.
Kilts and haggis, the list is endless:
And while you’re there you won’t be friendless.
Scotland in Pawn's Dreams
A visit to Scotland in Pawn’s dreams
Means grinding and riding little steams
Bout clouds know how to mark
Send battered skin as stark
And then kitty cat walks in sunbeams
5/5/2014
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, the place of many friends,
Have you ever seen the Lochs, or the heather in the glen.
D’ya know of her martyrs, their price to make a stand,
Ever trod the soil, of blood mixed in the land.
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, and the glory of Loch Ness
You’ll understand the pride, in their tartan crests.
It’s highlands that are stunning, nothing like them that’s for sure,
Their rugged beauty speaks, “come and search for more”.
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, the castles they call grand,
Seen the views they give, from Highlands to the sand.
Their rooms of kings & queens, show history bad and good,
Victory and defeat, a land misunderstood.
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, & listen to her speak,
That accent so engaging, “oh aye” I hear you speak.
This place of engineers, and reformers too,
A place so unique, a place that sees things through.
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, her hospitality,
Haggis; nips ‘n’ taties, and people so friendly.
Will be like a magnet, they’ll not leave you in the black,
For you will be drawn, when they say “haste ye back”.
Have you ever been to Scotland ?, the place of many friends,
Have you ever seen the Lochs, or the heather in the glen.
Do you know of her martyrs, their price to make a stand,
Go & tread the soil, where blood’s mixed with the land.
They gleam and shimmer in the perfect light
of paradise, known to the ancient gods
as hallowed refuge, where the stars at night
pay homage from on high, and from the west
come ocean flower breezes, to a land
where sea and sand and sky hold boundless sway
and pastel multi-hues embrace the day,
where gentle rhythms echo on the shore
and birds exultant in the heavens soar.
These priceless pearls, set in silvered seas,
known to mere mortals as The Hebrides.
This is an interesting question
born in city of Glasgow
moved at 6 weeks to Ayrshire
then 1990 to Renfrew I go
So where is my home?
being brought up in Ayrshire
my formative years are there
so memories are ever on fire
Now based in Renfrew
a small quiet town
once home to a airport
now no planes come down
So Scotland is my nation
born and brought up in this land
here the covenanters braved the foe
till death they did stand
poetgord@2013
I liked its comforting and quiet
Enclosure from the time and rain
Designed to be impossible to sleep in
(Some vagrant friends reported miseries)
Shutting out the rest of the world
It became a space for answers
A sea-shell or confessional
Calming the small change of your soul
Adored no less by travellers
No doubt for its already ancient
Novelty it would not admit
The weak or infirm to its secrets
And such room inside limited
Admittance or forced proximity
Upon us if we shared a call.
Revered by Mum and Dad as
One familiar part of modern living
To me unvalued then missed
As a lost limb when it was gone.