Best Tartans Poems
Tradition and dress
A nations finesse
Symbolic in style
By a country mile
The drone of the pipes
Tartan clad
Bonnie on the girls
Proud on the lads
Highland dancers
In kilted skirts
Grooms at weddings
Kilt and dirk
But our Tartan and Pipes
Go back many years
Led soldiers into battles
See the enemy fear
After Culloden
Both were banned
A country naked
At the English hand
Our clans of many
In colours so grand
Woven by weavers
Our women's hands
All over the world
Scots are spread
Taking their Tartans
Of green, blue and red
It's a welcome reminder
To the kin of their past
Never forgotten
Designed to last
This plaid of cloth
History enriched
Scottish pride
In every stitch
And like our pipes
From centuries past
This Scottish of Scots
Are here to last
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
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
My door is open
I welcome you
To my Highland lands
Off heathers and hue
Cross the bridge
Of centuries old
To my castle of grey
In it's regal fold
Stand with me
In the great hall of my past
Like generations
Us Fraser's will last
Climb spiral stairs
To a turreted tower
Look out on my lands
As the northern lights shower
Turn to the left
Look out to the fields
They stretch for miles
Many harvests they yield
The moat leads off
Into a river so pure
With it's salmon ladder
Caught to mature
Lets take to the horses
To forests of pine
They carpet the glens
In greenery fine
Centuries old
Camp fire and cheer
Weeks away
Chasing the deer
The welcome we received
When we reached home
Venison and pheasant
From our Highland roam
Off the great hall
To the room of the past
Where tartans and paintings
My ancestral past
Open great fireplace
Lights up the room
Claymores and armour
In past battles bloom
The evening draws
Arrival of guests
To feast on the roam
For the food we are blessed
Midnight approaches
Bedtime retire for all
As i look out my window
In awe at it all
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
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.
spring joy
day breaks in coral
dawn and white rose share secrets ~
dewdrops sprinkle glitz
fog spills over hills
winds of change swirl wispy clouds ~
doves coo limericks
bountiful spring rains
wild oats take over garden ~
now the need to weed
warm weather returns
rainstorms take a vacation ~
spring wears thick sunscreen
droplets of glitter
splash across meadows ~
tartans of flowers
rich earth births poppies
orange hues trickle to earth ~
champagne wildflowers
5-8-23
A new day awakens in a bonnie Scottish Glen
As I await the morning sunshine peeking over the Ben
Standing at the door of my centuries old croft
The wild fern's arise as the rays makes them loft
A calming soothing trickle delights my morning ears
Meandering through purple heathers as it's done for many years
Hooded crows show their presence, then silence in quietness fall
In timid look they perch, as they hear a Golden Eagles call
The baaing of the sheep resonate from down the Glen
Freedom to roam they are in the land of crofting men
Above the sun now shines amidst a sky of Saltire blue
This land of clans and tartans, through my eyes you'll see my view
Upon the grass I sit, as I marvel at my surrounds
And my desire for a maiden, to share my Highland grounds
A mid morning stroll I take to absorb just where I am
I start thinking to myself, "aye I'm one of Alba's sons"
16th April 1746
The day a country ceased to exist
British Army, Hanoverian scum
Defeated our Jacobite's
Scotland's is on the run
Our Tartans banished, bagpipes no more
To lead our troops, to frighten the foe
Cumberland's men hunt us down
In every village and every town
Massacred, slaughtered
Wiped from our earth
Erased from the country of our birth
2000 men died to fight for their right
Against the British Armies might
Cameron's, MacDonald's and Fraser's slain
Many other Clans, population drained
The survivors facing Hanoverian bans
Led to
The Scattering of the Clans
The Clan Chiefs lands, vast and many
Asset stripped, taken by the enemy
Alleged traitors tried, treason their crime
As Hanoverian Scum, on our riches dine
In the aftermath, many Scots left their shores
To distant lands to open new doors
Many writers on here
On their Ancestors scan
You may be here, because of
The Scattering Of The Clans
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.
Villanelle: French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Dedicated to the great French actor, Off Course!
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Must you invite high breeds to the Hebrides
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
Starved Loch Ness Monster kept well out of view
For this Gourmet eats even monster breeds
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Medieval monarchs gulped innerns – rest threw
To the serfs lords ladies dogs and hybrids
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
French Gourmand let Scots talk their tartans through
Venison loins he carved out for his needs
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
Goths Visigoths Vikings Normans or Dieu*
Falstaff nose and paunch hide much actor’s deeds
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
Eiffel Tower Louvre Versailles nothing new
Mountain Man kept apart Scylla Charibdis
French Gourmand once sailed to the Isle of Ewe
To maggis shellfish wine said: I love you!
• Dieu: God, but French pronunciation, please!
He might take exception.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2015
Weekend away in medieval castle
Traveling to Scotland on overnight train
Read the account of Culloden battle
Highlanders lost cherished domain.
Eyes feeling heavy am swept away
living the moment from long ago
Brave clan tartans fought that day
Historically painful tale of woe.
Gossamer mist invades my dream
Long dead minstrel sings of noble deed
Ghostly features with passion gleam
He's haunted by unspoken need
His presence powerful when I awake
Know exactly what he aspires too
Culloden fields he cannot forsake
To clan markers I go, together we view.
High on the moor, the wind is fierce
His spirit returns to his long lost past
Feel my heart so gently pierced
He's returned to highland roots at last.
Holed up in a Scottish flat
all day from six to three,
stuffin' my gob with Vol-au-vent
and pots of English tea.
As ocean slaps the briny stones
and swirls the salty air,
I'd rather be in my own home
than sitting in this chair.
Too late to fetch a midwife,
too far to drive the quay,
While he's at work
up here I stay,
'til someone comes for me.
I pull myself up to the sash;
the window shares a view,
of children in their uniforms
with tartans green and blue.
They walk the steep, uneven lanes
and giggle as they play,
And soon at last -
my own sweet lass
will do the same one day.
Igneous stones
All greyed with age
Scatter the hillside
In greened moss stage
Forests of pine
Patch blankets of tree's
Fenced from the deer
Who eat as they please
Heather bloomed purples
Carpet the ground
Ferns like fans
In the winds, rebound
Mountains of the glen
Over 3000 feet
Munro's to climbers
Incredible feats
The roads to the isles
Passages to the sea
To the Isle of Skye
The west of my country
Nearly 800 islands
Coastal Sporadic
Invaded by many
Celtic and Nordic
Thermals so high
Where the Eagle soars
Rivers and falls
In waterfall roar
Tartans and whiskey
Gaelic and pipes
Highland Glen's for scenery
There's nothing alike
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php