"laird" poems
Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.
He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
The Lord forgie me for liein!
A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
(The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.
But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow’d I was his dear lassie.
I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.
He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
3k
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come ***
To anger them a’ is a pity,
But what will I do wi’ Tam Glen?
I’m thinking, wi’ sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen’:
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen?
There’s Lowrie, the laird o’ Dumeller,
“Guid-day to you,”—brute! he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o’ his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o’ young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;
But wha can think sae o’ Tam Glen?
My daddie says, gin I’ll forsake him,
He’ll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But, if it’s ordain’d I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the valentines’ dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten:
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, “Tam Glen”!
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken:
His likeness cam up the house staukin,
And the very gray breeks o’ Tam Glen!
Come counsel, dear Tittie, don’t tarry;
I’ll gie ye my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo’e dearly, Tam Glen.
2.9k
The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the wounded men.
A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.
Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.
The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women ***** crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.
The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’
For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
Out in the glade
lies a dead fawn.
A weeping maiden
adorns it's body with blossoms.
Out in the glade
the wise Willow
watches over the land.
A callow Laird who shot the fawn
charms the weeping lass.
Fair as pearl
sweet saplings.
She taunts,
"Heigh, do not be impetuous!
Touch not my handkerchief!
Take care, lest the dog will bark!"
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
By glance upon the emerald dale
a laird rides 'pon the crest
Grasping in his calloused hand
a Faerie Maiden's tress.
One tress for infinity,
two cut for grace divine.
Three tresses for the Trinity,
and four for wealth of time.
Five beats of a Sparrow's wing,
Gets six maidens pon your perch.
Seven for good luck in life,
Eight for endless mirth.
The pompous laird rode proudly on,
Unwary of a Siren's song.
She led him to the river's edge,
And scalped him come the breaking dawn.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
I am from Home.
I am from hot baths in the summer and winter alike.
I am from a silver ring decked with a ruby.
I am from laughing faces and weeping hearts.
From Pilaf and Tabuleh.
From the lonely, and the love.
I am from music loud in my ears so I don't have to listen to anyone.
I am from late-night arguments and early-morning apologies.
I am from cousins and children
Staying in my home despite
Their heritage.
I am from Untitled Documents.
I am from Marisa and Ben. My namesake and her lover.
I am from hand-washing dishes.
From Mrs. Laird and Mrs. Tans.
From Eagle Crest.
I am from Volleyball.
From late practices
And broken limbs.
I am from the world.
From crushing decisions that don't matter.
From school-induced insomnia.
I am from the wind
In my hair.
Stars above my head.
Children in my classroom.
I am from England-so far away, and yet so near.
I am from Doctor Who and Sherlock.
My inspirations.
I am from Sobahn.
My friend I have never seen.
I am from swinging into the lake from a tire swing and a zip-line.
Dogs.
Stray cats.
Army games.
I am from fake battles and singing hymns in the shade of the hot summer day.
I am from Christian and Kira.
From red paint on the pavement-lying to me, telling me it is blood.
I am from my childhood.
I wish I could go back there.
I am from home.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Make sure your worst enemy
doesn't live between your
own two ears
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
today in class
i was reading a short story
for American Lit.
The Sculptor's Funeral
by Willa Cather.
it's about a man who has died
and his last wish was to be brought
back to his cruel hometown
to be buried.
"It's not a pleasant place to be lying while the world is moving and doing and bettering," he had said with a feeble smile, "but it rather seems as though we ought to go back to the place we came from, in the end. The townspeople will come in for a look at me; and after they have had their say, I shan't have much to fear from the judgement of God!"
a man that worked under him,
Steavens,
brought him home in a casket.
everybody had something
bad to say about him.
Laird,
a corrupt lawyer in the town,
had enough of it.
he yelled at the townspeople
and outed all of those who had
asked him to bend the law.
he made them realize that
they had done more wrong than
the man who was now dead.
"Well, I came back here and became the ****** shyster you wanted me to be. You pretend to have some sort of respect for me; and yet you'll stand up and throw mud at Harvey Merrick, whose soul you couldn't ***** and whose hands you couldn't tie."
"Harvey Merrick wouldn't have given one sunset over your marshes for all you've got to put together, and you know it..."
this story makes me
want to believe that,
if i'm ever lying in a casket,
someone will stand up for me
and try to clear my name.
even in small, ****** towns,
like the one i live in,
maybe there's at least
one person
with a kind heart.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
Madison mounted her coal black mare
In the yard of the Smugglers Inn,
Her coat was black and her hair was fair
And her jodhpurs tucked well in,
The sky was in a threatening mood
With its thunderheads from hell,
As lightning forked on the ancient rood
And the rain teemed down as well.
‘You need to get to the Laird,’ I cried,
‘Tell him to haste to me,
Another day and she may have died,
I’m trying to set her free.
But the Pikemen stand outside her door
And they say they guard her skin,
There were locks and chains on her door before
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.’
‘Tell him to bring his gallant troop
To dismay the Duke of Bray,
He means to imprison his daughter
In his tower, the Lady Grey,’
The Pikemen said that I’d lose my head
If I tried to breach her door,
And wouldn’t answer whenever I asked,
‘What is she locked in for?’
So Madison wheeled the mare around
And she put it to the spur,
If any could ride a horse to ground
I knew that it was her,
She headed off to the Castle Croft
Head bent to the driving rain,
With lightning flashing around her mount
I watched her across the plain.
What seemed to take forever, I thought,
Was merely an hour or two,
But then my fears were set at naught
As the troop came jangling through.
Each man had raised his sabre and
He’d kept his powder dry,
My heart was surging within me as
The troop came riding by.
And then, at last, was Madison
Still riding with the Laird,
Determined then to save her friend,
To show her that she cared.
The Pikemen soon were beaten down
Were lost in the affray,
I never did catch a glimpse of him,
Their lord, the Duke of Bray.
It took a moment to smash the locks
On the door of Lady Grey,
And all the troop had cheered out loud
As the chains, they fell away.
Madison was the first in line
To embrace the one within,
But we were not to know what lay
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.
The Lady, held in a firm embrace
Had staggered out through the door,
But blood and pustules were on her face
Like we’d never seen before.
A dying Pikemen called, ‘You fools,
You’ve unleashed a bitter ague,
And then he sighed just before he died,
‘Behold, you have the plague!’
David Lewis Paget
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 6:16 AM UTC
Would you be the Lard then,
The Lard o' these lands ?
<The Lard !!!
I ain't the Lard of anything!
I'm the Laird of these lands, yes!
If that's what you mean.>
The Laird, eh!
So there's no Duck or Duchess over
them then.
<Duck! You mean Duke, no Duke or
Duchess !!!
Ain't no Dooks or Dutchesses around
here Mon! >
Then what about the Goose,
The Goose of Gainly Hall.
<The Goose!!! What Goose ?
It's a ghost not a goose,
The Ghost of Gainly Hall !
Only goose I can see around here is
you
Begone you unruly Mon, Begone!>
Unruly Mon is it ! Unruly Mon !!!
(squaring up to the Laird)
...Heh! I'll nay fight ye, yer not worth it
The Big Lairdy Mon
I'll go off and alight some place else
Just like the Goose, the Goose of Gainly
Hall !!!
............Hey Big Mon!!! The Goose! He's
loose!! He's gone!!!
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
I see you
Laird of Tanera Mòr
shaded scotsman
misty on the dock
I hear your skirling pipes
threading salted air
silent sound which cuts
and tops each bouncing wave
music on the bridge
between the living and the grave
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 5:00 AM UTC
There wasn’t a lot of the Castle left,
A couple of Towers, and Keep,
Most of the walls had fallen in
To a courtyard, full of sheep.
It stood up high on a Scottish hill
Now all enclosed by a farm,
But once there was always blue-blood there,
Brought in by its Highland charm.
It ruled all over the countryside
That it mastered, looking down,
Bolstered by the power of a Laird
With a royal court and a clown,
The Laird was a noble, Ralph McClair,
And his wife, a Lady Ann,
A beauty brought from the Western Isles
But from quite a different clan.
The clown was a kinsman, Rod McBain
Who’d been held from a local feud,
At court he’d been made to entertain
For the peace that his kinsmen sued.
They never ceased to humiliate
McBain for his royal blood,
And dressed him in bells and motley there,
Simply because they could.
From what one knows, as the story goes
When McClair rode far and wide,
Taxing the poorest peasants there
For the sake of his royal pride,
It came one day he returned, they say,
To discover his Lady Ann,
In flagrante delicto in
The arms of a naked man.
The man just happened to be McBain
Who was seized, and his features spoiled,
They ripped the flesh from his back and dropped
Him into a cask of oil,
The oil was heated to boiling point
Till his screams rang out, and loud,
While she was naked, paraded there
In front of the courtyard crowd.
His screams and cries and the lady’s sighs
Ate into the castle walls,
And that they say is the only way
To explain the stonework falls,
A fungus grew in the mortar there
And destroyed the Castle McClair,
And as I say, if you go today
You will see the result right there.
For up on that distant Scottish height
You will see the remains of love,
Especially when the Northern Lights
Light up the sky from above,
For stones still fall from the Towers and Keep,
At night, and in winter rain,
And crash down into the courtyard, but
Sounding like screams of pain.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 10:28 PM UTC
Mother and child, room of wails
Pales in comparison to what the pen has prepared
A laird to hardships unaware, she protects her hope in her ***** to no avail
For what hails heroes from the dust least they have yet to be erred
Their tormentors shudder from oppressed cut brilliance hidden in pages, addicts to riches bought with blood
Yea, a spud to peace, their wages of greed persist into a protagonist’s drudgery
The journey they face disregards limits, obstacles held together by the will of the author must they succumb
Shunned by amity, the mastermind leaves their conclusion smudgily in dirt
We Readers helplessly watch our heroes with words of consolation clumped in our throat
Devoted to a good story, we gleefully sell time to the composer so our champions can climb the ropes
Common tropes of old, we discuss in groups or alone characters we breathe to life with admiration in which we bloat
Rote in its finest, we continue this slow dancing of pages to the tempo of screams of peril or the feast of shortlived jokes
For the author knows to keep everyone afloat by throwing a good tale on a boat
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
Hello Jamie, it’s Claire
My Frank is in the driver’s seat next to me on the I-17
Trying to meet my efforts to take care of all the burdens I’ve packed in my knapsack
Wearing the corset meant for me
But I bear the sword at my side
Is it a sin to miss you?
Is it a sin to want to reach out,
Get into your good graces again?
He calls my emotions
“Deep acid oceans”
The ones you were never afraid to swim in
The waves look deadly, but the water’s warm
It takes a brave laird to dive in
I know you still think of me. I know it
I have to believe it to get through the day, sometimes
But if you meant anything to me, anything at all,
Why did I say goodbye?
But if you meant nothing to me, nothing at all,
Why are you still on my mind?
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 5:51 PM UTC
What a Cnut! (13)
Lazy river bends twist through ages past.
scoring dark foreboding lines between the course
and curse. Forgotten pits, tombs long and vast
bear pain. This sufferance an ancient source
behind whose name, Ozymandias, who?
Forgotten one, with statuette and dust;
With little plot of land presenting; cue
besotted fans and weeping stands and rust
-ed crimson stains. Pyramids worn and sunned.
Grizzled maws gnaw foxholes. Anxious shadows
creep, kettling the dreams of untold freedom
long since sold. The sons of emp-ires fade.
Mocking wizened worries and wet laird Cnut,
who knocking heads with entropy slumbers cut.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 8:47 AM UTC