Tuesday, August 30, 2016
The Thin Blue Line
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Sun set
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Saturday, August 6, 2016
The Missing Piece of Peace
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Friday, July 29, 2016
Audrey Hepburn
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Scottish Dancer
Monday, July 25, 2016
Celtic Dance Of Peace
Saturday, July 23, 2016
An Elegant Isle
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Monday, July 18, 2016
Dream Picnic Spot
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Monday, July 11, 2016
Scottish Thistle
Scottish Poetry Selection
- Scotia's Thistle
Henry Scott Riddell (1798-1870) was a native of Sorbie, north of Langholm, Dumfries & Galloway. His parents both came from Teviotside. His poetry was deeply influenced by Teviotdale, the valley of the river Teviot, in what is now the Scottish Borders. He became a minister there and was buried at Teviothead.
A number of his poems are very patriotic and nationalistic - he wrote Scotland Yet while out for a walk in a lonely glen at Teviothead. This is another in a similar vein.
Scotia's Thistle
Scotia's thistle guards the grave,
Where repose her dauntless brave;
Never yet the foot of slave
Has trod the wilds of Scotia.Free from tyrant's dark control �
Free as waves of ocean roll �
Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.Scotia's hills of hoary hue,
Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,
Watering with its dearest dew
The healthy locks of Scotia.Down each green-wood skirted vale,
Guardian spirits, lingering, hail
Many a minstrel's melting tale,
As told of ancient Scotia.When the shades of eve invest
Nature's dew-bespangled breast,
How supremely man is blest
In the glens of Scotia!There no dark alarms convey
Aught to chase life's charms away;
There they live, and live for aye,
Round the homes of Scotia.Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake
The bonnie wilds of Scotia.Others o'er the oceans foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home
Beneath the sky of Scotia!Meaning of unusual words:
aye = always
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Robert Burns Portrait
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
To A Mouse
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
What makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects dreaer!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!