Merry Christmas and a Happy Hogmanay! Don"t forget your Prayers now.

Twas the Night before Christmas


Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.javascript:void(0)
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore (1779 - 1863)

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Niamh Chinn Oir - Queen of TÍR NA nÓG

Across the dewy morning hills of Eireann
Rode Niamh Chinn Oir on a snow-white steed
To Oisin fairy poet of the Fianna
For she fain would this mortal wed

Come with me to the fairy land of Tir Na Nog
For I have long loved you said she
And Oisin taken with her beauty
He bade farewell to his company

They rode through stormy regions far across the sea
To a land where time had ne'er its harvest reaped
And for an age there Oisin lived contented
Till longing for his comrades made him weep

I cannot help but read these sad dreams in your eyes
So you may return to your country
And take my blessing with this one command
Do not dismount from you fairy steed

But when at last he reached that misty island
So strange a sight did meet his puzzled frown
For Oisin rode as a giant among the people
And nowhere were the Fianna to be found

He learned from a gathering of workers
Together straining with a heavy load
That centuries before his friends had perished
Which painful tidings filled him with despair

As payment for the news that we have told you
Pray help us with this heavy stone to move
For if your strength should match your mighty stature
Scarce more than a touch enough should prove

But the saddle tore as Oisin leaned to help them
And sorely he upon the ground was thrown
He quickly turned into an aged man
And ne'er again set eyes on Tir Na Nog.

Leo O'Kelly

TÍR NA NÓG

Fadó fadó Éirinn, roimh theacht don nua-aois,
Bhí conaí ann ar an bhFiann,
Fionn 's a mhac Oisín
Is iomaí eachtra a bhain leo siúd,
Is iomaí casadh croí,
Ach ní dhéanfar dearmad ar an lá
A bhuail Oisín le Niamh.

Niamh Chinn Ór, as Tír na nÓg,
B'í an bhean ab áille gné a chas ar Oisín Óg
Mheall í é le breathacht,
Mheall sí é le póg,
Mheall sí é gan aon agó
Go Tír na nÓg
Bhí Oisín, lá brea gréine,
Ag siúl le ciumhais na habhann
' Measc blathanna buí, is luachra,
Taibhsíodh dó an tsamhail,
Spéirbhean ghléigeal álainn
A d'fhag croí an laoich sin fann,
Thug cuireadh dó go ír na nÓg
Go síoraí cónaí ann.

Tír álainn, tír na hóige,
Tír dhiamhair aislingí
Trí chéad bliain chaith Oisín ann
I ngrá mór le Niamh
Ach fonn nár fhág é choíche,
Is nach bhféadfadh sé a chloí,
Dul thar n-ais go hÉirinn,
Go bhfeichfeadh sé í arís.

"Ná fág an áit seo," arsa Niamh
"Ná himigh uaim, a chroí"
"Ma fhágann tusa Tír na nÓg,
Nó fhillfidh tú arís."
Ach d'fhill Oisín ar Éirinn,
Mar bhí fiabhras ina chroí
Is fuair sé bás ós comhair an Naoimh
B'shin deireadh lena thriall.
Tír na nÓg, ó Tír na nÓg,
Tír uasal na draíochta a bhí ann fadó,
Féach thiar ansin í
Thiar ar fhíor na spéire
San áit go mba mhaith liom bheith,
Sin Tír na nÓg,

Colm Mac Séalaigh

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-- Robert Frost

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

The Arrival of Eamonn Maynooth


Now Eamonn Maynooth was the eighth of twelve sons born to a large family of diligent and occasionally successful farmers who worked the high wilds of the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks for more generations then you have fingers.

(It was said there-abouts that they were descended from escaped dancing bears who had been cruelly dragged across Europe hundreds and hundreds of years before.)

When the prospect of moving rocks from field to field for his entire life sparked no interest in him, he took his cousin’s wise advice and one fine April morning he left his home to walk the many twisting paths and lanes to the grand city of Dublin.

During the several weeks of his meandering he encountered several score of the local representatives of the Garda—who mistook him for one of the “Traveling People” due to his dark countenance and happy disposition. These encounters seemed always to end in the waiting room of local Gardai Post, sipping tea and munching on sugar sprinkled biscuits. When he left the following morning he was always loaded down with a half loaf of soda bread, new directions to Dublin, and invariably a long letter of introduction to someone’s “Auntie Kate” who lived ‘Jist a bit off Grafton Street’ - and who they were sure had room for a lodger.

After weeks of ambling - with much time to contemplate life, liberty and the pursuit of a career - he finally reached the city. He had made up his mind, and immediately, after a through groom at a public convenience, set out for Dublin Castle and applied to the Gardai for a job. Since he had with him several score of letters of introduction from most of the force from Ballymakeery to Ballyragget, Ballyroan to Ballymore, he was a shoo-in and started training the following Tuesday.

After several weeks of lectures and the fitting of a rather becoming blue uniform he was assigned to the one-man station in Maynooth. He often wondered if his placement was due to some random transcription error, or if somehow it eased the life of the clerical staff to have a Maynooth from Maynooth on the books.

Now aside from regular charges issued to the local Jesuit population for “Reckless Endangerment” due to their un-ending propensity for late night bicycle races from their University and back - life in the town was ordered and diligent with Eamonn on duty.

On the morning of his twenty-third birthday a large cardboard boxed present arrived postmarked Cork. On opening the finely scripted card he discovered that the bishop of the much maligned city had sent him a 18 speed Peugeot racer to even up the odds. Eamonn was astonished.

(The Bishop had long heard of these uneven evening contests and decided to intervene on the side of the right. He was after all a Benedictine.)

Many years later - when he was approaching his fortieth year - and his twenty-fourth year as a Garda, he took the long bus ride to Cork City for a meeting with the self same Bishop. Eamonn was up for retirement the following year, and as he did not want to share the town with his replacement he was in sore need of advice.

He explained the situation at some length as the two walked along the beach down to the local establishment where the Bishop’s annual supply of matured Blackbush was kept in semi-safety.

Several hours later the Bishop made a suggestion, “Now you with your fine pension and good health should be off broadening your horizons. Twenty odd years of tossing Jesuits into the clink -enjoyable though it most certainly must be - must have soured your view of life.... Now my little brother as emigrated to the far sub-Arctic wilds in brightest Canada.... and in spite of certain culture deprivations - not a smidgen of real Guinness on tap for thousands of miles from Ottawa. Ottawa that’s where he lives, with lots of friends and two People - most peculiar though, most peculiar.”

Eamonn put down his cup of “improved” tea and asked in his most professional manner, “The Peoples are peculiar?”

“On no.... Well not any more peculiar than his other companions. For example; there is this Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-badger, who seems to have some semi-official status in the household... and him not even a Christian.... a Presbyterian of some sorts.... Well it could be worse I guess. The lady of the house is from Dublin, and her own aunt is Mother-Superior Dominique - you may have heard of her. Terror of the Indian Ocean I’ve heard tell.... So there is some hope. Now as I have heard these Peoples have a most liberal entrance policy.... No exams to take, no secret hand shakes, or scads of diamonds sown into your seams. Just appear at the front door and say the you’ve been sent over the water by the family of the TeddyBear-with-green feet, and a place will be found for you. It’s a very nice place I myself have seen it - I was over for Miss Zita’s nuptials several years ago, shared the plane ride with her parents. Now Mister Craig he is some sort of Scotsman - several generations removed. Though it takes more then several generations to remove a Scotsman - It would be quicker to raise the rent - Well there is my advice; take it as you will.” He reached for his Mitre.

Eamonn said goodbye and caught the last bus to his home in the far county Kildare. During the long ride home he dreamt of processions of brightly painted racing canoes braving cold raging torrents, as a chorus of the wolf’s ancient songs eased their way through his thoughts as they bumped along the back roads and lanes to Maynooth. Canada might not be too bad an idea occurred to his semi-conscious.

Exactly a year and sixty-two days later he arrived at Ottawa International Airport - with his earthbound belongings packed into a small wooden crate with wheels. With his treasured Peugeot under his arm and pulling the heavy crate, he started the long walk into town. He was wearing his tweed trousers, his best brocade waistcoat and the black Homburg he saved for court and funerals. (He had not forgotten to pack the white spats he had bought many years before while on vacation in Liverpool, and was saving for his wedding.)

As the sun dropped into the west he stopped at the corner, beside the long inlet and looked at the house. It was the second of a row of four. Cream yellow pillars held it up for evening’s rosy inspection. He slowly walked down the side lane. He feet were very sore. Canada was much bigger than he expected. He locked his bicycle to the bottom of the ramp and knocked on the back door.

A few moments later it was pulled open by a very stocky brown bear. It had no neck at all, nor a smidgen of a smile. Perched on his head shading its eyes was a light gray Fedora, the leather bound hilt of a double-handed long sword peeked over his shoulder.

Eamonn had not a doubt - it was a Minder. He had thought they were the stuff of legends - like FinMcCaul. Possible but not likely.

“Who are you, what’cer doing here and what’cer want? Does Colonel know you? Are you on d’run? What’s in yon box?”

Eamonn stood up very stiff and said..., “Now see here young man, the name is Eamonn Maynooth.... I’ve been sent by the Bishop of Cork. I hear his little brother lives here - or so I have been told. Could you check for me?”

“No need. ‘Course he lives here.... Upstairs in far bedroom. Wit’ his companions in Imperious T-Bear Zouaves. C’on-in. Rest your feets. I’ll see if he’s in. My name’s Exeter. I’m duty Minder today so I’ll see who I can scare up to bring your baggage in. Nice bike though. Should put it in basement wit’ Miss Zita’s I bet.”

One of the off-duty Watchers got him a cup of tea and an egg salad sandwich. (Watchers were noted far and away for their un-imaginative taste in food.) He sat down and removed his shoes and replaced his socks. The sandwich was very thick he thought to himself. It was his last thought until much later that night. He sort of awoke when he heard a door slam. He rolled over as voices entered the room.

“Yes just off the plane. Walked all the way here from the aeroport carrying all his treasures in a trunk. Seems my brother suggested he visit us here. He brought a very polite letter of introduction. I read it; says he has retired from the Garda and needs a new life, or so says Brian’s letter. He thought that since everything here is most bran’new it would be just the place to start. Hope you and Zita don’mind. I know it is getting a bit crowded what with the childreen all-a-grow’en. I hope it hasn’t imposed.”

A new voice replied, “No it’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Anyway that other new guest - the one who arrived last month I think. The friend of Mr. Ajax. Old-Bill-the-Bear I think his name is. Kind of gangly and beige. Wasn’t he a policeman?”

“Why yes. Yes he was. And himself retired too. From one of the Northern Shires in England - of all places I was told. Now here’s a happy co-incidence. Perhaps they can offer their services to Staff Sergeant Blake of your acquaintance. I am sure he could always use experienced help to maintain the peace. Why don’t you call him. Perhaps tonight....”

“Well first of all, it is three in the morning, and second these gentlemen are now retired.... so let’s wait a month or six before any suggestions of this type.... We can introduce your Mister Maynooth to Miss Zita tomorrow.”

Mr. Maynooth rolled over and thought to himself....”A home again.”

Some House Keeping

Mr. Tuktoyuktuk Bear's Commission

“Theodora the First - by the Grace of all the Gods of the Serene Kingdom of the Timeless Snows and the Arctic fastness, and of Her Other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of The TeddyBear-Peoples Concordant, Defender of the Faiths.

To Our Trusty and well beloved Tuktoyuktuk Ursus Albus - Greetings!

We are Reposing especial Trust and Confidence in Your Loyalty, Courage and Good Conduct, and do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Peoples-Guardian Forces, from the First Day of May.

We hereby appoint you Guardian and Companion of Craig Taylor and Zita Taylor (nee Kavanagh) for as long as they shall live, and of such members of their Families, Friends, Companions and diverse Visitors as they shall be pleased to make known to You, at all Times and in all Places, to provide such Solace, Sympathy, Companionship, Advice, Good Cheer and succour as they shall need, to the best of your training as an Officer in Our Forces.

We are Mindful of the burden which We have placed upon You, and bid you be mindful that We have great forces at Our command which may be summoned in time of Need. No TeddyBear who gives unstintingly of themselves in the fulfillment of Our Commission need hesitate to issue such Summons.

Given Under Our Hand,
At Our Court at High Shining
On The 26th Day of April,
in The Twenty-Third Year of Our Reign.
BY HER MAJESTY’S COMMAND

Colonel-General Balthazar Bruin
KCSt/MG, MgB, Croix De Guerre,
The Red Sash and Bar.”

The Folk of the Air


O’DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted weeds
Of the drear Heart Lake.

And he saw how the weeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And he dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine,
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the folk of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men,
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O’Driscoll got up from the grass
And scattered the cards with a cry;
But the old men and dancers were gone
As a cloud faded into the sky.

He knew now the folk of the air,
And his heart was blackened by dread,
And he ran to the door of his house;
Old women were keening the dead;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away;
And never was piping so sad
And never was piping so gay.


William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

Lest We Forget

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


Rupert Brooke

Lest We Forget

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


-- RCAF Flight-Lieutenant John Gillespie Magee Jr.
(1922-1941).

Lest We Forget

Here Dead We Lie


Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

-- A. E. Housman

Lest We Forget

Recessional


GOD of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call'd our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

R. Kippling

Ozymandias of Egypt


I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

The Charge of the Light Brigade

HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.


William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

Keenan's Charge

The Battle of Chancellorsville, 1863

The sun had set;
The leaves with dew were wet:
Down fell a bloody dusk
On the woods, that second day of May,
Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through with angry tusk.

"They've trapped us, boys!"
Rose from our flank a voice.
With a rush of steel and smoke
On came the rebels straight,
Eager as love and wild as hate;
And our line reeled and broke;

Broke and fled.
Not one stayed—but the dead!
With curses, shrieks, and cries,
Horses and wagons and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.

There's one hope, still—
Those batteries parked on the hill!
"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar)
"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire
A bugle rings "Trot!"—and no more.

The horses plunged,
The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rode a form
Calmly in front of the human storm,
With a stern, commanding shout:

"Align those guns!"
(We knew it was Pleasanton's.)
The cannoneers bent to obey,
And worked with a will at his word;
And the black guns moved as if they had heard.
But, ah, the dread delay!

"To wait is crime;
O God, for ten minutes' time!"
The General looked around.
There Keenan sat, like a stone,
With his three hundred horse alone,
Less shaken than the ground.

"Major, your men?"
"Are soldiers, General." "Then
Charge, Major! Do your best;
Hold the enemy back at all cost,
Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.
You die to save the rest!"

By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,
Brave Keenan looked into Pleasanton's eyes
For an instant—clear, and cool, and still;
Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank to rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath—
Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred, and clashed;
Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;
Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of blue and yellow;
And above in the air, with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt should fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came
To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame;
Rode in, and sabred, and shot— and fell;
Nor came back one his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan tall
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung
Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.

Line after line—aye, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the wavering vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.
So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls?—'Tis a death-salute
From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain; the army was saved!

Over them now—year following year—
Over the graves the pine-cones fall,
And the whippoorwill chants his spectre-call;
But they stir not again: they raise no cheer.

They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,
Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.

George Parsons Lathrop

The War-Song Of Dinas Vawr

The mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition;
We met a host, and quelled it;
We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it.
On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them:
They struggled hard to beat us;
But we conquered them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king marched forth to catch us:
His rage surpassed all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewild'ring,
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphaned many children,
And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen;
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.
We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoaned them,
Two thousand head of cattle,
And the head of him who owned them:
Ednyfed, king of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK (1785-1866)

The Battle Hym Of The Republic



Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,
He has loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps
l can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps
His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish`d rows of steel,
"As ye deal with my contemners, So with you my grace shall deal;"
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel
Since God is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

ln the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.


Julia Ward Howe

IF.....


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Time and Eternity


BECAUSE I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.



Emily Dickinson (1830-86).

MacGregor's Gathering


The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach.

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless.

But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage.

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance.

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach,
Come then, come then, come then.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather.

Fire and Ice



SOME say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


Robert Frost

Pibroch Of Donuil Dubh

Pibroch of Donuil Dubh,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid and
True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended;
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dubh,
Knell for the onset!

SIR WALTER SCOTT

1952 Vincent Black Lightning


Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride

Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man
I've fought with the law since I was seventeen
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae
For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride

Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do
They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52
He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
He said I've got no further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride

Richard Thompson

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright!


Arthur Hugh Clough (1819–1861)

The Battle of The Rath (Part 3)

When they reached the shore Callum McCallum had a line of patients all aligned outside his tent. BT McG and Haemish sat on a washed up log along side the river.

“How did they take us by surprise Sergeant-Major? Never hap’end before. One minute we were all a spread across the field and the next thing was the whoosh-crack of the Moth Mortars. They were everywhere..

“We are get’n lax Haemish, lax. Too many easy victories. Thank the good Lord that the Colonel arrived ‘fore we were over run.. Would’nt want to write home about that. Should have had more scouts out – no doubt about it. Even then I am afraid that we never would have seen those mortars ‘fore they hit us.. Big as bowling balls they were.. must be a huge one to throw such a size.. The Dragon Dragoon Guards are aloft looking for them as we speak.. got 100 gallon drums of cheap perfume to drop on their poor benighted souls.. mixed in with washing up detergent to make it stick.. Now that should throw them Pyrates for a loop.

“I surely hope so.. Not used being on the lose’n side of anything. No like poor Beauregard and that civil war his great gran’dad were in.. good thing he can cook to take his poor troubled mind off it…”

“Haemish, Haemish. Beauregard is far too concerned about the current state of Pyrate resurgence to trouble his mind about that.. and the difficulties of a good soufflé in a field kitchen.”

Just then Callum McCallum yelled out “Next” and the two slowly picked themselves up and brushing themselves thoroughly – Callum would tolerate no messy patients – limped into the medical tent..

“Callum do you have any medicinal brandy?” asked RSM McGruph. “Just in case I pass out.”

Callum hit him with his walking stick.

“Fine bed-side manner you have…”

The Battle of The Rath (Part 2)

The Colonel turned and raised a bushy eyebrow. “Now it’s himself.. Glad to see you back Sergeant-Major. Sorry about leaving you by your-own but.. The boys owe you a lot. Most all made it here.. Lost three of the Imperious Zouaves to those da’md Moth Mortars… Still could have been worse, much worse if no for you and yours.. Close thing though.. Heart nearly stopped as I waited for those trees to fall ‘cross the canyon.. I sh’ant complain about yon hideous great axe again.. Well not often. Glad to tell you your corporal made it back, Pipes and all. Lost all his music though.

Now Rhome Clay flew off with a message to home - they said The McOinquele will be bring’en them BlackShips of his up to bring us home, though it will be a few days I su’pect what with them Pyrates wonder’en willy nilly ‘bout the place, so Halvadar-Major Finehorn has the boys dug in ‘cross the heights ‘hind you. The Pioneers have whittled up a catapult or two .. and hammered stakes into the river to discourage visitors..”

Haemish-Mór interrupted. “Dugal have y’seen Callum? McG and I need some mending ‘fore we goes all floppy..”

“Heavens Haemish, Heavens! and me prattl’en on like that.. Certainly now, certainly. He‘s set up his tent down by the river. Monsieur Beauregard is there too. Says he is prepar’en a srcum’tious repast.. hy your own selves over and get set to right.. you should have…”

Haemish waved his hand. “Dugal y’have ‘nuff to worry ‘bout without tenden to the odd slice here and there.. Hope Beauregard is making croissants.. brought my own jam don’ch’a know. Did we ask ArchiBold to bring supplies ‘long with his ships? Runn’en a bit short of marmalade for ‘morn’en toasts…”

Regimental Sergeant-Major McGruph stumbled. No matter how desperate the situation the two Rhinosasauri never let it get in the way of their appreciation (if not pre-occupation) of fine jams. Thankfully Beauregard was the finest baker north of New Orleans and kept Haemish and Callum stuffed to the gills when ever possible.

A New Story for Miss Niamh

The Battle of The Rath (Part 1)

Late in the day a small and rather tattered TBear stumbled down a dusty path and followed it into the cool and lightly specked woods. He sat down and re-banged his arm.

He opened his canteen, but it was empty. He knew it was empty; it was the fourth time that day he had checked it, but the day had been so spectacularly strange he had not given up on the possibility that it would spontaneously fill itself. It had not; but it was cool in the woods and he smelt running water not so far away, so he struggled to his feet and picked up the Lochaber Axe and hung his small pack from it, and set off to find the source of the smell.

He hoped he would find some of his company there. They had all been nearly out of water when the first wave of Waziwill Pyrates rushed them, so they too would be looking for somewhere safe to rest and sew up their wounds and fill their canteens. Without water they would soon dry out and become floppy... what a fate for any self respecting TBear .. not him, nor his, he said to himself and started humming "The Black Bear" hoping that his piper was all right... The last he saw of him he had wrapped his pipes around his arm as a shield and was throwing rock-hard scones at the advancing Pyrates... bodies already littered the ground in front of him.

Regimental Sergeant-Major Theodore McGruph never gave up hope, he never had and never would, even in the midst of many a disaster he was the one they all looked to steady all ‘round him. Anyway his piper was one of the Black McOinqueles of Kinloch-Moitheria and they bred them tough in the Western Isles.

The footing was soft, years of pine trees had left a soft floor for the forest, more importantly to McGruph it was quiet. As the sound of water grew louder he grew more cautious. He parted the undergrowth and peered down the crest to the stream; a small stone dropped on his head.

He rolled to his left and pumped a shell into his shortened Model 97 Winchester. His nose must have let him down. He searched the trees above with no results, but his fur was all-a-tingle. He knew there was something there that shouldn’t be there, but where? A snort broke the silence and a rather generously sized Rhinosasauris repelled out of the tree above.

“Yer loosing yer touch Sergeant-Major. I watched as y’plodded the way up the hill. A steam engine would have made less of a fuss.”

He sat down and adjusted two safety pins holding his arm closed. “My brother should be here soon with his medical kit.. Put us all to right.
Come down to the stream most of the lads are here and we have called in for air-support. Lord there was loads of them; and the smell, good Lord the smell!”

RSM McGruph stood up and kicked the Rhino’s undamaged leg - hard.

“Now there’s no reason to be fussy.. McG, no reason at’ll.. Anyway it were not a big stone.”

McG kicked him again.. “You scared five pounds off me and you the one who needs to lose the weight. Haemish-Mor if you ever..”

“Well I will.. just can’t help myself y’know.. Anyway The Colonel is down there rounding everyone up and digging in. Says it worked for the Legions and we have grenade launcher so all will be well.. He says it as if he believes it, and well y’never know with him .. it might be true.. He is a sly one. Did I ever tell you about the time in Tangiers? Well let me say y’never..”

McGruph, who had heard the story more times than his granny ate honey smiled and picked up the axe (pack still attached) and wondered down the hill with his friend. A home at least for now. He started to whistle…

News from the Home Front

The Fearsome Fencibles are out sprucing up the Bentley... then it is off to the Dairy Queen for lunch and a sprint to a picnic at Fort Wellington..


We have ordered a Gatling gun... Who know you could buy them with airplane points...

When Mrs T has more insulation placed in the attic we will install it behind the front vents; overlooking the pond... that and the tethered mines should provide a modicum of safety from Pyrates.. The exploding mechanical ducks have proven to be a technological disappointment.. ahhh well

A small administrative note Magie the dog has accepted a brevet commission in the Queen's Own Pigs Irregulars...

Scots W'hay!

And now More... Gatling gun has arrived. Waiting for ammunition. Must have forget to check that box... Have offered to rent the Regiment out to the Government to protect all the Brass at the G-8 and G-20 and we have a REAL lake we will throw in free.. and we can supply "The Marching Pipes and Accordions" to boot.. cheap too!

Call collect!