The March of the Cameron Men

There's many a man of the Cameron Clan
Who has followed his chief to the field
He has sworn to support him or die by his side
For a Cameron never can yield

Chorus
I hear the pibroch sounding.... sounding
Deep o'er the mountain and glen
While light springing footsteps
Are trampling the heath
'Tis the march of the Cameron Men
'Tis the march
'Tis the march
'Tis the march of the Cameron men

Oh, proudly they walk, but each Cameron knows
He may tread on the heather no more:
But boldly he follows his chief to the field,
Where his laurels were gathered before.

Chorus

The moon has arisen it shines on the path
Now trod by the gallant and true:
High,high, are their hopes. for their chieftain
has said that what ever they dare they can do



Caismeachd Chloinn Chamrain
 
Cha'n 'eil òganach treun de chloinn Chamrain gu léir,
Nach téid deònach fo Bhrataich Lochial:
Gu buaidh no gu bà's 's bidh iad dìleas 's gach càs,
Oirgéill cha d'thug Camranacriamh.

Nach cluinn sibh fuaim na pìoba tighinn,
Gu h-àrd thar monahd 'us ghleann;
Agus cas-cheuman eutrom a'saltairt an fhraoich!
'Si caismeachd Chloinn Chamrain a th' ann!

'Si th' ann!
'Si th' ann!
'Si caismeachd chloinn Chamrain a th' ann.

O!'s uallach an ceum, ged tha fios aig gach treun
Gu'm faod e bhi màireach 'san ùir;
Ach gach àrmunn, gun sgàth, theid le Cheannard do'n bhlàr,
Far 'm bu dualach dhaibh buaidh agus cliú.
--------
Nach cluinn sibh fuaim na pìoba tighinn, etc.
--------
Tha ghealach ag éiridh, 's tha 'gathan air ceuman
Nan òigear tha treun agus fìor;
'S àrd dòchas an cléibh, 's thuirt an Ceannard eféin
Gur laoich iad nach géill anns an strith.
--------
Nach cluinn sibh fuaim na pìoba tighinn


 

Nollaig Chridheil dhuibh uile agus Bliadhna Mhath Ùr

and 

A very Merry Christmas for those of you poor souls without the Gaelic.

Colonel, Dugal Blackthorn-Badger; 79th. Regiment of Foot, 51st. Highland Division,(S.A.S), (Ret.) GCMG, OBE, MC, DSO, The Great Star of Delli, and the much coveted - Red and  Black Order of Faisal The Bloody Minded.

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
"Now they are all on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come; see the oxen kneel,

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so’

Thomas Hardy

A Christmas Carol poem

I

The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

II

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng.
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song,
Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

III

She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed:
And while she cried, the Babe is mine!
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

IV

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate!
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

V

And is not War a youthful king,
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

VI

Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And wherefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father's tears his child!

VII

A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow's toil had won;
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

VIII

Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
I'm poor and of low estate,
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Once in Royal Davids city
 

Once in royal Davids city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her Baby,
In a manger for His bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ, her little Child.
   
He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all,
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall:
With the poor, and mean, and lowly,
Lived on earth our Saviour holy.

For He is our childhood's pattern;
Day by day, like us, He grew;
He was little, weak, and helpless,
Tears and smiles, like us He knew;
And He cares when we are sad,
And he shares when we are glad.

And our eyes at last shall see Him,
Through His own redeeming love;
For that Child so dear and gentle,
Is our Lord in heaven above:
And He leads His children on,
To the place where He is gone.

The Huron Carol


Have courage, you who are humans; Jesus, he is born
Behold, the spirit who had us as prisoners has fled
Do not listen to it, as it corrupts the spirits of our minds
Jesus, he is born

They are spirits, sky people, coming with a message for us
They are coming to say, "Rejoice"
Marie, she has just given birth. Rejoice"
Jesus, he is born


Three have left for such, those who are elders
Tichion, a star that has just appeared on the horizon leads them there
 He will seize the path, he who leads them there
 Jesus, he is born

As they arrived there, where he was born, Jesus
the star was at the point of stopping, not far past it
Having found someone for them, he says, "Come here!"
Jesus, he is born

Behold, they have arrived there and have seen Jesus,
They praised (made a name) many times, saying "Hurrah, he is good in nature"
They greeted him with reverence (greased his scalp many times), saying 'Hurray'
Jesus, he is born

"We will give to him praise for his name,
Let us show reverence for him as he comes to be compassionate to us.
It is providential that you love us and wish, 'I should adopt them.'"
Jesus, he is born.



In The Huron

Es-ten-nia-lon de tson-ou-e
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
On-naou-a-te-ou-a d'o-ki
N'on-ouan-da-skoua-en-tak;
En-non-chien skou-a-tri-ho-tat,
N'on-ou-an-di-lon-ra-cha-tha,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hia,
Jesous a-ha-ton-hi-a  

St. Jean de Brebeuf

 A Loan From God

God promised at the birth of time,
A special friend to give,
His time on earth is short, he said,
So love him while he lives.

It may be six or seven years,
Or twelve or then sixteen,
But will you, till I call him back,
Take care of him for me?

A wagging tail and cold wet nose,
And silken velvet ears,
A heart as big as all outdoors,
To love you through the years.

His puppy ways will gladden you,
And antics bring a smile,
As guardian or friend he will,
Be loyal all the while.

He'll bring his charms to grace your life,
And though his stay be brief,
When he's gone the memories,
Are solace for your grief.

I cannot promise he will stay,
Since all from earth return,
But lessons only a dog can teach,
I want you each to learn.

Whatever love you give to him,
Returns in triple measure,
Follow his lead and gain a life,
Brim full of simple pleasure.

Enjoy each day as it comes,
Allow your heart to guide,
Be loyal and steadfast in love,
As the dog there by your side.

Now will you give him all your love,
Nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to call,
To take him back again?

I fancy each of us would say,
"Dear Lord, thy will be done,
For all the joy this dog shall bring,
The risk of grief we'll run.

"We'll shelter him with tenderness,
We'll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we've known,
Forever grateful stay.

"But shall the angels call for him,
Much sooner than we've planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand."

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

From the Day-Book of a Forgotten Prince
 

    MY FATHER us happy or we should be poor.
    His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor
    Come singing so gaily right up to the door.

    We live in a castle that's dingy and old;
    The casements are broken, the corridors cold,
    The larder is empty, the cook is a scold.

    But father can dance, and his singing is loud.
    From meadow and highway there's always a crowd
    That gathers to hear him, and this makes him proud.

    He roars out a song in a voice that is sweet--
    Of grandeur that's gone, rare viands to eat,
    And treasure that used to be laid at his feet.

    He picks up his robes, faded, wrinkled and torn,
    Though banded in ermine, moth-eaten and worn,
    And held at the throat by a twisted old thorn.

    He leaps in the air with a rickety grace,
    And a kingly old smile illumines his face,
    While he fondles his beard and stares off into space.

    The villagers laugh, then look quickly away,
    And some of them kneel in the orchard to pray.
    I often hear whispers: "The old king is fey."

    But after they're gone, we shall find, if you please,
    White loaves and a pigeon, and honey and cheese,
    And wine that we drink while I sit on his knees.

    And, while he sups, he will feed me and tell
    Of Mother, whom men used to call "The Gazelle,"
    And of glorious times before the curse fell.

    And then he will fall, half-asleep, to the floor;
    The rafters will echo his quivering snore. . . .
    I go to find cook through the slack oaken door.

    My father is happy or we should be poor.
    His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor
    Come singing so gaily right up to the door.

        Jean Starr Untermeyer

The Three Kings

   
Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of the night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped --it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone,
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.


Longfellow

It's Christmas day, all is secure.  


   t'was the night before Christmas,
   he lived all alone,
   in a one bedroom house,
   made of plaster and stone.
 
   I had come down the chimney,
   with presents to give,
   and to see just who,
   in this home did live.
 
   I looked all about,
   a strange sight I did see,
   no tinsel, no presents,
   not even a tree.
 
   no stocking by the mantle,
   just boots filled with sand,
   on the wall hung pictures,
   of far distant lands.
 
   with medals and badges,
   awards of all kinds,
   a sober thought,
   came through my mind.
 
   for this house was different,
   it was dark and dreary,
   I found the home of a soldier,
   once I could see clearly.
 
   the soldier lay sleeping,
   silent, alone,
   curled up on the floor,
   in this one bedroom home.
 
   the face was so gentle,
   the room in such disorder,
   not how I pictured,
   a Canadian soldier.
 
   was this the hero,
   of whom I’d just read?,
   curled up on a poncho,
   the floor for a bed?
 
   I realized the families,
   that I saw this night,
   owed their lives to these soldiers,
   who were willing to fight.
 
   soon round the world,
   the children would play,
   and grownups would celebrate,
   a bright Christmas day.
 
   they all enjoyed freedom,
   each month of the year,
   because of the soldiers,
   like the one lying here.
 
   I couldn't help wonder,
   how many lay alone,
   on a cold Christmas eve,
   in a land far from home.
 
   the very thought brought,
   a tear to my eye,
   i dropped to my knees,
   and started to cry.
 
   the soldier awakened,
   and I heard a rough voice,
   "Santa, don't cry,
   this life is my choice.
 
   I fight for freedom,
   I don't ask for more,
   my life is my God,
   my country, my corps."
 
   the soldier rolled over,
   and drifted to sleep,
   I couldn't control it,
   I continued to weep.
 
   I kept watch for hours,
   so silent and still,
   and we both shivered,
   from the cold night's chill.
 
   I didn't want to leave,
   on that cold, dark night,
   this guardian of honour,
   so willing to fight.
 
   then the soldier rolled over,
   with a voice, soft and pure,
   whispered, "carry on Santa,
   it's Christmas day, all is secure."
 
   one look at my watch,
   and I knew he was right,
   "merry Christmas my friend,
   and to all a good night."

Silent Night

Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon verge, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born

Silent night, holy night!
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth

Josef Mohr

Arguably the world’s most popular Christmas carol comes in several different translations from the German original. It started out as a poem by the Austrian Catholic priest Father Josef Mohr in 1816. Two years later, Mohr was curate at the parish church of St Nicola in Oberndorf when he asked the organist and local schoolteacher Franz Xaver Gruber to put music to his words.

An unreliable legend has it that the church organ had been damaged by mice, but whatever the reason, Gruber wrote it to be performed by two voices and guitar. It was first performed at midnight mass on Christmas Eve 1818, with Mohr and Gruber themselves taking the solo voice roles.

Its fame eventually spread (allegedly it has been translated into over 300 languages and dialects) and it famously played a key role in the unofficial truce in the trenches in 1914 because it was one of the only carols that both British and German soldiers knew.
 

Good King Wenceslas

Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about,
Deep and crisp and even.
Brightly shown the moon that night,
Though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,
Gathering winter fuel.

Hither, page, and stand by me.
If thou know it telling:
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.
Bring me pine logs hither.
Thou and I will see him dine
When we bear the thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together
Through the rude wind's wild lament
And the bitter weather.

Sire, the night is darker now,
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how.
I can go no longer.
Ark my footsteps my good page,
Tread thou in them boldly:
Thou shalt find the winter's rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his master's step he trod,
Where the snow lay dented.
Heat was in the very sod
Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.


Words: John Mason Neale

The Reverend Doctor Neale was a high Anglican whose career was blighted by suspicion that he was a crypto-Catholic, so as warden of Sackville College – an almshouse in East Grinstead – he had plenty of time for study and composition. Most authorities deride his words as “horrible”, “doggerel” or “meaningless”, but it has withstood the test of time. The tune came from a Scandinavian song that Neale found in a rare medieval book that had been sent to him by a friend who was British ambassador in Stockholm.

There really was a Wenceslas – Vaclav in Czech – although he was Duke of Bohemia, rather than a king. Wenceslas (907–935) was a pious Christian who was murdered by his pagan brother Boleslav; after his death a huge number of myths and stories gathered around him. Neale borrowed one legend to deliver a classically Victorian message about the importance of being both merry and charitable at Christmas.

 Snoopy's Christmas

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen!

The news had come out in the First World War
The bloody Red Baron was flying once more
The Allied command ignored all of it's men
And called on Snoopy to do it again.

Was the night before Christmas, 40 below
When Snoopy went up in search of his foe
He spied the Red Baron, fiercely they fought
With ice on his wings Snoopy knew he was caught.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ring out from the land
Asking peace of all the world
And good will to man

The Baron had Snoopy dead in his sights
He reached for the trigger to pull it up tight
Why he didn't shoot, well, we'll never know
Or was it the bells from the village below.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ringing through the land
Bringing peace to all the world
And good will to man

The Baron made Snoopy fly to the Rhine
And forced him to land behind the enemy lines
Snoopy was certain that this was the end
When the Baron cried out, "Merry Christmas, my friend!"

The Baron then offered a holiday toast
And Snoopy, our hero, saluted his host
And then with a roar they were both on their way
Each knowing they'd meet on some other day.

Christmas bells those Christmas bells
Ringing through the land
Bringing peace to all the world
And good will to man.

Marmion - A Christmas Poem


Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem’d the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall
Where shields and axes deck’d the wall
They gorged upon the half-dress’d steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw’d rib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen’d all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell’d out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll’d,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress’d with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.

Then open’d wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside
And Ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of ‘post and pair’.
All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death to tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry makers in,
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
‘Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale;
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.


Sir Walter Scott

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

-- James Leigh Hunt

A very Merry Christmas to all of you out there, even the Sassenach amoung you. May God's blessing follow you and yours.
Now mind - Hogmanay is just a week and a mikle away.

The Honourable Dugual Blackthorn-Badger;

The Imperious Teddybear Zouaves, The Queen's Own Pig Irregulars, The Fearsome First Fencibles, The First Dragon Dragoon Guards,The Minders, The Watchers, The Rinosasuaris Resplendent Redoubatables and all the 

Taylor's including Miss Poppy The Dog.

The Ballad Of The Carpenter

Jesus was a working man
And a hero you will hear
Born in the town of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year
At the turning of the year

When Jesus was a little lad
Streets rang with his name
For he argued with the older men
And put them all to shame
He put them all to shame

He became a wandering journeyman
And he traveled far and wide
And he noticed how wealth and poverty
Live always side by side
Live always side by side

So he said "Come you working men
Farmers and weavers too
If you would only stand as one
This world belongs to you
This world belongs to you"

When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done
To the Roman troops they ran
Saying put this rebel Jesus down
He's a menace to God and man
He's a menace to God and man

The commander of the occupying troops
Just laughed and then he said
"There's a cross to spare on Calvaries hill
By the weekend he'll be dead
By the weekend he'll be dead"

Now Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind
And they'd never let them get near enough
To take him from behind
To take him from behind

So they hired one of the traders trade
And an informer was he
And he sold his brother to the butchers men
For a fistful of silver money
For a fistful of silver money

And Jesus sat in the prison cell
And they beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his fellow man
And work for the rich men's tribe,
To work for the rich men's tribe

And the sweat stood out on Jesus' brow
And the blood was in his eye
When they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die
They laughed as they watched him die

Two thousand years have passed and gone
Many a hero too
But the dream of this poor carpenter
Remains in the hands of you
Remains in the hands of you
 
Phil Ochs

Avatar

When righteousness declines and wickedness is strong
In the dawning of an age as a new age comes along
That's when I rise again, again, again to light the flame
Of truth within the world of men

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the hope of all the earth the power of the one

`When men have lost their way and know not where to turn
And the future seems to lay where the fires of hatred burn
That's when I rise again again again to light the flame
of love within the hearts of men

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the destiny of man, the Spirit of the one

When ignorance has bound the hearts of men in fear
And men cry out for help, and no one seems to hear
That's when I rise again, to break the bonds enslaving men
To let a new world be born.

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the hope of all the earth  the triumph of the one.

Go, Tell It On The Mountain

While shepherds kept their watching
Over Wandering flocks by night
Behold throughout the heavens,
There shone a holy light:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

The shepherds feared and trembled
When lo! above the earth
Rang out the angel chorus
That hailed our Saviour's birth:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

Down in a lowly manger
Our humble Christ was born
And God sent us salvation,

That blessed Christmas morn:

Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

When I was a seeker,
I sought both night and day;
I asked the Lord to help me,
And He showed me the way:
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

He made me a watchman
Upon the city wall,
And if I am a Christian,
I am the least of all.
Go, Tell It On The Mountain,
Over the hills and everywhere;
Go, Tell It On The Mountain
That Jesus Christ is born.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen 


God rest ye merry, gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior
Was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy,
O tidings of comfort and joy!

From God our heavenly Father
A blessed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tiding of the same;
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.

"Fear not, then," said the angel,
"Let nothing you affright;
This day is born a Savior
Of a pure virgin bright,
To free all those who trust in him
From Satan's power and might."

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
Doth bring redeeming grace.

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.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Clement Clarke Moore

The Yuil E’en

T’wis the Yuil e’en, whan aw throu the hoose
Nae a beastie wis steerie, nae e’en a moose.
The hose war hing bi the lum wi care,
I’ howps ‘at St Nicholas suin wad bi thare.

The weans war nestled aw cosh i’ thair beids,
While veesions of succar-ploums dance i’ thair heids.
An hen in her curtch, an ah in ma cadie,
Haed juist sattkelt doun for a lang winter’s dover.
Whan oot on the green thare arose sic a brattle,
Ah breesit frae the beid tae see whit wis the maiter.

Awa tae the windae ah flew like a glent,
Rive appen the bairges an thraw up the chess.
The muin on the breest o the new-fawen snaw
Gae the lustre o twaloors tae objects ablo.

Whan, whit tae ma wunnert een shoud compear,
But a wee sleigh, an eicht wee reindeer.
Wi a wee auld driver, sae birkie an swipper,
Ah kent in a maument it must be St Nick.

Mair swith than eagles his courseirs thay cam,
An he whistled, an shootit, an cawed thaim by name!
“Nou Dasher! Nou, Dancer! Nou, Prancer an Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner an Blitzen!
Tae the tap o the portche! Tae the tap o the waw!
Nou dash awa! Dash awa! Dash awa aw!”
As dry blades ‘at afore the wild skailwind flee,
Whan thay meet wi’ sticks, lowp tae the lift.

Sae up tae the hoose-tap the courseirs thay flew,
Wi’ the sleigh fou o toys, an St Nicholas tae.
An than, in a prinkle, ah haurd on the ruif
The brankit an pautit o ilk wee cluif.

As ah drew in ma heid, an wis turnt aroond,
Doun the lum St. Nicholas cam wi a lowp.
He wis dressed aw in fur, frae his heid tae his buits,
An hus claes war aw tairnisht wi ess an suit.

A bunnle o toys he hae flung on his back,
An he leukit like a cadger, just appent his pack.
His een—hou thay glentit! His dimples hou mirkie!
His cheeks war like roses, his nib like a cherry!
His droll wee gab wis drawn up like a bowe,
An the beard o his chin wis as white as the snaw.
The runt o a gun he huild ticht in his teeth,
An the feuch it encircled his heid like a wreath.
He hae a braid face an a wee roond kyte,
‘At sheuk, whan he laucht, like a bowlful o jeely!
He wis chuffie an gausie, a richt sonsie auld elf,
An ah laucht whan ah saw him, in maugre o masel!
A wink o his een an a twistle o his heid,
Suin gae me tae ken ah hae nocht tae dreid.

He spak nae a wird, but gaed straucht tae his wark,
An fillit aw the hose; than turnt wi a jirk.
An laying his finger aside o his nib,
An giein a nod, up the lum he rose!
He breest tae his sleigh, tae his team gae a whistle,
An awa thay aw flew like the doun o a thristle.
But ah haurd him golder, ‘ere he druive oot o sicht,
“Merry Christmas tae aw, an tae aw a Guid-nicht!”