Gruffudd ab yr Ynad Coch 

The heart of oak is cold
behind the gates of Aberffraw.
The hand that gave gold
is still now – I cannot wear it,
the apparel he put about me.
This grief for my lord is a cloud on my soul
This grief for the fate that his wounds brought us
confounds the red spear of Cadwalader’s keeping.

For us now the darkness,
the hatred of Saxons
A time of lamenting
in the life left to us
A time now to praise him
to think of his glory
to reproach even God
who has left us without him;
For him life eternal.

What now for us left
with a full load of weeping?
The dark hand that felled him
haunts his kingdom; his hall now the grave.
A long vista of fear stretches before us.

Lord Christ deliver him
for the sake of our sorrow,
Heavy the sword blows that struck him to earth
Heir of brave princes, his flame
burned brightly: strong Lion of Gwynedd
Great was the need of the strength of his throne
All Britain was struck down with Nantcoel’s defender.

Tears running on maiden’s cheeks
Blood flowing from warriors gashes
and trodden into the mire of our land.
Widows keening with hearts broken
and sons without fathers, their homes
-charred ruins – fired and looted.
Not since Camlann has there been such weeping
Gone is our mainstay, his golden hair
stained with a death blow O Llywelyn!
My mind cannot grasp it.

Hearts chilled by a pall of fear
Our life-will withers like weeds in Winter
as the wind dashes the rains upon us
and the oaks clash
and the sea’s crash scours the land:
Do you not see?
The Sun falls and the stars are shrinking!
Can you not believe our world is ending?
O God, why does the sea not rush over the shore?
Why should this life trouble us more?
Wretched we are and clasped in fear
with no-where to turn and terror’s grip tightening
and only life’s shackles to loosen our burden.

All his followers now cast down,
his lords and his servants,
the weak and the strong, all of us suffer
Why should we value a head on our shoulders
when he is without one?

His head has fallen and with it our pride
Fear and surrender are all we have left
His head has fallen – a dragon’s head
Noble it was , fierce to our foes
His head is stuck with an iron pole
The searing pain of it runs through my soul,
This land is empty – our spirit cut down.
His head had honour in nine hundred lands
Proud king, swift hawk, fierce wolf
True Lord of Aberffraw
His only refuge
the Kingdom of Heaven.

Note: Gruffudd ab yr Ynad Coch laments the death of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd in 1282, one of the greatest and most heart-rending laments written in any language. A translation from the Welsh:

This was my uncle of the war

all those years after Vimy Ridge
after Amiens and Passchendaele
and all the other hellish places
where by rights he should have died
with his comrades
of the Fighting Twenty-Fifth
L Cpl Harry Lee Blaikie
of Truro, Nova Scotia

sitting in a suit on Sunday afternoons
in our living room
when church was done
legs crossed, tie clip rising and falling
with each shallow breath
of the White Owl cigar
that burned oh so slowly
in his veined right hand
the smoke as low as his voice

talking with my father
of the car and lumber business
of the garage and mill and stock market
and the weather, always the weather
when all else failed, as if that alone
could affirm the bond between them
a code for everything left unspoken
how hot it was, how cold
minds me of the time in Burnside
those winters in the woods
the two of them turning in unison
to stare at the pale curtain window

my mother serving tea
and sweets
on good china plates
with pleasantries
and never a word of the war
on any occasion in all those years
not even second hand from my father
and thus I knew my uncle not
but a quiet man with a burning cigar
pale eyes beneath dark glasses
good felt hats and pastel cars
and it was not until he was very old

and near death himself
that he finally spoke – to the newspaper – 
of the gas and mud and shells
and machine gun bullets
and the stench of the trenches
horrors that even then he could
scarcely bring himself to mention
You did what you had to do
he said, I shot at people

my uncle, leaving as arrived
a shadow at the close of day
backing out the laneway into the dusk
gone like the wars we never knew

(From: In That Old City by the Sea, by David Blaikie. 2017

Note: Memories of an uncle, Harry Lee Blaikie (1897-1988), who was there, and survived, but spent the rest of his life with what might now be diagnosed as a form of PTSD. I don't recall him ever mentioning his service overseas in all the times he came to our house in Nova Scotia.

 I Believe


I believe that out there somewhere, every life goes on.
Everything which springs into existence leaves a memory which cannot be erased.
You may call me 'fool' or charlatan or dreamer.
You may scream in rage and sorrow for the things you think that I should be.
But, you may never see the things I see,
For, you can never be another me.

Do not chide me for my faults'-
They are all I have to shade the prism of my soul.
None of us could see beyond our own eternal light
If not for these frail bodies which will,
All too soon, grow old.
Our eyes evolved to filter light so we could see to kill or fight.
Our ears evolved to hear the creatures stalking us at night.

So do not call me 'Liar!' If my view of life seems different to yours.
Our less than perfect brains can only catch a fleeting glimpse of our reality.
So much of life is filtered out by all which makes us as we are.
Certainty will always be a lie on which we must depend,
Until we finally evolve enough at journey's end,
And look back in amazement at the road which everyone of us has fought their way along so far.

Patrick W Kavanagh

The Lion of Gwynedd

'Perfect the lad killed by hostile men's hands,
Perfect his forebear's honours in him.
Candle of kings, strong lion of Gwynedd,
Throne of honour, there was need of him.
With my prop cut down, gold-handed prince,
With Llywelyn's death, gone is my mind.
See you not the rush of the wind and rain?
See you not the oaks lash each other?
See you not the ocean scourging the shore?
See you not the truth is portending?
See you not the sun hurtling across the sky?
See you not that the stars have fallen?
Have you no belief in God, foolish men?
See you not that the world is ending?
Ah God, that the sea would cover the land!
What is left us that we should linger?
No place to flee from terror's prison,
No place to live, wretched is living!
All retainers were true to his trust,
All warriors were his defenders,
All stern men would swear by his hand.
All leaders, all lands were his own.
All counties, all towns are now troubled,
All households, all clans are collapsing.
All the weak, all the strong he kept safe:
All children now cry in their cradles.
Little good it did me to dupe me,
Leaving me a head, with him headless.
Head that slain made fear unhateful,
Head that slain made surrender best,
Head of a soldier, head of praise,
Head of a duke, a dragon's head,
Head of fair Llywelyn, sharp the world's fear,
An iron spike through it,
Head of my lord, harsh pain is mine,
Head of my spirit left speechless,
Head that had honour in nine hundred lands,
Nine hundred feasts for him,
Head of a king, his hand hurled iron,
Head a proud hawk, he forced a breach,
Head of a kingly wolf thrust foremost,
Head of kings, heaven be his haven!
Blest king, great deeds were his, blest company,
Who longed to reach Llydaw (Brittany),
King right royal of Aberffraw,
May heaven's fair land be his home.'

The Fairy King’s advice on Trees. A poem from Early Ireland



This medieval Irish poem about trees is taken from a text known as Aidedh Ferghusa meic Léide (the Death of Fergus). In the poem, Iubhdán, the king of the fairies, advises the ruler of Ulster, Fergus mac Léide, on the special qualities of trees and which ones can be burned in the household fire.

The pliant woodbine/honeysuckle if thou burn, wailings for misfortune will abound,
Dire extremity at weapons’ points or drowning in great waves will follow.

Burn not the precious apple tree of spreading and low-sweeping bough;
Tree ever decked in bloom of white, against whose fair head all men put forth the hand.

The surly blackthorn is a wanderer, a wood that the artificer burns not;
Throughout his body, though it be scanty, birds in their flocks warble.

The noble willow burn not, a tree sacred to poems;
Within his blooms bees are a-sucking, all love the little cage.

The graceful tree with the berries, the wizard’s tree, the rowan burn;
But spare the limber tree; burn not the slender hazel.

Dark is the colour of ash; timber that makes the wheels to go;
Rods he furnishes for horsemen’s hands, his form turns battle into flight.

Tenterhook among woods the spiteful briar is, burn him that is so keen and green;
He cuts, he flays the foot, him that would advance he forcibly drags backward.

Fiercest heat-giver of all timber is green oak, from him non may escape unhurt;
By partiality for him the head is set on aching, and by his acrid embers the eye is made sore.

Alder, very battle-witch of all woods, tree that is hottest in the fight–
Undoubtedly burn at thy discretion both the alder and whitethorn.

Holly, burn it green; holly, burn it dry;
Of all trees whatsoever the critically best is holly.

Elder that hath tough bark, tree that in truth hurts sore;
Him that furnishes horses to the armies from the sidh (fairies) burn so that he be charred.

The birch as well, if he be laid low, promises abiding fortune;
Burn up most sure and certainly the stakes that bear the constant pods.

Put on the hearth if it so please thee, the russet aspen to come headlong down;
Burn, be it late or early, the tree with the palsied branch.

Patriarch of long-lasting woods is the yew sacred to feasts as it is well known;
Of him now build ye dark-red vats of goodly size.

(Translated from Irish by Standish O’Grady)

By Colm on June 13, 2017 in Archaeology blogs, Irish archaeology blog posts, Short Histories

The Execution Of Montrose 

Come hither, Evan Cameron!
Come, stand beside my knee:
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There ’s shouting on the mountain-side,
There ’s war within the blast;
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go trooping past:
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.

’T was I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber’s snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I ’ve told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy’s shore.
I ’ve told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tam’d the Lindsays’ pride;
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes;
O deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e’er thou meet
With one of Assynt’s name—
Be it upon the mountain’s side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or back’d by armed men—
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wrong’d thy sire’s renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart,
The hangman rode below,
They drew his hands behind his back
And bar’d his noble brow.
Then, as a hound is slipp’d from leash,
They cheer’d the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man’s heart
Grow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow;
There sat their gaunt and wither’d dames,
And their daughters all a-row.
And every open window
Was full as full might be
With black-rob’d Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He look’d so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero’s soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turn’d aside and wept.

But onwards—always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labor’d,
Till it reach’d the house of doom.
Then first a woman’s voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and a hiss arose
From the heart of the tossing crowd:
Then as the Graeme look’d upwards,
He saw the ugly smile
Of him who sold his king for gold,
The master-fiend Argyle!

The Marquis gaz’d a moment,
And nothing did he say,
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale
And he turn’d his eyes away.
The painted harlot by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street,
And hands were clench’d at him;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
“Back, coward, from thy place!
For seven long years thou hast not dar’d
To look him in the face.”

Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin’s streets
Had peal’d the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men,
Not all the rebels in the south
Had borne us backwards then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,
Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were thron’d
Amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perju’d traitors fill’d the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warristoun
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.

“Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew’s cross
That waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—
And oh, that such should be!
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies ’twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dar’d I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr’s crown!

“There is a chamber far away
Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have nam’d for me
Than by my father’s grave.
For truth and right, ’gainst treason’s might,
This hand hath always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower,
Give every town a limb,
And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him!”

The morning dawn’d full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:
The thunder crash’d across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat
The ’larum of the drum.
There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal ’t is to see
The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree!
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms—
The bells begin to toll—
“He is coming! he is coming!
God’s mercy on his soul!”
One last long peal of thunder:
The clouds are clear’d away,
And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.

“He is coming! he is coming!”
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walk’d to battle
More proudly than to die:
There was color in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvell’d as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turn’d him to the crowd;
But they dar’d not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look’d upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept within—
All else was clam and still.

The grim Geneva ministers
With anxious scowl drew near,
As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.
He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,
And veil’d his face for Christ’s dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away:
For he had ta’en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o’er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climb’d the lofty ladder
As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dar’d to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky—
The work of death was done!
William Edmondstoune Aytoun

"Away in the Manger" Please sing with your Bouvier....they'll may just sing along!!!

A Bouv on my pillow, no place for my head,
They've both taken over what once was MY bed.
The blankets are hairy, the sheets both have spit,
Someone's in charge and I'm sure I'm not it.

The Bouvies are sleeping, each one in their place,
I lie here and gaze upon each sleeping face.
I think that they're angels, but that's a mistake.
Their rowdy behavior begins when they wake.

They race thru the living room, shaking a toy,
Then skid to a stop my wild girl and my boy.
They look at me lovingly and give me a kiss,
These Bouvier moments I just can't dismiss.

Their eyes full of wonder, each face in a grin,
They've had their "mom" moment and are at it again.
Running and chasing, my house is a wreck,
Then Emma comes back and puts her paws round my neck.

They give their love freely, they want to be near,
Not just at Christmas, but each day of the year.
My life would be empty without them around,
Every day that I share with them, love just abounds.

All dogs are wonderful, that's just their way,
But Bouviers are just special, so their owner's say.
Intelligence shines from each dark brown eye,
Their honesty, loyalty you just can't deny.

Morgan Collings ~ Dec. 2007

Dear Santa Claws,

Some people don’t believe in you, but I do, because last year you brought me a tube of tennis balls, some yummy treats, a new dog sweater, and a plush, fleecy blue sheep that goes “Baaa-aaa-aaa” when I squeeze and chew on him. I stayed awake a long time next to the fireplace on Christmas Eve, waiting for you to come down, but I never did see you. Just my human Mom and Dad putting some packages under the tree. Thank you for those nice gifts last year! You are pretty special if you can sneak in past me!

This year I only want one thing for me for Christmas, and I promise, promise, promise that I’ve been good. My human Mom and Dad and sister and brother need your help a lot more than I do. See, Santa, my Dad lost something that was important to him this summer… something called a “job.” I looked for it all over the house and yard, but I don’t know what a job looks or smells like, so I couldn’t find it. He stayed upset for a very long time, and Mom got upset too, and they yelled at each other, and my brother and sister cried, and I don’t really understand.

Right after that, Dad started staying home all the time and worrying and drinking beer and yelling and sleeping too much. Mom went out and found a different “job” but I guess it isn’t a very special one, like the one Dad lost. She stays gone all day, and when she comes home, they fight and the kids run upstairs and shut their doors. Mom said she is worried they will lose their house. But how can you lose a house? You’re right there, inside it, and it’s much too big to bury, or carry off and leave somewhere! Humans are so weird, and I love them, but I don’t know why they act the way they do.

Then this week, Dad put my leash on me, and got my fleecy blue sheep, and put us in his car and brought us to this strange place. He gave me to a lady here, who brought me back to a concrete run with chain-link fence walls, and stainless steel bowls of food and water, and a Kuranda dog bed. The lady put me in here and closed the gate. And then my Dad went out to his car and got in and drove away without me. I could not believe it!

There are a bunch of other dogs of all kinds and sizes in this place, staying in runs just like mine. Some are just puppies, and some are really old, a few are sick or hurt, and some are kind of wild and a little scary, but a lot of them are just regular, nice dogs like me. Some of the dogs cry all the time, or bang on their gates, or pace in their runs, or just sit and stare, and the baby puppies huddle up together on their Kuranda beds and whimper or sleep. Even with lots of other dogs nearby, I’m lonely and afraid, and this place smells like pee, and like fear, even though the people clean it a lot. I am glad I have my fleecy blue sheep that you brought me last year, but I miss my family really bad. A few nice people have come in to visit me and the other dogs, and the kennel lady and her friends have fed us and taken us out to walk in a small yard with a big, tall fence. Sometimes, a kennel person comes and takes away one of the dogs on a leash. Sometimes, the dog who leaves goes out the front door after a while, and gets into a car with a new person! That’s what I want! But sometimes they walk back to a gray door at the far end of the dog runs. The dog and the person go in, but only the person comes out. Sometimes, when the person comes back out by herself, she has a red, puffy face and salty water coming out of her eyes…. Humans look and act so strange when they are unhappy. I am afraid I might have to go through that door, and make the lady unhappy. Santa, I don’t want to!

So Santa, I don’t think my Mom and Dad are coming back to get me, because Dad can’t find his “job.” I PROMISE I didn’t take it, or bury it, or chew it up! But that’s why he brought me to this place and left me, because maybe it’s my fault…. Could you please bring him a new one that he’ll really like? And some nice toys and treats to make my Mom, brother, and sister happy? If they are happy, maybe they will want me again. If they don’t come back for me, could you please bring me the one thing I really need for Christmas: a new human to love me and give me a home? No one is mean to me in this place, and I get food and treats, but I don’t like it here, because all of the dogs are sad and afraid. And because of the gray door.

Santa, if you are looking for a loving dog, I could even come home with you. But I heard it’s really cold up there where you live. I would definitely need my warm sweater from last Christmas! Could you bring all these other dogs here some new people, or something nice to make them feel better, too?

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m afraid I waited too late to talk to you. You may not have time to give anything to me and the other dogs here. So I’m sending this message to Jesus too. His birthday is tomorrow, you know! If you don’t have time to help me or think about me, I hope that maybe He can.

A lot of people who don’t believe in you also don’t believe in Jesus either, because they say they can’t see Him or hear Him, so he can’t be real. But I know He is real, and I have seen Him and heard Him! He is around all the time, not just at Christmas. At night while I am asleep, Jesus comes to talk to me and He tells me that He loves me, no matter what else happens to me with humans. He says that a time will come when I get to come live with Him forever, and when that time comes, I’ll have to leave my body behind, but I will never be afraid, or lonely, or bored, or unwanted, or in trouble for something I did, ever again. I would like to live with Jesus because He makes me feel very safe when He is with me. But I don’t know about leaving my body behind, and not being able to get back into it if I wake up.

Do you think it is cold and snowy where Jesus lives, just like where you live? I’m sorry I have so many questions, Santa, but there is not much to do here in this place, except think, worry, remember, and wish. There isn’t a chimney in this place, so I don’t know how you will get in. Maybe this time I will stay awake long enough to see you! If not, I will fall asleep and Jesus will come talk to me while I dream.

Santa, if I don’t get my family back, or a new human, or you don’t take me home with you… if I have to take a walk tomorrow through the gray door, or if I get to go with Jesus, and I have to leave my body behind… will I have to leave my fleecy blue sheep behind too? If I do, can you take it, and give it to another dog who is feeling lonely?

I hope you have a safe trip tonight, Santa. I left some food in the bottom of my bowl for you, and a biscuit under my Kuranda bed. I promise I will not bark if I get to see you, because it would spoil the surprise for all the other dogs.

I love you, Santa Claws. Thank you.
Merry Christmas

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

   But sturdy and stanch he stands;

 The little toy soldier is red with rust,

   And his musket molds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

   And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

   Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,

   "And don't you make any noise!"

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

   He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

   Awakened our Little Boy Blue---

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

   But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

   Each in the same old place---

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

   The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

   In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

   Since he kissed them and put them there.

The Battle of Benburb

O’er the hills of Benburb, rose the red beam of day


Gleaming bright from our foemen in battle array


But as brightly again, in the mid summer glow
It shone back from the troops of our brave Owen Roe.

Munroe had his thousands arrayed at his back


With their puritan mantles, steel morion and Jack


And with him fierce Blayney and Conway had come


To crush Owen Roe at the roll of the drum.

And who with O’Neill on that morn drew the band?


Brave hearts as e’er beat by the Blackwater strand


Sir Phelim, brave chief, with his bosom of fire


O’Donnell, McSweeney and gallant Maguire.

From Derry’s wild woodlands from Maine’s sounding tide


From Leitrim and Longford came chiefs to our side


From Breffni’s green hills, with his sabre in hand


Stood bold Myles the slasher, the pride of our land.

We kept all that noontide, the foemen at play


Though we thought of their forays and burned for the fray;


For our chief bade us wait, till the eve had begun


Then rush on the foe with our backs to the sun

Hurrah for the red hand!

And on to a man


Our columns poured down, like a storm on their van


Where a sermon was preaching to strengthen their zeal
‘

We’ll give them a sermon’ cried Owen Roe O’Neill.

There was panic before us and panic beside


As their horsemen fled back in a wild broken tide;


And we swept them along by the Blackwater shore
‘

Till we reddened its tide with the Puritan’s gore.

A Kern by the river held something on high
‘

Saint Columb, is it thus that our enemies fly!


Perchance ’tis my coolun, they clipped long ago


Mile Gloria, the rough wig of flying Munroe!’

And we took from the foes e’er that calm twilight fall


Their horses and baggage and banners and all;


Then we sat by our camp-fires and drank in the glow


Good health to our leader, the brave Owen Roe