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