trinkie
30-Nov-07, 12:41
To the Bard of Reay ( from his friend John Bremner)
To thee, inspired genius of the North,
These feeble lines with reverence I indite;
From sea-washed cliff, and moor, thou bringeth forth
The subjects thou hast draped with Romance bright.
As o’er the stormy Firth I gaze tonight,
And watch the white-capped combers as they roll
Onward and shoreward, all my flights take fright
To that lone cot where lives the genial soul
Whose name is blazoned high on Honour’s sacred scroll.
And thinking thus, I see a man, whose toil
Has been – and is – vested on land and sea;
No rosy path was his, to till the soil –
Such was his lot – a humble crofter he.
Full oft he toiled without reward or fee;
When crops were bad, and Ocean’s harvest scant
But in his humble cottage home in Reay.
He lives content, above the reach of want,
And pens his odes and lays, to charm and to enchant.
Not on the great alone doth Genius shine,
Nor on the learned and sage her mantle fling !
Genius – and that gift by all men deemed Divine,
Is not prerogative of peer or king,
To write, to teach, to preach, or yet to sing,
But to the humble peasant in his cot,
Full doth Fame her glittering prizes bring
A roof of straw, that peasant’s lowly lot,
His name shall live, when great ones are forgot.
And such is he of whom I pen my lay
One who has known, in bitter years gone by
The blast of hardship, and of penury,
But, with a spirit born of Courage high,
Refused to knuckle to adversity,
And like the knights of yore, did buckle on
His armour filching from both soil and sea –
Scant oftentimes – a living, dearly won.
His hours of labour – dawn till set of sun.
And now in this, the evening of his days,
He sits upon the poet’s gilded throne;
His goal – Parnassus heights – his odes and lays
Has made his name o’er all broad Scotia known.
And, with the passing years, have quickly grown
Most popular where ‘ere the Caithness speech
Is spoken; and his works stand forth alone
For merit; and the lessons that they teach
Encourage those who would that noble victory reach.
Then unto thee, stout son of Pentland’s shore,
We gladly bow, and blazon forth thy name,
Which will – when thou and I shall be no more,
Be proudly graven on the plaque of Fame.
A guiding star to those who would attain
The goal thou won; in some far future day
And on the scroll, immortal will remain
Till this terrestrial orb shall pass away;
Then, only will it die, immortal "Bard of Reay."
This is the beautiful poem I planned to submit for St Andrew's Day. I send it to Isabel.
It came to me from my kind friend who has made a collection of the poems in the Caithness Courier over several years.
The generousity of my friend and the words of the poem by John Bremner epitomize the warmth of the Caithness people.
I hope my typing has done it justice.
trinkie
To thee, inspired genius of the North,
These feeble lines with reverence I indite;
From sea-washed cliff, and moor, thou bringeth forth
The subjects thou hast draped with Romance bright.
As o’er the stormy Firth I gaze tonight,
And watch the white-capped combers as they roll
Onward and shoreward, all my flights take fright
To that lone cot where lives the genial soul
Whose name is blazoned high on Honour’s sacred scroll.
And thinking thus, I see a man, whose toil
Has been – and is – vested on land and sea;
No rosy path was his, to till the soil –
Such was his lot – a humble crofter he.
Full oft he toiled without reward or fee;
When crops were bad, and Ocean’s harvest scant
But in his humble cottage home in Reay.
He lives content, above the reach of want,
And pens his odes and lays, to charm and to enchant.
Not on the great alone doth Genius shine,
Nor on the learned and sage her mantle fling !
Genius – and that gift by all men deemed Divine,
Is not prerogative of peer or king,
To write, to teach, to preach, or yet to sing,
But to the humble peasant in his cot,
Full doth Fame her glittering prizes bring
A roof of straw, that peasant’s lowly lot,
His name shall live, when great ones are forgot.
And such is he of whom I pen my lay
One who has known, in bitter years gone by
The blast of hardship, and of penury,
But, with a spirit born of Courage high,
Refused to knuckle to adversity,
And like the knights of yore, did buckle on
His armour filching from both soil and sea –
Scant oftentimes – a living, dearly won.
His hours of labour – dawn till set of sun.
And now in this, the evening of his days,
He sits upon the poet’s gilded throne;
His goal – Parnassus heights – his odes and lays
Has made his name o’er all broad Scotia known.
And, with the passing years, have quickly grown
Most popular where ‘ere the Caithness speech
Is spoken; and his works stand forth alone
For merit; and the lessons that they teach
Encourage those who would that noble victory reach.
Then unto thee, stout son of Pentland’s shore,
We gladly bow, and blazon forth thy name,
Which will – when thou and I shall be no more,
Be proudly graven on the plaque of Fame.
A guiding star to those who would attain
The goal thou won; in some far future day
And on the scroll, immortal will remain
Till this terrestrial orb shall pass away;
Then, only will it die, immortal "Bard of Reay."
This is the beautiful poem I planned to submit for St Andrew's Day. I send it to Isabel.
It came to me from my kind friend who has made a collection of the poems in the Caithness Courier over several years.
The generousity of my friend and the words of the poem by John Bremner epitomize the warmth of the Caithness people.
I hope my typing has done it justice.
trinkie