THE CEILIDH by A J Lindsay.



The night was dark, the wind was high, the rain was pouring down,
I’d wandered to the hills and glens, far from the busy town.
I wasn’t sure just where I was or where I’d go from here,
I prayed the storm would lessen, and the night become more clear.


The ghostly shapes of mountains and the rushing of a burn,
Those were the only sights I saw, or heard at every turn,
I peered into the darkness, with hope that I just might
See some kind of dwelling, or the glimmer of a light.


Beneath a hanging ledge of rock, I sheltered for a while,
For I was tired and weary and had travelled many a mile,
As I stood in that shelter I saw to my delight
Down in the glen before me, a faintly shining light.


I swung my pack upon my back and hurried on my way
Towards that welcome speck of light that far below me lay.
It seemed to be a cottage, and as I came quite near,
The welcome strains of music came sweetly to my ear.


There was no doubt about it, there was Gaelic here galore
I knew I’d found a refuge – and I knocked upon the door.
I heard a voice say ‘ Thig thu stigh’ – the door was opened wide
And with no hesitation I quickly stepped inside.


The light which seemed so bright outside, seemed inside strangely dim
A bodach took me by the hand and quietly led me in
‘Dean suidh aig an tiene, tha an oiche fluich’ he said
And led me to a corner by an old four-poster bed.


The room was packed with people, their faces rough and tanned
It was obviously a Ceilidh – those were people of the land.
But somehow I felt rather strange, the dress and voices too
Were somehow of a different world – not of the world I knew.


But I remember I was tired, my mind was not too bright,
And I was very thankful for the shelter on that night.
They’d welcomed me into their midst, and I joined in the fun
And sang with them each chorus, of the many songs they sung.


How long we drank, and danced and sang, I cannot quite recall,
And I was not there very long before I knew them all,
Tho’ I’d been wet and footsore, a stranger at their door,
They treated me like someone – they’d known for years before.


As I have said, I got to know them all, each by their name
Calum Beag and Calum More – to me they looked the same.
Kirsteen Og, an nighean beag, who sang with Iain More,
And a bodach and a Cailach who kept dancing round the floor.


There was Alastair and Seumas, who sang a peurt a beul,
And Roderick Dhu whose ancient pipes made many an eiry wail
And Shonag and Catrine – who didn’t join in much
But kept watching an old Cailach, who wore a plaid and mutch.


Suddenly the Cailach fell down as in a swoon
And at that very moment, there was silence in the room,
She raised a bony arm, and with her finger made
A gesture to the bodach who stood by me at the bed.


He looked at me, then looked at her, and glanced towards the men
And as he looked once more at me, she beckoned him again.
He left my side and went to her and knelt down on the floor
And suddenly the room grew dark – and I recall no more.


I woke up in the morning with the sunlight in my eyes,
Around me were the mountains and the blue and cloudless skies,
My head and neck were aching, and my limbs were stiff and sore-
‘This is not the shelter, I had found the night before.’


I lay within the ruined walls no roof was o’er my head
But I recognised the hearthstone where stood the four post bed,
And over there the doorway, that I had entered through
Nettles, weeds and thistles, across it thickly grew.


It cannot be – I rubbed my eyes, and yet my mind was clear
That in this very house last night, I’d sang with people here.
I still could hear them speaking in that soft Gaelic tongue,
And hear the magic beauty of the many songs they sung.


Then somehow I felt frightened and as quietly as I could
I made towards the doorway and stumbled on some wood,
When I looked down, there at my feet, what I saw on the floor,
Was a weather worn bed post, I had seen the night before.


Fear now really gripped me and I took my haversack
And swiftly taking to my heels I never once looked back.
Just how far or where I ran I cannot truly tell
But the last thing I remember is, I stumbled and I fell.


How long I lay I do not know, but when I did come to
No sun was in the Heavens and the sky no longer blue.
I looked along the mountainside, above the mist and fog,
And saw there walking from me, a shepherd and his dog.



I shouted out as best I could, but he didn’t seem to hear,
I shouted yet another time, and the collie pricked his ear.
It stopped and looked towards me and slowly turned around
And trotted quickly down to where, I lay there on the ground.


The shepherd took me to his home, and offered me a bed
His wife soon bathed and bandaged my slightly injured head.
I told them all my story, which I felt was not unwise,
And they both sat back and listened with no sign of surprise.


It seems there was a story which they both retold to me,
About the little cottage and it’s family history.
It was the local Ceilidh house with an ever open door,
But it had been in ruin – for 100years or more.


But what of Alastair and Sheumas and what of Calum More,
And what of the old bodach who met me at the door,
And Shonag and Catrina and the Cailach I had seen
They were real – I swear it – it cant have been a dream.


The shephered shook his greying head – ‘I know just how you feel,
Aye, Calum Beag and Calum More – my lad indeed were real.
And so was the old Cailach you saw upon the floor
But that’s another story – and I cannot tell you more.’


Next day before I left my friends, I looked far down the Glen
I could see my little cottage, in the shelter of the Ben.
How snug and cosy there it stood, bathed in the morning glow,
I’m glad I saw it as it was – 100 years ago.


Back in the busy city, in the comfort of my den
My thoughts so oft return to that rugged Highland Glen.
And when I sit and ponder, by a dying firelight glow,
There seems so much upon this earth – that we just do not know.