To the Bard of Reay

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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.
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To the Bard of Reay
On viewing a Bulky Volume of his Latest Poems.
By Anon

Bard of thought sedate, whose tender line
Is but the transcript of a life-long art
Ripened in quiet study, while the heart
Kept guard and crowned thee with its powers divine.
In beauty and in glory! Were it mine
To hymn thy praises, I would cry at length
The scattered treasures of our bard’s strength
Are richly garnered! Why should such wealth as thine
Blow to the winds like vagrant autumn leaves?
We joy and thank thee that the ripened sheaves
Are safely housed and hoarded! Wheat and wine
And golden fruits and knots of amaranth flowers
That link the years and seasons, heap the shrine
Thy liberal hand hath oped to these glad hearts of ours!


Caithness Courier 1952

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A New Year Greeting
To that Grand Old Man – Henry Henderson, Esq. Bard of Reay.
By Scaraben c. 1952

A health to thee, Henry!
( I drink in mountain dew )
With all the kindliest greetings
Of a heart that is leal an’ true!
Let happen what happen may
With others, by land or sea;
For me, I vow if I drink at all,
I’ll drink a health to thee !

A health to thee, Henry!
A man of men art thou,
Wi’ your lightsome step and form erect,
And thy broad and open brow;
Wi’ your eagle eye and musical voice
(which yet can be soft and kind)
As wrapped in the garb of old Gaul ye pass by
With your locks agley in the wind !

I greet thee as a poet and scholar;
I greet thee as wise and good,
I greet thee ever lord of thyself –
No heritage mean, by the rood !
I greet thee and hold thee in honour
That thou bendest to no man’s nod
Amidst the din of a world of sin
Still lifting thine eyes to God !

Go, search me the world and find me,
Go, find me if ye can
From the distant Faroes wi’ their mists and snows,
To the green-clad Isle of Man.
From John O’Groats to Durban
From far Poolewe to Peru
Go, find me a friendlier or wiser man,
Than the venerable Bard of Buldoo!

Now here’s to the honest and leal and true,
And here’s to the learned and wise.
And to all who love our northern glens
And our hills that kiss the skies;
And here’s to the native Celtic race
And to each bright-eyed Celtic fair,
And here’s to the Bard of Buldoo
Long may he inhale the northern air.

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Though Handclasps Have Been Broken.
By H.H. CC 1952

Song sets its seal on lovers. It can bind
Them close forever in a lost embrace
Across the years, no matter whom they find
For recompense to take each other’s place !

He may be dancing with another girl
His love forgotten or indefinite
When, at a tune, his heart will twist and twirl
Remembering how once they danced to it!

And she may be involved or fancy free,
Coquettish, cool, or laughing in a throng
Until she hears a snatch of melody
And her pulse leaps – because it was their song.

Across the years, the music that they knew
And shared together when their love was spoken
Comes back to haunt them and proclaim them true
Though lips have parted and handclasps been broken !

This also appeared in the Caithness Courier 1952 but there are only the initials H.H. .... I'll assume this is Henry Henderson, until someone says I'm wrong.

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Searcher.
By Henry Henderson the Bard of Reay.

Specially written for the handing over of the ‘Searcher’ Memorial Seat
On the Victoria Walk, Thurso, on Saturday April 15, 1950

Here on the Victoria Walk,
Overlooking Thurso Bay,
Which he loved so well, and neath its spell
He revelled in youth’s brief day.

A band of friends have met
To honour his memory
All faithful, who remembered yet
The days that used to be.

And the lure that drew him back
As the summer days drew nigh;
To the shore bestrewn with ‘wraith and wrack’
In the warm month of July.

Ah, many a pleasant walk he enjoyed by Thurso Bay;
And many a confidential talk with friends of youth’s brief day!

Up here to the far cold north
Was his heart’s true cherished home,
Where Boreas oft in wrath comes forth
Mid froth and spray and foam.

He loved the Caithness moorlands wide
Our lochs and rivers and streams
He loved the sound of the Pentland tide
Which haunted his morning dreams.

But perhaps the most of all
He loved our beautiful Bay
The ‘Vic’ the Esplanade – the Mall
Which he knew in youth’s brief day.

He knew them all as well – he loved them one and all,
They on his spirit cast their spell, they held his soul in thrall
And if the dead are conscious, according to God’s Will;
I know he kindly thinks of us who honour his memory still.

Who was Searcher? can anyone tell us more ? Is the seat still there?