Roads
By Katharine Knight

Any road leads anywhere;
Come out in the flush of the dawning,
And follow me over the fields of clover,
Wet with the dew of the morning.

Any road leads anywhere;
Come out to the bracken and heather,
And climb the hill with the mighty will
Of the world and the wind and the weather.

Morning mists on the fields above,
Sun on the moor and the river;
And sun below where the birch trees grow,
And the magical harebells shiver.

Any road leads anywhere.
Shadow and sun blow over;
And all's to dare with nothing to care
For the heart of the true-born rover.

Some of the roads lead down and down,
But follow the roads that climb,
And nought shall sever your joy for ever,
From now to the end of time.

Heather Ale
By Robert Louis Stevenson

From the bonny bells of heather,
They brewed a drink long syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in blessed swound,
For days and days together,
In their dwellings underground.

There rose a King in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell,
But the manner of the brewing,
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain's head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The King rode and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather,
And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free upon the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Roughly plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father -
Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
He looked down on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them:
And there on the giddy brink -
"I will give thee life ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret",
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour,
Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten;
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage,
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall not avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of the Heather Ale."

The Burnie
By Walter Wingate

Here's a bonnie burnie
Singin' a' its lane,
Singin' frae a happy heart,
Like a sinless wean!

What a worl' to sing to!
Grey auld hills around;
Rowin' mists about their heads
Ilk ane sleepin' sound'!

'Mang the heather rovin',
Sheep and Hielan' kye;
Hillward airt their heads, the while
The burn gaes singin' by.

E'en the shepherd laddie,
Whistlin' on the scaur,
Hears nae music but his ain!
Where could fate be waur

Than yours, my bonnie burnie,
To sing for ever mair?
Sing your sweetest and your best,
Wi' nane to ken nor care

But the happy burnie,
Carin' nocht ava
What may hear or what may heed
Sings and sings awa!

Meaning of unusual words:
bonnie burnie	beautiful stream
a' its lane	all alone
wean	baby
Rowin'	rolling
Ilk	each
kye	cattle
airt	direct
scaur	steep, eroded hill
waur	worse
ken	know
nocht ava	not at all

The hare
Alexander Carmichael

Whoever reads my testimonial,
I was unquestionably virtuous,
Without gloom or servility
In my nature.

I would not eat rank grass,
What was food for my kind
Was the fine herbs
Of the moorlands.

My cap, though it be reddish,
Was beloved by ladies,
And my haunch, though cold,
By gentlemen.

'Tis a sad tale to tell
That I am tonight laid low
And that my brain-pan
Is being mangled,

After they had removed my coat
Right down to my paws,
And roasted my carcase
On embers.

Not thus was I at
The Martinmas season
Frisking and sporting
Mid the rough hills.

Without thought at that time
That the villain would come
With his gin to ensnare me
In the gloaming.

I was at home on the heaths
Where my father and ancestors
Were sportive, merry
And spirited;

 

Nibbling the blades of grass
On rounded slopes and moors,
Though I fell into the snare
Which was grievous for me.

Reference:

Carmina Gadelica. Alexander Carmichael. Edited by C.J. Moore. Floris Books, Edinburgh. 1994.