Lon-dubh fly

No two ways about it - I am heartbroken. Julie Fowlis is performing tonight in Berkeley at Freight and Salvage and I cannot go. At this point, the reasons/obstacles no longer matter. The one shining light is that one day she will come back. Next time will be different.


http://www.youtube.com/MRFHM

One time listening to her sing, and I already feel better. Such is the power of song.

...so far from St. Kilda's rocky shore

Ewan Gillies was a real person who left the very remote and beautiful St. Kilda (Hiort - 40 miles west north/west of North Uist). He found gold in California, but....


(St. Kilda was evacuated in the 1930s)

Ewan and the Gold ©Grian Music
Lyrics and Music By Brian McNeill / Back O'The North Wind
Performed by Dick Gaughan
http://www.youtube.com/user/DonegalRaymie201

You caught the line they threw you,
You helped to make her fast
You heard the sailors talking in the rigging
And when the captain said he'd take
Another hand before the mast
You knew you were halfway to the diggings
So you rode the ocean swell
To Bendigo and living hell
In the camps and the creeks of Castlemane
For like a million other souls
You were haunted by the gold
And you'd never know a peaceful day again

And tell me Ewan Gillies did you still believe the dream
When the hard men of Victoria bought and sold you?
When you had to sell the farm that you'd sifted from the seams
Did you curse the tale the sailor laddies told you?
And did you fight against the call of the island
You knew would never hold you?

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

And when the dream was done
You'd lost your children and your wife
And every single thing you'd ever had
But you told your friends the gold
Was still the centre of your life
And they told you one and all that you were mad
So you wandered through the years
Never stopping once to rue
And St Kilda heard your footsteps as you passed
Old Glory even put you
In a coat of faded blue
Till the older glory claimed you back at last

And tell me Ewan Gillies did you give the Lord your thanks
When he showed you where the gold and riches lay?
Or did you bow your head in prayer on the Sacramento banks
And ask him should you go or should you stay?
And did St Kilda call you home across the mountains
At the dawn of every day?

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

So once more you made the journey
To that bare and barren land
To end your days among your kith and kin
To a winter when the devil
Held the island in his hand
And the shadow of starvation rode the wind
For it's hard upon St Kilda
For the folk to keep their pride
When every season brings them to despair
And to hear you tell the tale
Of a different ocean's tide
Made their bitter burden harder still to bear

Though they knew you for their own you were forced to stand alone
In a solitude that no one could endure
They made your home a living grave until the bravest of the brave
Was forced to leave the poorest of the poor
So you reached out once again and took hold of
The bonnie golden lure

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

When first I heard the tale
Of Ewan and the gold
I was filled with bitter anger and with tears
To hear a traveller return
And be shut out from the fold
Drove a shaft into the deepest of my fears
For God made Ewan Gillies
And God gave him wings to fly
But only from the land where he belonged
But I'd fight with God himself
For the light in Ewan's eye
Or with anyone who tells me he was wrong

For there's some who use their dreams to tear themselves apart
And some who never find a dream at all
But how many find the courage to look deepest in their hearts
To find a dream they can follow till they fall
And when my heart cries out to wander I can hear him
Answering the call

For all the gold Ewan Gillies ever found
Could not buy him peace or freedom
From the memory of the sound
Of the waves on St Kilda's rocky shore

And on the island the greatest story ever told
It was always Ewan Gillies,
California and the gold
So far from St Kilda's rocky shore

To a Mouse

Scotland's favorite son Robert Burns would be 250 years old this year, so there is a lot of buzz about the dear man. And for good reason! He was a prolific and gifted writer/philosopher whom we continue to admire and respect; one of Scotland's literary treasures. Hopefully all the hoopla surrounding the anniversary of his birth will spark a renewed interest in his poetry beyond Scotland, as well as bring some tourist money to their country.

On a side note, I read there is a feature film in the works on the life of Robert Burns and apparently Gerald Butler is playing the lead. No offence to Butler who is a fine actor (like the character Christine I was completely taken by him in the Phantom of the Opera), but he's just too over the top Hollywood handsome for the part. Butler does not have to say a word for one to want to jump his bones. It's distracting (albeit in a nice way) and completely misses the core essence of Rabbie Burns. Burns was a nice looking man yes, but it was WHAT he said and HOW he said it that reaches women even in the year 2009. Burns "dearly lov'd the lasses, O" but he was so much more than a poet chasing skirts as he is often portrayed. My pick to play him would be James McAvoy, who is perhaps the best actor of his generation. McAvoy has amazing depth and believability and physically just looks more like Burns. (I was completely smitten, as I think all women are regardless of age, by James McAvoy in Becoming Jane.) Perhaps they offered him the role and he wasn't available. Too bad. It is a cinematic movie after all, not a documentary, so they will undoubtedly focus on Burns' womanizing and not on his amazing writing. I do not envy Gerald Butler, as he has big shoes to fill so I will get off my soap box and wish him well.

But I digress...to my main reason for this post.

To A Mouse presented by David Sibbald of www.robertburns.plus.com set to photos of Scotland. (Seeing the Twin Towers and aftermath rubble is a bit heartwrenching.)



It helps to read along. :))

To A Mouse by Robert Burns
On turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

At first glance and beyond, the old Scots dialect is a foreign language difficult to dicipher, but it is also oddly somewhat familiar. Once you get accustomed to the sound, it flows so beautifully and you cannot imagine Burns' poetry written or spoken any other way. Professor Stacy explains this insightful poem for those of us who speak in American dialect. His lecture is wonderful as I think even Scots would agree.



Ok, so on a much less serious note, and because I really, really, really love a good laugh, here's Craig Ferguson:

The Master Boat Builder and the Rose

Since the same master Hebridian boat builder has shown up three times, it is only fitting to make note. I guess I should have expected to find familiar names and such (e.g. the poem The Scarecrow twice referenced, the lynch-man Patrick Seller...) while doing research of a sparsely populated area, but it still feels a bit strange when it happens. Strange in a nice sort of way. Leslie Riddoch writes about him in her book, but then she interviewed lots of local people as she bicycled across the Outer Hebrides so I did not fully appreciate his significance.

In one of my favorite books so far, The Sea Room, Adam Nicolson writes extensively about the kindness of his friend the shipwright. Designing and building the perfect boat for Nicolson was not such a big stretch. Mentoring an outsider like Nicolson was quite another thing. As Nicolson sailed out from the bay into the unsettling waters of the Minch, "there on the headland by the Norse seamark, a tall, lichened stone pillar, stood a man. He was waving to me. I waved back, and then I realized. It was John MacAulay. He must have run a half a mile to get there...this was his farewell, a shipwright saying goodbye to his boat." (at pg. 25) Generations have sailed and navigated the challenging waters off the east coast of Lewis. Generations of respect. I had to stop and put down The Sea Room and thumb through Riddoch's book. Yes, it was the same person. And now, while looking up a completely unrelated article about some ancient bones recently uncovered in a kist, who should I run across but the very same man. He would be John MacAulay of Harris.



Rotting away on the shore of Valtos Harbor, on the east coast of Lewis, was one of the last remaining original Western Isles "double-enders", the Rose. Some ninety years old. The local historical society rescued her and who else but Mr. John MacAulay has the pleasure of restoring her. Not a difficult decision - who better to put your trust in to do the job right, but in the hands of MacAulay. It is a testament to the fine craftsmanship of the original boat builder the Rose survived at all. It will be a testament in another 90 years to the craftmanship of MacAulay in preserving this treasure.

The Rose will never again carry wet seaweed or peat or sheep. I can only hope they will celebrate the restoration by putting her in the water once again.



The Only Rose (Runrig)

Between the shifting shadows
In the no-man's zone
There's a bar at the end of the street
Some poor country music
One or two sixties songs
This is the place where the night owls sleep

Oh, loneliness
You're a hard earned crust
You're the night at the end of the day
'Cause you pay your dues
On the road you choose
With the price you have to pay

Down the neon aisles
And the twilight miles
Where the world takes comfort in shame
And all I can hear
Is a voice in my ear
And its calling out your name

Still the silence glows
The four winds blow
And a dark moon rising above
To rest by your side
In the heat of the fire
In the sleep of the night of love

When darkness hangs
On the dirty city
Winter falls on a foreign town
And it's all I can do
To be with you
Tonight as the sun goes down
But I would cross
The ocean wide
I'd walk the mighty foam
If I could lie
In your arms tonight
You're the only rose I know

The lovely youtube video of the sea and sky and dancing dolphins and The Rose was pulled off the air. So, here again is the Divine Bette without the scenes.


The Rose
Written by Amanda McBroom
Performed by Bette Midler

Farewell you lonely travelers all

Farewell
lyrics: Richard Thompson
vocals: Mary Black
guitar: Declan Sinnott
bass: Molly Mason
fiddle: Jay Ungar and Aly Bain
electric slide: Jerry Douglas



Farewell, farewell to you who’d hear
You lonely travelers all
The cold north wind will blow again
The winding road does call

And will you never return to see
Your bruised and beaten sons
Oh I would, I would if welcome I were
For they loathe me every one

And will you never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be
And can you never swear a year
To anyone but we

No I will never cut the cloth
Or drink the light to be
But I’ll swear a year to one who lies
Asleep along side of me

Farewell, farewell to you who would hear
You lonely travelers all
The cold north wind will blow again
The winding road does call