The Tolkien Party and the Talent Show....

were both memorable events from back in January that most you have heard me mention in passing, but never got the whole story! Hence, though it be late in the spring season, I shall endeavor to relay the happenings here……

    My friend J. had thrown many a Tolkien-themed party in the past, but since I had never watched the films or read the books, she had never thought to invite me. However, when I finally did watch the trilogy, the fringe benefits included the chance to be invited to one of the fan-girl/boys get-togethers. Although I’m not a fan (certainly not to my friend’s level, at least!), I do enjoy parties, especially when cool costumes are involved. And this particular party was designated as one in which everyone could dress as their favorite Tolkien character. Hence, my mom helped me dig out a purple dress, scarlet-brocade belt, and gold-painted plastic sword, and I became Arwen for a day!

     There was one itsy-bitsy problem, however. The purple cape that had originally gone with the dress had been loaned to a friend some years back when we were involved in All Saints Day celebrations at a local Catholic Shrine. Fortunately, we managed to get into contact with her again, and she and her mother very considerately paid for it to be shipped back to us. Being a very active “actress-in-training”, my friend was able to understand well the dilemma of piecing together a costume last-minute! So I dress up for the party, cape and all, and my dad took some marvelous pictures of me.

    So party-time arrived, and dad drove me to my friend’s house. The sign on the door read “For Party Business Only”, in memory of Bilbo Baggins, and I was let in by my friend and her sisters. Three were dressed as hobbits, and one as Galadriel. It was perfect, because she was a blonde, too! As we mused over the fact that our mutual hair-colors both fit our chosen characters very well, a few other interesting personages came to the door, including a knight in home-made armor (who identified himself as a character from one of the rarely-read appendixes), a hooded Black Rider, an Elvin Prince in a bathrobe and a Caesar-like crown! Of course, there were also a few more hobbits to go around :-)

     After dining on cold-cut sandwiches, spicy potato chips, soft pretzels with butter, brownies, leftover Christmas candy, and pumpkin pie with frozen cool whip (I delicacy I had never before tasted!), we all sat around in the living room and played Tolkien trivia games. Admittedly, I couldn’t even begin to keep pace with some of the experts in the room, especially because they were obviously more focused on the books than the films! However, things picked up when everyone started “reenacting” favorite scenes in The Hobbit movie. Even though I’ve never seen it, it was a blast watching everyone trying to imitate it!

    After that several of the boys started singing the dwarf theme from the film, in deep, rich voices that I was quite impressed with. In response, I wound up singing “Edge of Night” from The Return of the King. All singers present got a round of applause from the patient listeners as they munched on the goodies they had snatched form the counter! Before leaving, I nearly tripped over Mr. Knight’s scattered armor that he had stripped off due to near heat exhaustion (!), but fortunately no damage was done to myself or the get-up, and the former wearer promptly started packing up his gear in response to my scolding him from across the room! So ended the ever-memorable Tolkien extravaganza.

    Later on in the month, the Talent Show was held in a town nearby for the benefit of a homeless shelter. I auditioned at a local church building, singing “The Flower of Finnae”. This Irish ballad set in the early 18^th century is about a girl named Eileen whose lover, Fergus, had left their native town of Finnae to fight in an Irish regiment within the French Army known as “The Wild Geese”, founded by the Jacobite Irish soldiers expelled from Ireland by King William III. She went to the battlefront in search of him, only to learn that he had been killed in an ill-fated engagement at Flanders. Heart-broken yet still devoted, she remained in the land where he had fallen and entered a Benedictine Convent which housed the battle-flag captured by his regiment before their eventual defeat.

    Several weeks after successfully passing the audition, we went to the rehearsal the night before the actual performance. It was held in a high school auditorium, with excellent acoustics and a state-of-the-art sound system. Really, doing a gig with that set-up could really spoil an amateur musician! But anyway, the assortment of performers was really fascinating. The majority of the contestants were either in their teens or early twenties, but several were middle-aged men, a few were under 13, and the special guest-star (last year’s winner) was a Country/Western singer in his 80’s! The different talents displayed were equally diverse. There were pianists, an organist, a trumpet player, a drummer, a baton twirler, multiple dancers, a small Country band, and numerous singers……Pearl of Tyburn among them, and scheduled to go on as the finale act the next day!

    The following afternoon we returned to the high school where I was ushered back-stage to a waiting room with the other contestants. There, I befriended another soloist who was preparing to sing Dolly Parton’s famous “9 to 5”. She and I chatted, exchanged emails, and went through some warm-up vocal exercises together. Meantime, a tall young gentleman decked out in a 19^th century style top hat, frock coat, and elegant boots paced back and forth, sucking on a lemon, and practicing his own rendition of a number from Le Miserables. Also, the Country band was seated behind us, trying to properly synchronize their lead vocal and harmony, and one of the pianists was practicing his selection. A charming young man from a Korean background, he gave me repeated encouragements, telling me that nerves were natural, and if one didn’t feel them, something would be very wrong!

     So time passes, and one by one the contestants are called on stage to do their bit. At last, it was my friend the “9 to 5” vocalist’s turn. After a little while, she returned looking slightly distraught. “What happened?” I inquired concernedly. “My voice cracked,” she admitted. I knew the feeling all to well. The catastrophe at Bay City remained fresh in my mind, and I was well aware of the sickening sensation that settles in when things go dreadfully wrong in mid-performance. I gave her what encouragement that I could, and indeed I have no doubt she will make good. She has since told me that she won a prize at another recent contest and plans on entering a contest to get the chance to sing at the largest annual BBQ in the USA! She plans on going into music therapy for a career.

    Anyway, my turn came at the end, and I was called out on stage. I was nervous; I hadn’t sung in front of that many people in a long while, and I shifted about on stage quite a bit (as revealed in the video recording of the event!). After giving a brief explanation of the song and dedicating to my late grandmother of Irish ancestry, I waited for the music to come on. Again, I couldn’t help but be amazed at how beautiful it sounded over those sweeeeet speakers, and I couldn’t help but get excited by the way my voice carried on those marvelous mics! It’s always hard to balance vocal clarity with emotion, but I tried, and I think it went reasonably well. It was fun to hear the applause of that many people, anyway! In the end, the highly-talented organist won the contest and generously donated the prize money to the homeless shelter. My friend the pianist, the drummer boy, and the top-hat chap were placed as well.

    All in all, I’m glad to have been a part of the community conviviality the broke up a difficult and drear winter, and I’ll you posted on other musical and social events yours truly takes part in!



My Costume Inspiration - Liv Tylor as Arwen

       







The (Generic) Talent Show Curtain Rises!



Texas Road-House Special.....

meaning, a few special treats from the pen of Mack the Magnificient! The first is about Russian Orthodox Easter; the other is about a peaceful evening that gives way to reflections about the after-life.

Christos Voskrese!

(For Tod)

The world is unusually quiet this dawn

With fading stars withdrawing in good grace

And drowsy, dreaming sunflowers, dewy-drooped,

Their golden crowns all motionless and still,

Stand patiently in their ordered garden rows,

Almost as if they wait for lazy bees

To wake and work, and so begin the day.

A solitary swallow sweeps the sky;

An early finch proclaims his leafy seat

While Old Kashtanka limps around the yard

Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

Then wide-yawning Mikhail, happily barefoot,

A lump of bread for nibbling in one hand,

A birch switch swishing menace in the other

Appears, and whistles up his father’s cows:

“Hey!  Alina, and Antonina! Up!

Up, up, Diana and Dominika!

You, too, Varvara and Valentina!

Pashka is here, and dawn, and spring, and life!”

And they are not reluctant then to rise

From sweet and grassy beds, with udders full,

Cow-gossip-lowing to the dairy barn.

Anastasia lights the ikon lamp

And crosses herself as her mother taught.

She’ll brew the tea, the strong black wake-up tea,

And think about that naughty, handsome Yuri

Who winked at her during the Liturgy

On the holiest midnight of the year.

O pray that watchful Father did not see!

Breakfast will be merry, an echo-feast

Of last night’s eggs, pysanky, sausage, kulich.

And Mother will pack Babushka’s basket,

Because only a mother can do that right

When Father Vasily arrived last night

In a limping Lada haloed in smoke,

The men put out their cigarettes and helped

With every precious vestment, cope, and chain,

For old Saint Basil’s has not its own priest,

Not since the Czar, and Seraphim-Diveyevo

From time to time, for weddings, holy days,

Funerals, supplies the needs of the parish,

Often with Father Vasily (whose mother

Begins most conversations with “My son,

The priest.…”), much to the amusement of all.

Voices fell, temperatures fell, darkness fell

And stars hovered low over the silent fields,

Dark larches, parking lots, and tractor sheds.

Inside the lightless church the priest began

The ancient prayers of desolate emptiness

To which the faithful whispered in reply,

Unworthy mourners at the Garden tomb,

Spiraling deeper and deeper in grief

Until that Word, by Saint Mary Magdalene

Revealed, with candles, hymns, and midnight bells

Spoke light and life to poor but hopeful souls.

The world is unusually quiet this dawn;

The sun is new-lamb warm upon creation,      

For Pascha gently rests upon the earth,

This holy Russia, whose martyrs and saints

Enlighten the nations through their witness of faith,

Mercy, blessings, penance, and prayer eternal

Now rising with a resurrection hymn,

And even needful chores are liturgies:

“Christos Voskrese  – Christ is risen indeed!”

And Old Kashtanka limps around the yard

Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

A Twilight Study

Perhaps there is no reason why these thoughts

Should be reconstructed, recalled, re-read,  

This dusk in spring, soft-scented, green, and still,

With cumulous clouds rehearsing  for the summer,

Silently flinging the westering sun about,

And from the grass the early mosquitoes

With tiny, unseen wings grudge wheeling birds

Utility, charm, sometimes majesty.

Mischievous cats dancing like couplets in rhyme

Along the fence-top in alla breve time

Torment with pirouettes the ground-bound dogs,

Provoking from their playmates envious barks,

Prologue to reconciliation

And Eden’s sleep beneath the ancient moon.

Why should this hour, gentle with Vesper joys,

Be scanned and disciplined as iamb’d lines

In poor remembrance of reality,

A catalogue of senses lived in time

And reconsidered then on ink-marked page,

Or screen luminescent within a box?

Old Adam knew such tranquil gardened evenings,

And generations yet beyond the stars

Will live on earth such happy sunset peace;

Yet still, somehow, this moment of Creation

Is now commended to a leaf or so,

And when the actors of these moments past

Joy in the eternal summer of God,

Someone will read these lines, and delight in them.



"Christ is risen indeed!"



 



"Silently flinging the westering sun about....."



"An Ode to Gentlemen"......

was inspired by my recent reading of parts of Emerson's essay, "Manners." It made me think about the different components that go into the definition and character of a true gentleman. Also, I wanted to pay tribute to the various "gentlemen" in my own life.

An Ode to Gentlemen

Gentlemen are gentlemen

With known or unknown names;

Their actions prove their worthiness

And put the world to shame

From prince to pauper, they can speak

Without affected airs,

And yet their words are swift and sure,

Their meaning brought to bear

Courtesy they give to all,

Affection, to a few;

They never use false flattery

Nor mindless malice show

They wallow not in haughtiness,

Nor feigned humility,

But view themselves with balanced brains

And strictest honesty

A cool reserve is in their voice,

Yet fire is in their eyes;

As dear as life, they prize the truth

And hate deceitful lies

Whether lying in a featherbed

Or sleeping on the floor,

A gentleman’s a gentleman

And none can change the score



Mr. Emerson, I presume....?



"La Belle Dame sans Merci"......

is a haunting poem by John Keates about an Arthurian knight put in thrall by a beautiful woman of magical powers. I love the medieval-style writing and way that both the natural world and the supernatural world are shown as being easily accesable to one another. It also holds forth a warning, to guard one's passions least they lead you astray......


La Belle Dame sans Merci


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.





"And her eyes were wild....."



General James Wolfe......

is one of the most well-known and misunderstood British military commanders of the 18^th century. His memory has been done a disservice by two opposing camps: one which would have him canonized, and the other which would have him demonized. The stiff-upper-lip Victorians saw him as a martyr for the Empire and made him into a secular saint for a state affiliated movement with all the trappings of religious fervor. Young lads were taught to grow up to be like Wolfe and to spread their race to the farthest corners of the globe. “Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set…..” This underlying concept turned into something of an obsession that became seriously unhealthy for Britain. For a time, it seemed as if many of her people were willing make her a “great” nation at the expense of keeping her a “good” one.

    But as the Empire gradually fell apart, things that people once viewed as heroic came to be looked down upon as inordinately jingoistic. The conquests of Wolfe fell into this line of thinking. But instead of handling the long overdue epiphany with balance, many historical “myth-busters” went on a campaign to tarnish Wolfe’s reputation totally and completely, transforming him into an always priggish, inately brutal, self-consumed, untalented military madman who could trace back all his successes to random strokes of luck. Disgruntled French Quebecers joined in the fray, defacing Wolfe-related monuments and trying to ridiculously rewrite history and call the Battle of Quebec a draw!

    Sadly, the real Wolfe, good and bad points present and accounted for, has all too often been overlooked. I personally find him to be a very intriguing character because he is hard to know, but when you finally get to know him, he comes off as a strikingly real individual full of depth and complexity. Reading the letters of James Wolfe from primary sources is a real eye-opener that starts the process of explaining what made the man a legend and what continues to make him worthy of respect and even admiration. It also shows the places where he went wrong and the thought process behind the misdeeds he did. Uncomfortable as it may be, different time periods held radically different beliefs, and that must be taken into account in all historical studies.

    The Wolfe presented in his letters is certainly not an eternal prig, and the claim that he had no sense of humor is clearly unfounded. While he may not have been particularly outgoing and could be reserved and chilly at times, he clearly let loose with those he was comfortable with, like his parents, his friends, and his sweethearts. He had a sharp and sarcastic wit, poking fun at this “slight carcass” and frail constitution in overblown lamentd. He jokef about his efforts to better his education by taking mathematics lessons which he saw utterly no purpose in (I can sympathize!), learning to dance even though he was not particularly good at it (again, he has my sympathies!), and keeping up with his flute lessons (well….I’ve got a penny whistle, but it’s close!).

    When talking with his brother and friends, the conversation often turned to the ladies…..sometimes in a rather naughty way! The claims that Wolfe was homosexual are clearly silly, as he wrote various letters to various people that all indicate a perfectly normal attraction to the opposite sex. For example, he teasd his brother going on home on leave to confine himself to going out with the girl who “stares in church” and then made a list of those young females who he designated as “his”! Also, he got into several flirtatious correspondences with young women of “good breeding”, replete with sugary language and chitty-chatty nonsense about embroidered waistcoats and the like.

    Then there was the intense side of Wolfe, revealing a moody and brooding young man given to long contemplations of the nature of life and death and the future of his career. Although he was not known for being particularly religious, he clearly believed in Providence. “You know the One I am referring to,” he would say when explaining his belief that there was someone who controlled the destiny of men and of battles. When death struck near to him, as it often did, he would sometimes ponder what had become of his deceased comrade. At one point, he mused that if there was a life beyond, then his dead friend must be at peace, for, in Wolfe’s estimation, he was as a good a man as ever lived. Sometimes his thoughts about God took a cheerier turn, like when he wrote an unusually elated letter to his mother about the beautiful springtime weather and how grateful he was to the Creator for letting mankind enjoy it.

    But it seems that beyond any religious feeling, Wolfe was grounded in his military career. Like the Victorians, Nationalism proved to be an easier place for him to channel his devotion and fervor than religion. While some of his love of country is quite admirable, some of it took a twist that grouped together all outside of his race and creed as barbarians and almost subhumans. “Canaille” was the word he used to describe the Highland Scots, the Colonial Americans, and the French Quebecers among others. He could be nasty and degrading in his language and bloody-minded in his actions. He seemed to have no problem taking part in the brutal suppression of the Second Jacobite Rebellion, justifying the subsequent slaughter by accusing the Jacobites of planning to massacre Government troops. No proof has ever been uncovered to support that claim.

    Later when stationed in Scotland, Wolfe came up with a shockingly ruthless plan to annihilate a rebel Highland clan by putting some of his troops in an indefensible position so they would be wiped out by the rebels, giving Wolfe the excuse to wipe out the rebels in response! “Can you believe I can be so bloody?” Wolfe challenged one of his horrified friends. Clearly he could be, and he meant to prove he was no milk-sop. He was a hardened military veteran, and to him, the ends of “getting the job” done justified any means. Later, in the French and Indian War, he willingly waged civilian warfare, destroying French Canadian villages and ravaging the countryside. He also took and threatened to execute civillian hostages if the French high command wouldn’t “play ball” with him during negotiations.

    However, it must be said that Wolfe was not alone in using the “scorched earth policy.” It was an accepted mode of warfare in the 18^th century, and it was meant to deprive the enemy of resources and draw them into battle. In spite of the burning and plundering, Wolfe did not encourage his men to physically harm the civilians of French Canada. In fact, he was furious when one of his officers killed the inhabitants of a village, an act which proved to be one of the worst war crimes commited during the campaign. Also, Wolfe offered the French Canadians of the burned-out villages the option to surrender themselves to the British as opposed to starving to death in the woods. It may not sound like much of a break, but it did offer the desperate refugees some access to resources.

   

    It must also be said that Wolfe’s low view of other races and the inhabitants of other places usually improved with time. For example, Wolfe started by saying that the Highland soldiers were “no great mischief if they fall” to saying that the officers’ corps was “the most manly and gallant” he had ever seen. Likewise, he started off by calling the Americans “dirty, contemptible dogs” and moved to naming one of their regiments “Swift and Bold”! This held true for the civilian population of Scotland and the local recruits of small towns in England, as well. At least in some cases, Wolfe's bark was considerably worse than his bite.

    A final point that needs to be made about Wolfe’s legacy was his ability as a leader of men. As a folk singer myself, I cannot help but be moved by the emotionally stirring ballads about the relationship between Wolfe and his soldiers. That relationship, even more so than his audaciousness and courage on the battlefield, made Wolfe live on in legend. His letters clearly demonstrate that the bond between commander and men was very deep, and that he viewed his army as “a band of brothers” where every man, no matter how high or low his rank, was bound to do his duty out of honor. He urged the officers to observe the characters of their soldiers so that they would better know which ones to encourage and which ones to discipline. He also urged them to be concerned about the physical well-being of their men, inquiring after their health and assuring they were given what was needed to improve their condition.

    Wolfe practiced what he preached. He visited his soldiers often, inquiring after their health, taking a personal interest in them, and winning their undying respect and admiration. Ironically, it was the Highlanders who became particularly enamored with him, affectionately nicknaming him “The Red-Headed Corporal”, because of his flaming hair and the worsted badge he wore. They loved his hands-on leadership style, so much like the Celtic chiefs of old, and it was said they would have “gone through fire and water to have served him.” According to legend, one Highlander named Duncan McPhee became Wolfe’s self-appointed body-guard, much to the general’s bemusement!

    Just before Wolfe was killed at the Battle of Quebec, a British sergeant was shot through the lunges as the general passed along the lines decked out in his scarlet cape and silver walking cane. Wolfe paused, knelt beside the gasping man, and squeezed his hand. He then promised that if he survived the wound, he would be promoted, and passed on the message to another officer to assure that the promise would be carried out. Not long after, Wolfe himself was shot multiple times. “Don’t let my brave fellows see me fall,” he said to the soldiers who came to support him and bare him off the field. As “The Red-Headed Corporal” lay bleeding to death, the Highlanders charged the French and the battle was won by the British. Thus, Canada would come to bear British monarchs on her coins and the Loyalists of the American Revolution would have a place of safe haven to go to when they were exiled from their native land.  And thus it was also that at the height of victory, Wolfe’s soldiers wept for his passing.

    As I delve further into the life of Gen. Wolfe, I feel burdened to pray for the man’s soul. He was admirable and less-than-admirable in many ways, but there is no doubt that his actions have affected  innumerable aspects of our modern world. Perhaps I would be typing in French instead of English right now if not for his conquest. But besides that, he was a human being, not very different from the rest of us, who joked and pondered and flirted and dared to dream. When I sing about him now, I have a better sense of the depth of the songs and the man who inspired them. I will always keep his soul in my prayers…..Won’t you join me? 

"The Red-Headed Corporal"



Happy St. George's Day!!!

     Time to make some roast beef and Yorkshire pudding….It’s a great day for the English! Here’s a hearty cheer for all Anglo-Saxons from a Marylander with ancestors from Dorsetshire!  

     And here's a festive bit I submitted for "Open Unionism" (thanks for everything, Henry!):   

http://www.openunionism.com/?p=1897


    Who would have thought that thisYankee school girl would ever be doing saints posts for a British political blog in the grips of a pre-referendum crack-down? Who would have thought it???  

The Martyrdom of St. George

"The Bluidy Stair......"

is a ballad written by Sir Walter Scott concerning a legend that took place at Rothesay Castle in the Isle of Bute off the coast of Scotland. Norsemen captured the castle, and Lady Isabel, the daughter of the deposed Lord of the castle, stabbed herself rather than be forced to marry one of the invaders. Typical cheery subject matter found in the poetry of the isles.....;-)


The Bluidy Stair

Oh, Rothesay’s tower is round about,

And Rothesay’s tower is strang;

And loud within its merry wa’s

The noise o’ wassail rang.

A scald o’ Norway struck the harp,

And a good harper was he;

For hearts beat mad, and looks grew wild

Wi’ his sang o’ victory.

A dark-eyed chief has left the board

Where he sat as lord and liege;

And he called aloud amidst the crowd

For Thorfinn, his little foot-page.

“Go, tell the stranger Isabel,

That she stir not from the bower

Till darkness dons her blackest dress

And midnicht the hour.

“And tell the Lady Isabel,

To come when the feast is o’er,

To meet upon the chapel stair

The chieftain of Rory Mhor.”

When the feast was o’er, and a’ was hushed

In midnicht and in mirk,

A lady was seen, like a spirit at e’en,

To pass by the holy kirk.

She stood at the foot o’ the chapel stair,

And she heard a footstep’s tread;

For the wild Norse warrior was there,

Who thus to the lady said:

“I’m Rory Mhor, the island chief,

I’m Roderic, Lord of Bute;

For the raven o’ Norway flies above,

And the lion o’ Scotland is mute.

“I hate your kith, fair lady,” he said,

“I hate your kith and kin;

And I am sword to be their foe

Till life be dried within.

“Yet kiss me, lovely Isabel,

And lay your cheek to mine;

Though ye bear the bluid o’ the High Steward,

I’ll woo nae hand but thine.”

“Awa, awa! Ye rank butcher!”

Said the Lady Isabel,

“For beneath your hand my father dear

And my three brave brothers fell.”

“It’s I ha’e conquered them,” he said,

“And I will conquer thee;

For if in love ye winna wed,

My leman ye shall be.”

“The stars will dreip out their beds o’ blue

Ere you in love I wed;

I rather wad fly to the grave and lie

In the mouldy embrace o’ the dead.

“I canna love, I winna love

A murderer for my lord;

For even yet my father’s bluid

Lies lapper’d on your sword.

“And I never will be your base leman,

While death to my dagger is true;

For I hate you, Chief, as the foe of my kin,

And the foe of my country too.”

An eye micht be seen wi’ revenge to gleam,

Like a shot star in a storm;

And a heart was felt to writhe, as if bit

By the never-dying worm.

A struggle was heard on the chapel stair,

And a smothered shriek of pain –

A deadened groan, and a fall on the stone –

And all was silent again.

The morning woke on the lady’s bower,

But no Isabel was there;

The morning woke on Rothesay’s tower,

And blood was on the stair.

And rain may fa’, and time may ca’

It’s lazy wheels about;

But the steps are red, and the stains o’ bluid

Will never be washed out.

And oft in the mirk and midnicht hour,

When a’ is silent there,

A shriek is heard, and a lady is seen

On the steps of the bluidy stair.



Rothesay Castle, Isle of Bute, Scotland