MY FAVOURITE POEMS & STORIES

Wha's Like Us?

Damn Few and They're A' Deid!

The average Englishman in the home he calls his castle,slips into his national costume..a shabby raincoat..patented by Chemist, Charles Macintosh ,from Glasgow Scotland. Enroute to his office, he strides along the English lane, surfaced by John Macadam of Ayr Scotland. He drives an English car fitted with tyres invented by John Boyd Dunlop, veterinary surgeon of Dreghorn, Scotland. At the office he recieves the mail bearing adhesive stamps invented by John Chalmers, Bookseller and printer of Dundee, Scotland. During the day he uses the telephone invented by Alexander Graham Bell, born in Edinburgh, Scotland. At home in the evening his daughter pedals her bicycle invented by Kirkpatrick Macmillan, blacksmith of Thornhill, Dumfriesshire, Scotland. He watches the news on T.V. an invention of John Logie Baird fo Helensburgh, Scotland and hears an item about the U.S. Navy founded by John Paul Jones of Kirkbean, Scotland. Nowhere can an Englishman turn to escape the ingenuity of the Scots. He has by now been reminded too much of Scotland and in desperation he picks up the Bible, only to find that the first man mentioned in the good book is a Scot...King James VI ...who authorized its translation. He could take to drink, but the Scots make the best in the world. He could take a rifle and end it all, but the breech-loading rifle was invented by Captain Patrick Ferguson of Pitfours, Scotland. If he escaped death, he could find himself on an operating table injected with penicilin, discovered by Sir Alexander Fleming of Darvel, Scotland and given chloroform, an anaesthetic discovered by Sir James Young Simpson, Obstetrician and Gynecologist of Bathgate, Scotland. Out of the anaesthetic he would find no comfort in learning that he was as safe as the Bank of England founded by William Paterson of Dumfries, Scotland. Perhaps his only remaining hope would be to get a transfusion of guid Scottish blood, which would entitle him to ask.... Wha's Like Us?

My Name is Henry Norval

~This poem was written by my Great, Great Grandfather, as an advertisement for the Pub that he owned~

My name is Henry Norval
Im acquent wi' Whiskey stills,
Tho' my Faither never fed his flocks
Upon the Grampian Hills
I am a canty kind O' Publican,
An honest trade I dae
In a ticht wee Public Hoose
Upon the Chapel Brae...


I have ilka kind O' liquor
Wine and Brandy, Rum and Gin
I have drinks, too, for teetotallers
An I winna tak ye in
I have Ginger Beer and Kola
Hop bitters, Lemonade
An' Bread an' Cheese an' tasty bites
for teetotal trade....


I have Bass Beer and Porter
I can tell the latest bars
An can fit ye oot if ye're inclined
Wi' Baccy and Cigars
Lime juice an Ginger cordial
Glenleven, Ivanhoe
Wi casks O' Stout an' casks O' Sweet
About a score or so....


But o' a' the Drinks I've mentioned
For abstainers and the rest
There are twa demand attention
For I think they're the best
There's my guid auld Whiskey "Sensible"
The faintest heart will Cheer
An' my weel kent canty Tipple
My faur-famed Harmless Beer


Sae come my friends an free them
Be ye ill or be ye well
They're beneficial after suppers
Just as weel as after kail
They're never oot O' season
Come and try them dont delay
But visit Henry Norval's pub
Upon the Chapel Brae....

The Joy of Gardens

~author unkown~

~dedicated to my Grandfather Swanston,who spent his life as a gardener,and made the world a sweeter place~

In a fair and fragrant garden God Created Man
It must have been His wish for us, His purpose and His plan~
That we should learn to love the trees, the birds, the grass, the flowers
The Story of the race begins in Eden's pleasant bowers.
The love of gardens still remains a joy that never dies
For the poor man and the rich, the simple and the wise...
Whether it be planted in a wide or narrow space
He who makes a garden makes the world a sweeter place.

The Story of Greyfriars Bobby

One of my favorite stories is that of Greyfriars Bobby.
In 1858 the faithfull terrier named Bobby, followed the funeral procession
of his master, John Grey to nearby Greyfriars Church yard. The dog was so loyal
to his master he remained at the gravesite for 14 years. Nearby residents
took pity on the little dog, providing him with food, collar and a license.
Upon Bobbys death he was buried in a nearby grave so as to remain close
by his beloved Master. Both graves and the monument to Bobby can be seen
in Edinburghs "Old Town" at the top of Candle Maker Row. Bobbys engraved
collar is on display at Huntely House Museum in Canongate, Edinburgh.

Candle in the Wind 1997

~written for Princess Dianas funeral, by Bernie Taupin/ sung by Elton John~

Goodbye England's rose;
may you ever grow in our hearts.
You were the grace that placed itself
where lives were torn apart.
You called out to your country,
and you whispered to those in pain.
Now you belong to Heaven,
and the stars spell out your name.

And it seems to me you lived your life
like a candle in the wind:
never fading with the sunset
when the rain set in.
And your footsteps will always fall here,
along England's greenest hills;
your candle burned out long before
your legend ever will.

Loveliness we've lost;
these empty days without your smile.
This torch we'll always carry
for our nation's golden child.

And even though we try,
the truth brings us to tears;
all our words cannot express
the joy you brought us through the years.

Goodbye England's rose,
from a country lost without your soul,
who'll miss the wings of your compassion
more than you'll ever know.

High Flight

By Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Jr. RCAF (1922-1941)

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds--and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence, Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Poetry Links

Modern & Contemporary American Poetry
Crystal's Pages (poetry)
The Poetry of Yeats
Poets Corner

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