Scone's Scottish and Celtic Internet Book

Scottish Highlands and Islands

Scottish History and Culture &

Scone's Poets Corner

by Scone

"another page in my book"


by Nancy A. MacCorkill, F.S.A.Scot USA

All original poetry written by Nancy A. MacCorkill,F.S.A. Scot
and her guest poets.

"©All Rights Reserved 01/01/1997 thru 2003 inclusive, Nancy MacCorkill"©
"©Author will assert her full copy rights, notice has been given©">

©Duplicating or copying in any manner, in any media, is ©copyright infringement, you can lose your right to use the internet; heavy fines, in addition to years under arrest.©

Our First Storm on Skye

Fog drifts thick and low in the Cullins
The air is heavy with Thor's tears.
Seas, a choppy by the nor' wind
The dark bleak season soon appears.

The winds whip by the rugged Isles
Boats put in tae' safer harbours.
Seafoam skates the shores in piles
Debris, storm sent, clutter the shores.

Kirk bells now, wildly pealing
Warning all -- of storms gone mad.
Such a frightening, lonely feeling
Winds, moan a dirge, a dirge so sad.

Fish dive deep for waters calmer
Man nor beast will brave such scorn.
Will all be ruined and torn asunder?
Or will it all be 'still' by morn?

As the storm goes on, we exhausted sleep
A fitful sleep, with much tossin' and dreamin'.
To wake to silence deep ---My heart leaps
A look outdoors brings smiles abeamin'.

The sun is out, people about and a smilin'
We walk out to greet them happily, at ease
No one is lost , drowned or missin'
Our first home on Skye, still stands wi' ease.

Now, the storms come as do the years
It's twenty years now -- by the by.
Storms no longer hold us in fears
We love our home on Skye.

by Nancy A. MacCorkill

"©NAM 01/01/©opyright 1997 thru 2003 inclusive, All Rights Reserved"


The lure of the *Cullins is too strong for me
I must return to the Isle for which I long,
It's beauty and peace, it's complete tranquility
Oh Hebrides, my spiritual home, my heart's song.

The soft breeze carries the wild bird's song
Damp mossy smell of the great forests floor,
Light filters through tall sentinels, in patterns long,
I drift and dream there, I dream of Celtic lore.

I dream of Norsemen, so strong and wild
I see them fighting for their Herbridean shore,
Yet loving, gentle and caring - Thor's child
They haunt the wooded hills and glens once more.

The lure of the Cullins, is callin' to me
The ocean laps loudly against the shore,
I will return there -- it's my destiny
My heart, satisfied, will be lonely no more.

(*Cullins, beautiful mountains on Isle of Skye.

by Nancy A. MacCorkill
"©All Rights Reserved 01/01/97 Nancy MacCorkill©"

One miserable day, this poem was inspired by the fact that our Scot-Celt-Medieval History Maillist was beset with all types of email problems. I saw the humor even in that, and penned this little poem.

E-mails A' Bouncing!

At first.......

E-mails are bouncing, from here to there
Round the country; through the air,
Late at night and early morn
All through the day, e-mails are borne.

Let's send them this way, or let's try that,
Rick checks the system, then he is back,
New software for digests, our problems ....solved
And now - our concerns, our worries; disolved.

Then suddenly......
Around the contry, - and around the continent
E-mails are bouncing from where they're sent,
They're bouncing off us, we can't receive
Now, truly a delimma -- I do believe.

Over the lines and thru the computer
Our dream, our words, my voice is... muter,
Telephone lines with modems busy
It is enough to make one 'dizzy'.

The list is bouncing off the wall
The digest, sometimes two or none at all,
E-mails are bouncing from desk to chair
They bounce around evn' when no one's there.

None to see in the middle of the night
But come the dawn, they will cause a fright,
Just wanted a list where all could write
Might call it an day, and say "goodnight"!!

Nance is frazzled, Skye's such a fright
Hoping with each day will come -- the "light",
They're tired and weary and a bit forlorn
Is this the day, the mail will be airborne?

No sleep; no calm before the storm,
Ah! to crawl to bed; before the morn,
Nerves a twiching, eyeballs red
No use fussin, should I drink instead?

There sometime soon, a change will be
AOL gets so much better, we will all see,
Lyris software starts a' "perkin"
The list! The list! it starts to workin!!!.

E-mails are sending and receiving well
And soon we will all, be out of this hell,
Our dreams, our hopes, will soon prevail

an original thought,
by Nance, (Sconemac)
©All rights reserved April 3,1997 tru 2003 inclusive, N.MacCorkill©

I wrote this poem in free verse, one evening when my own countryman intimated that I was not Scots because I no longer lived there. He called it "My Scotland" and made me feel as if I were an interloper. I was sad and I wrote it.

Here it is:

We, the Offshore Scots....

We, the Offshore Scots....<>

We of known heritage hear the stories; the battles; the pipes; the pride,
Who come to you, ........away Scotland.

Unable to partake of it.........except a few of us......for too few days,
Who come to you, .........away Scotland.

We are anxious to capture every moment,......every wonderful sight we may see.
With out arms piled high, with cameras and film and the like, a quaint sight, we must appear.

I am sure to some dour Scots, we seem a curious lot,
Aye, if they only knew us,

We have the passion of the disposessed.......the anger of the vanquished,
the tears of the blessed.....the sadness of the lost, and the smile of the 'one time' visitor.

We are Scots,
Amerians......Canadians...... Australians .......New Zealanders, and all,
descendants........exiles....... expatriots.
We are the banished, the starved, the beaten, the vanquished......all,
From whatever shore,
we have heeded the call of our dead ancestors,
to come home once more from the distant look upon Culloden Moor
and on the graves of our long, departed ancestors.

We have come to call,
we are the children of the Highlanders.......and we look in awe........aye,
we've come home to call,
To capture a tiny bit.......of our homeland....... Scotland,
to take home memories that will remind us of our homeland and last a lifetime.

We were the Highlanders, (almost lost now), some are lowlanders,
whose religion was not wanted, the Presbyterians.......and 'some' of us
of the Gaelic tongue who couldn't fit in with the Ulster mix,
so we were stuck into another's land, a country called Ireland, we spoke the language.......we were all Celts.........but different
some Scotch-Irish, in America, we became to be known.

We speak for so many, who could not go home again,
who never saw their beloved Highlands and Islands again.....
We weep for relatives long dead, who expressed their anguish in their long separation........from home and relatives.

We are the "Cleared", by barbaric means, and shipped away, from all our dreams,
to be replaced by sheep, their value more,
Than we, the people of this shore!

Our hearts beat faster when we here the skirl of the pipes......
we can't explain it, we just know it........
we know we belong, ... sorry if we boast it.
We long to our land.

Our men wear the kilts on special occasions.......we admire them,
We bake the shortbread of our Grandmothers.....and ....we love it.
We do not want to steal Scotland from you......just to see her,
to climb the hills......see the mountains......the clear, fresh water of our Grandfather's tales,
We try to take in the mountain air.......the our time here,
it must last us a lifetime.

We must taste the Hieland 'pure' as our great grandparents told us, smell a peat fire.......see the celtic crosses of stone;
and the great standing stones.....such mystery,
beautiful mysterious stones put there eons ago by some descendants of a race,
perhaps blended into our own.

To view the Isles of our Norse wonder in awe, of the lochs and the land,
We wander from sightseeing, to just sitting and staring, upon the face of Scotland.

These feelings we have, will never be known by the "now native" Scot,
the Lowlander or the Border folk,
these are the sad feelings of the dispossessed.....the banished......the exhiled......the forced.

We ask not much, just to come to watch and wonder
and see, please!, no derisive stares or whispered jokes.......
of the new Highlander Scots from afar. We only come for a little while,
to visit, to see, to spend on our homeland shore.

To touch the heather, to feel the thistle (oh, so gently), to listen to the music;
the spoken word; the Gaelic that is there still.

To see the Cullins.....the Hebrides........the Orkney, the fringes of ourland.

True.....we don't live here, all the more reason we must drink in, as much as we can,
while we can - from Scotland.

Bait us not with verbal jibes; .....spare us your stares,
we are the Highlanders who have come to see the land we lost.....a time......and eternity ago.

We cannot claim the land, Scotland, nor can we stay,
our ancestors left us this longing you see, to see and feel the land and the sea,
the bog and the mist, this beautiful land that God has kissed.

We are your own, generations removed, - we know you Scotland, and you are dear
somehow we will return again......if we can.......
if we can.....

A poem from the heart....
Nancy MacCorkill
Scottish-American Poet
(©All Rights Reserved N.MacCorkill 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, N.MacCorkill©)

Another beautiful poem, by guest poet,
Robert Gunn, European Medieval Historian

Dubh Water

Blue surface sae sleek n' smooth,
Dark, still, glassy wi' deep black hue,
Ebony water, o' my loch sae dubh (black),
What secrets hold thee, the ages through?

Songs e're written to your eternal beauty;
Long lost treasures lay deep in obscurity,
Tae yon steep shores, yon water know thy duty,
Forever hiding secrets, fathomless, in dark cruelty.

Can ye nae see below thy endless depths?
What unknowing misdeeds, do thy harbour yet?
Black stillness sae wet; Is times unveiling n'er to met?
O' bonnie dark loch, will ye nae secrets' let?

I'll watch the dubh water for a sign,
Of the letting of some truth, sage advice divine;
Ripples and swirls in the depths, where do I find?
Twa choices have I :
O' dark lake , mysterious mine; O' loch reveal thy secrets kind?
Deep and still waters resign, reveal thy mysteries -- or am I sae blind?

Robert Gunn
"All Rights Reserved 1007/98/99/2000/2001/2003 R.Gunn".
"It must not be mistaken by the public, and may NOT use my material, Poetry is such a personal item, and I share it only is not permissible to copy, reproduce or put in storage or retrieval systems.. Cannot be published in any media".

Another great love poem from guest poet
Robert Gunn, Scottish and Western European Historian, M.A.

My Love, My Tess

Darling, when I think of you,
I rarely ever feel alone,
I think on your lips of sweet dew,
And the love to me you've shown.

Oh, Tess, my darling lass
I dearly long to hold you so,
You know my love will never pass,
You know I'll never let you go.

Yet my heart aches for you my dear,
Sometimes I think on you so long,
It brings to my eye a wistful tear,
But my love for you, could nere be wrong.

Robert M. Gunn, MA, Historian Medieval History,
Author, Poet
Exclusive copyright- 1998/to/2003 inclusive,"All Rights Reserved, Robert M. Gunn, M.A.

NOTICE: All poetry on this site is copyright and must not be removed or any use, without permission of the authors, in writing. Copyright laws will be enforced.


' My Mountain Hame

O' mountains of my hearts true North, O' Come let your rocky beauty show, Thy peaks and ridges above the Firth o' Forth, Reflect the evenin' sun in a fiery glow.

Scotland my mountain hame,
The only land of my heart,
Your ancient stone spires, curling up towards the light;
It is nae the same, for my memories to be so far apart;
Scotlands beauty so inspires, I yearn for thy lovely sight.

From the graceful Cullins, to majestic Ben Nevis,
To thy lochs and glens below; Rannock, Lomond and Ness,
The craggy hills are pullin, from every summit to crevice,
For my Highland heart to know, once more, my true hames sweet caress.

Robert M. Gunn, M.A. Historian of European Medieval History,
Author, Poet
"Copyright 1997-2003 R.M. Gunn, All Rights Reserved"

(c)opyright 1997 thru 2003 inclusive. "All Rights Reserved, and copyright will be enforced......N. MacCorkill, exclusive owner of this web page.



"Slainte mhath h-uile latha a chi agus nach fhaic".....


©Stealing my poetry is like stealing my soul....and my attorney will go soul searching!©.

Page designed and constructed by
©Dreamspinner, Webmaster
©opyright Page & Poetry, inclusive, Oct 3,1997thru Dec 2003, inclusive, N. MacCorkill©"
"©opyright Poetry inclusive, Oct 3,1997,thru Dec 2003, inclusive R.Gunn©"
"©All Rights Reserved 10-03-1997,thru 2003 inclusive, N.MacCorkill©"

Free Hit Counter