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Hazel
Song History
An Ataireachd
Ard
A simple brief
thought on Scottish
Independance.

Were the outdated
union not of some very
high value to England and
the English, why would
they fight so to try to
keep it?

There are only so many
slices to a pie, for one to
have more, another must
have less.

Lastly - to those Scottish
"Loyalists" - to whom are
you loyal?
Scots royalty died in the
1700's so it can be no
Scots crown - And
certainly not it appears to
those who came before,
that bled for Scotland
and her freedom !  
In the words
of Burns, as he
wrote from the heart.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slaverie.

Wha would be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a Slave?
Let him turn and flie:

Wha for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Let him follow me.

By Oppression's woes and pains!
By your Sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud Usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us Do - or Die!!!

Choose your destiny.
The Seas Lofty Roar

Endless surge of the sea,
Hear the sound of the sea’s lofty roar,
The thundering swell
That I heard as a child long ago –
Without change or compassion
Dragging the sand of the shore:
Endless surge of the sea,
Hear the sound of the sea’s lofty roar.

All the waves crashing down
Are trembling, loud-sounding and white,
So hurried and cruel,
Grim and spuming without taking fright;
But their speed falls away
At the same destination each time
As the people have perished
Who once dwelt in this village of mine.

In the forests of the west
I’ve never wanted to stay,
My mind and ambition
Set firm on the hollow of the bay;
But those who were generous
In effort, in friendship and fame
Are scattered defenceless
Like birds in their enemy’s way.

Rushes and willow,
And thistle, and marram and grass,
Have choked up the springs
Where I’d find many thirst-quenching draughts;
The ruins are so cold,
With ragwort and dockens growing high,
While the red nettle swarms
Where warm is the ghost of the hearth.


dòmhnall maciomhair/ Donald Maciverl
1857-1935


Ealaíontóir/Artist:
Peannaire/Calligrapher:
Aistritheoir/Translator:
Ainmníodh ag/Nominator: Clare Langan
Frances Breen
Ronald Black
Norman Campbell