St Andrew Day Poems: What better way to celebrate St Andrews Day than with a selection of Scots language songs and poems. Steve Byrne has put together a great playlist for St andrew day 2019 St Andrew Day Lesson Plan
Celebrating Scotland: St Andrew’s Day. Robert Burns 1759-96 Scottish poet. From the lone shielding of the misty island. Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas – Hugh MacDiarmid 1892-1978 Scottish poet and nationalist. O flower of Scotland, when will we see your like again, Robert Crawford 1959
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St Andrew Day Poems & Lyrics 2019
(St Andrew’s Day under the Southern Cross)
GOD bless our land, our Scotland,
Grey glen an’ misty brae,
The blue heights o’ the Coolins,
The green haughs yont the Spey,
The weary wastes on Solway,
Snell winds blaw owre them a’ —
But aye it’s Hame, lad,
Yours an’ mine, lad,
Shielin’ or ha’.
It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let good or ill betide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.
God bless our land; it’s yonder –
Far in the cold North Sea:
But ‘neath the old Saint’s glamour
It’s calling you an’ me:
Your feet tread Libyan deserts,
Mine press the wattle’s bloom,
But to-night we stand together
Among the broom.
It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let shore or sea divide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.
God bless our land. We dream o’t —
The days aye brakin’ fine
On the lang, lane glints o’ heather
In the glens we kent langsyne.
Ay, we are Reubens, rovers,
‘Neath mony an alien star,
But flaunt the blue flag o’er us,
Pipe up the ” Braes o’ Mar,”
And steppe and nullah vanish,
And pomp and pelf and fame —
It’s gloamin’ — on a lown hillside,
An’ lads, . . . We’re . . . Hame.


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Wha cares if skies be dull and gray?
Wha heeds November weather?
Let ilka Scot be glad to-day
The whole wide warl’ thegither.
We’re a’ a prood and stubborn lot,
And clannish-sae fowk name us-
Ay, but with sic guid cause none ought
Tae judge us, or tae blame us,
For joys that are we’ll pledge to-day
A land baith fair and glowing-
Here’s tae the hames o’ Canada,
Wi’ luve and peace o’erflowing!
For joys that were, for auld lang syne,
For tender chords that bind us,
A toast-your hand, auld friend, in mine-
‘The land we left behind us!’
Ho, lowlanders! Ho, hielandmen!
We’ll toast her a’ thegither,
Here’s tae each bonnie loch and glen!
Here’s tae her hills and heather!
Here’s tae the auld hame far away!
While tender mists do blind us,
We’ll pledge on this, St. Andrew’s day,
‘The land we left behind us!’


George Bruce (Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, 1909-2002)
Why the Poet makes Poems
(written to my dentist, Dr. K. P. Durkacz,
to explain why I failed to keep an appointment)
.
When it’s all done and said
whether he is smithing away by the mad sea,
or, according to repute, silvering them in a garret
by moonlight, or in plush with a gold nib,
or plain bourgeois in a safe bungalow with a mortgage,
or in a place with a name, Paris, Warsaw, Edinburgh,
or sitting with his heart in the Highlands,
or taking time off at the office to pen a few words,
the whole business is a hang-over from the men in the trees,
when thunder and sun and quake and peas in a pod
were magic, and still is according to his book, admitting
botany is OK for the exposition of how the buds got there,
geology for how the rocks got just like that,
zoology for the how of the animals,
biology for us kind – but that’s not his game:
he’s after the lion playing around with the lamb for fun.
He doesn’t want to know the how, the why. It’s enough for him to say:
‘That’s what’s going on. The grass is jumping for joy,
and all the little fishes are laughing their heads off.’
. . .
William Neill (Prestwick, Ayrshire, 1922-2010)
Seasons
.
Skeich wes the hert i the spring o the year
whan the well-sawn yird begoud tae steer
an the plewlan’s promise gledened the ee
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
The lang het simmer cam an rowed
the haill Glenkens in a glent o gowd
an the gangan fit on the hill gaed free
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
Hairst an the cornriggs flisked i the wun
like a rinnan sea i the southan sun;
then ilka meeda peyed its fee
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
Nou the lang year’s dune, an the druim grows stey
an the snaa liggs caal ower Cairnsmore wey;
the crannreuch’s lyart on ilka tree
atween Balgerran an Balmaghie.
. . .
