Australian
Scottish
Heritage
Scottish
Heritage
These stories are readers contributions sent to me.They have kindly allowed me to share them with you.
A poem first published in 'The Clarence Examiner' 27th Sept 1879
An episode of the ship Midlothian
Around its orb this earth has turned in number forty-two
Since I have bade my native land-my native vale-adieu;
Since in the ship Midlothian we sailed from Isle of Skye
That land where oft my fathers trod,where now their ashes lie,
The sea was calm,the wind was fair,and bright and clear the day
I do remember well.On which we sailed from Snizort Bay;
And as the ship majestically plough'd through the mighty main,
And far behind she left that shore we n'er shall see again.
But while the hills were glimmering still far in the twilight view,
Unto our fatherland we gave a long and last adieu.
But when the darkness cast her mantle o'er each hill and dell,
I laid me down to sleep;but ah my heart did heave and swell,
As well as all that company who left their Highland home
To pioneer Australian wilds where wild men did then roam.
Next day at dawn of day I rose,perchance I'd see once more
Loch Uigg's grand and rugged shore;but ah a wide expanse was o'er.
Our dangers and our fate upon that ever-heaving swell
I think I need not at all relate-it would take to long to tell;
Suffice to tell it now,when near the equitorial line,
On board a dreadful fever raged,till more than four times nine
Were shrouded for a lowly bed far in the somber sea,
Who,when in Scotia's bonny isle,were full of life and glee.
Twas sad to the father sigh,or hear the mother weep,
When a fond comely boy was funeral-marching to the deep;
Or children mourning o'er a mother calm,and still and dead,
Or yet the lonely father sitting down with drooping head,
Thus oft a funeral psalm was sung,while passing o'er the lea
The young,the gay,the fair,the strong,into the rolling sea.
Our trip across the ocean wide was very long and drear,
But how our hearts did aye rejoice when once we trod the pier.
But sydney was a little town,a little hamlet then,
And could not boast of hoarded wealth,nor yet of wealthy men;
And in the streets we saw the prisoners clang their heavy chains
The exile gang from England's alleys and from England's lanes,
Such dismal sights as that in Scotia's land we ne'er did see,
And heartily we wished they were good citizens and free;
But our sympathies they did not by any means deserve,
For when their freedom they'd regained,they would not strain each nerve
To live like honest men,but they would rob from house to house,
With fear at midnight's silent hours the inmates they would rouse.
This at a time when flour was sold for twelve pence for the pound,
And other food exceeding dear,for meat could scarce be found.
But with tales of robbers deeds my verse I'll not prolong
For they are drear,and not to them the issues do belong.
Here stay and hear another tale,by shepherds often told,
Of Mark's two little boys,of only eight and ten years old.
Like Norval's sire,they did most bravely feed their fathers flocks,
Not far from home,but on the hills,and glens and rocks.
But ah one morning bright they went a little further out,
Not thinking of the dangers nigh,for well they knew the route.
But ah the cruel cannibals that day had spied them there,
And with a savage rush,they ran the little boys to spear.
With nimble feet and frantic steps the boys did homeward run,
Which to the cruel ,cruel savage mind was sport and fun.
But soon the heros young were caught,and to the camp fire were brought,
But who can tell us how they screamed,or tell us what they thought,
Ah when they saw the fire lit up and burn so very great,
Oh,did they think that then was come their dreadful,awful fate.
But while they lay beside the camp,the sheep ran frantic home,
Which made the mother's heart to quail,the father's wrath to foam,
To find his darling little boys in haste he did prepare,
Lest cruel savage hands should out their hearts and bowels tear;
Well mounted on his stead,well found and in his armour clad,
Not far he went,when to the sight that met his gaze was sad.
The trunkless skull,the strewn bones,from which the flesh was ate
Of his dear white-haired bonnie boy,his darling little pet;
And half of one not less beloved hung roasted on a tree,
Such was the end of the brave,heroic boys who crossed the sea.
They were the first to die,I think upon a foreign land
Of those who,with us,crossed the wave from old Vic Alpine's strand.
But ah since then,how many more have crossed life's mystic stream
To whom the judgement bar and judgement scene is no more than a dream?
But ,where do rest their mortal frames,where lie their mouldering bones?
Where do they calmly sleep,beneath what heap of dust and stones?
There's some in Grafton's churchyard lie,who with us crossed the deep,
Beneath that costly monument there two Midlothian's sleep;
There's some at Wingham,and at Stroud,and some at Jamberoo;
There's some at Melbourne,and at Maitland East there lie a few,
And one who held the reins of State at Queensland far away,
There lies within a marble tomb till Ressurrection Day.
But Haselm holds the relics of that great,that learned divine,
Who shared with us our ocean fate,who crossed with us the Line.
Thus far apart within the city of the dead are laid
Those who together crossed the ocean wide together prayed.
many thanks to Angus McDonald who contributed this article
