Glengarry - Author Unknown

A wooded valley, and a hill,
A temple to their God upon it
A bit of heather near their hearts,
And on their heads a Highland bonnet.

They’ll squeeze a penny, just for thrift,
Until their very fingers ache,
But fling a fortune to the winds,
For charity or kindness sake.

Slow to accept a stranger’s smile,
But friends till death, if friend he prove;
Hidden behind a stern reserve,
Burns the deep passion of their love.

As wild and stirring as the pipes,
Their spirit flies to meet the morn;
Out of the hard and rocky soil
They grow their fields of waving corn.

Their hand clasp cannot wait to greet
The friend who knocks upon their door;
There never is a board so filled
It cannot find a space for more.

You’ll never find a Highland maid
Who measures up for anything,
Who cannot sing the Scottish songs,
Or whirl her plaid in Highland Fling.

And where’s the little baby boy,
Wrapped in his mother’s patchwork quilt,
Who really is his father’s son
Until he’s worn the tartan kilt?

I’ve watched their eyes with joy alight
At skirl or pipes or Highland feather,
The muscle in their cheeks grow tight
When someone sends them bits of heather.

I’ve felt the strong and loving tie
Which binds each Clan and family.
I’ve seen their faces calm and still
In joy and in adversity.

I know how stubborn they can be
When right is right and wrong is wrong,
Their pleasure in the simple things,
Their homes and children, dance and song.

The day old Scotland’s heart was torn,
A little piece of it was thrown
Across the sea to Canada,
Who reached and clasped it to her own.

Author Unknown

Submitted by Betty (MacCrimmon) Bracken & Sandra MacPherson