Reflections of a Jacobite.

Mourn, mourn, ye spirits of the brave, for glories passed away;
Mourn that the sceptre of your king should own a stranger's sway;
Mourn that the crown, which graced his brow by sovereign right divine,
Should e'er in regal mockery adorn an upstart line.

But mourn the more that those, who boast your blood within their veins,
To such reproaches should submit while any drop remains,
That those, whose names are heroes' names, transmitted from the free,
The subjects of a foreign lord, in cherished chains should be.

Oh! for the days when life was naught except for what it prized! -
When virtue, honour, truth, and right inspired and advised! -
When men such loyalty and love to king and country bore! -
The grand old days of chivalry! - alas! they are no more!

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

Invocation To Summer.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Immigrants.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

November Sunshine.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

A Library.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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Scotland: A Jacobite's Lament.

Where are those days, O Caledon,
So glorious and bright,
In which thy star resplendent shone
With passing lustrous light?
Alas! alas! those happier days
Are shrouded in the past,
Thy glory was like that of Greece,
Too bright it shone to last.

Where are those knightly heroes bold,
Those champions of the right,
That bore the shield and couched the lance
So valiant in the fight?
Whether for king and country's weal
In freedom's cause they strove,
Or courted glory and renown
To win their lady-love.

The Wallace nobly lived and died
To save his land from shame,
The royal Bruce as nobly fought
Her freedom to reclaim.
How would their generous hearts have mourned
Could they have pierced the veil,
And, peering into future years,<...

W. M. MacKeracher

Fighting Mac" A Life Tragedy

A pistol-shot rings round and round the world:
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.
A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death - could not face shame.

Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
"O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace."

*    *    *    *    *

The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen,
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o'er page of legenda...

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Flora Macivor's Song

There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded - it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumined with the rays,
And the stream...

Walter Scott

Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 IX. Address To Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off, abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submittin...

William Wordsworth

Death Of Sir John.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,

W. M. MacKeracher

On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair.

    The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
        Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;
    Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air,
        And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

    Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,
        Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;^[1]
    Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallow'd well,^[2]
        Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.^[3]

    Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks,
        The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky,
    The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
        And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

    The paly moon rose in the livid east,
        And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately for...

Robert Burns