St. Andrew and Halloween
Our ancient customs to renew,
We meet to honour St. Andrew,
He was of the Jewish nation;
A fisherman by occupation.
No warlike knight with lance and sword,
But humbly following his Lord,
And Scotia she justly claims
Her soil contains his last remains.
In early times the pilgrims drew
Unto the shrine of St. Andrew;
For miracles it gained renown,
And thence sprang up St.Andrew's town.
And here to night we meet together,
Rose, shamrock and blooming heather,
For no more the Scottish thistle .
With warlike thorns it doth bristle.
But clansmen twine round maple leaf,
When rallying at the call of chief.
And time will come when we'll be one
And proud of name Canadian.
A tale we'll tell of what hath been
When maids and youths kept Hallowe'en.
It is a tale of old-world lore,
What happened in the days of yore,
When faries danced upon the green
So merrily on Hallowe'en,
And witches did play many a trick,
Assisted by their auld friend nick ;
And lovers met wound the fire
Near to the one their hearts desire-
For to burn nuts, for to discover
The truthfulness of their lover
They first did give each nut a name-
This was Sandy-that was Jane ;
If they did blaze side by side-
She knew her husband - he his bride ;
But if one up the chimney flew.
One knew the other was not true.
And one sure test did never fail :
Blindfold to find good stock of kale,
To pull the first comes to the hand
With heavy roots of earth and sand,
For the very weight of mould
Does denote the lover's gold.
In tubs children love to splatter;
Ducking for apples in the water ;
For such were the delights of yore,
Which soon will cease for evermore.
At Balmoral Castle Britain's Queen
Oft celebrated Hallowe'en.
Princess Beatrice lights bonfire
'Neath the mock witches funeral pyre.
But Highland landlords now do clear
Land of men to make room for deer
And where brave race did once abound
'Tis wilderness of hunting ground.
But Scotia must not be forgot,
For sake of Chalmers, Burns or Scott.
But here upon Canadian soil
A man may own where he doth toil,
For here each may enjoy the charm
Of owning fine prairie farm.
poem by James McIntyre
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.