Glencoe Ghosts Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Mountains, snow-swept mountains of Arctic grandeur
Where no sweet bird finds rest in Winter’s thrall
Your streams should run with blood for a thousand aeons
You watched and did not hinder Clan Donald’s fall

Glenlyon’s Argyll men, to the glen came trekking
Like red-backed hounds to seek MacIain’s lair
Where were your blizzards then, that could have saved him?
Your corries turned a hiding place to a bier

Buachaille Etive Mor of the Glen of Weeping
Were you deaf to your dying children’s cries?
Why could you not have blocked the Devil’s staircase
Or opened the Sgur-mam-Fiann where Fingal lies?

Mountains, snow swept mountains of Arctic grandeur
Where ghostly wraiths of the murdered families flit
The wail of the caoineag still keens out a warning
You care for the fate of mortals not a whit