from: "King Lear," Act V, Scene III by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

"The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

--William Shakespeare
"King Lear"
Act V, Scene III

"Meaning of the Colors of the Bell of the Borders' Tartan" by William H. Bell

BLACK is for the Border and in Remembrance of our Dead.
BLUE is for the Sky above and the Oceans o'er we fled.
GREEN is for the Border's hue and the Promise of Nature's Plan.
RED is for the Blood we've shed, our courage and elan. 
YELLOW is the Sunburst,
Our Honor shinning bright for all to tell,
That soon, with Justice proper,
The Re-establishment of CLAN BELL!

"Lead, Kindly Light" by John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,--
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on:
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish days, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

"Sixteen Tons" by Merle Travis

Some people say a man is made outta mud
A poor man's made outta muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bones
A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one mornin' when the sun didn't shine
I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine
I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal
And the straw boss said "Well, a-bless my soul"

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born one mornin', it was drizzlin' rain
Fightin' and trouble are my middle name
I was raised in the canebrake by an ol' mama lion
Cain't no-a high-toned woman make me walk the line

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

If you see me comin', better step aside
A lotta men didn't, a lotta men died
One fist of iron, the other of steel
If the right one don't a-get you
Then the left one will

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

Tombstone of John Bell

"Here bluidy Bell baith skin and bane
Lyes quitely still aneath thys stane
He was a stark moss-trooper kent
As ever drave a nout oer bent
He brynt ye Lockwood Tower and Hall
And flang ye lady oer ye wall
For whilk ye Johnstone stout and wyte
Set Blackheth a' in lowe by nyght
Whyle cry'd a voice, as if frae Hell
Haste, open ye gates for bluidy Bell"

--Inscription said to be from the Tombstone of John Bell (died 1510)

"The Thisle of Scotia" --Unknown

"Let the lily of France in luxuriance bloom,
let the shamrock of Erin its beauty maintain,
Let the rose of fair England still waft its perfume,
but the Thistle of Scotia will dearest remain.
'Twas the badge that our fathers triumphantly wore
when they followed their sovereigns to vanquish the Dane,
The emblem our Wallace in battle aye bore;
then the Thistle of Scotia must dearest remain.
it blooms on our mountains, it blooms in the vale,
it blooms in the winter, in snow, and in rain,
The type of her sons when rude seasons assail~
to Scotia, her Thistle will dearest remain."

"Out Over the Forth" by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

"Out over the Forth I look to the north,
But what is the north
and its Highlands to me?

"The south nor the east gie ease to my breast,
the far foreign land,
or the wild rolling sea.

"Bit I look to the west, when I gae to rest,
that happy my dreams and my slumber may be;
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best,
the lad that is dear to my babie and me."

"Moss Troopers Lament" by Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

"Oh! a' ye gallant Borders!
Ilk water, moss and fell,
To a' your weel kent nooks and crooks,
Forever, Oh! Farewell!
For we'll go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
We'll go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O we'll go no more a roving!

"Oh when the Har'est moon shone
What blithe times did we see!
On wanton naigs, wi splent on spauld,
We rade sae merrilie!
But we'll go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
We'll go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O we'll go no more a roving!

"Our King's gone o'er the Border
In London for to dwell;
And friends we maun wi' England be,
Sin' he reigns there himsel:
And go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
We'll go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O we'll go no more a roving!

"O how shall I, tether'd,
On Yarrow banks abide!
That far as Trent and Humber
Hae scour'd the Southrons wide.
Oh! To go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
We'll go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O we'll go no more a roving!

"And how shall I follow
A droning plough's tail,
And how now break my bonnie Brown
To hart'l like a snail!
And go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
We'll go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O we'll go no more a roving!

"But when the blithsome Borders
Hae lost their riders gay,
The Scots will miss their hardy men,
And cry, Alack the day!
That they go no more a roving,
A roving in the night,
They go no more a roving,
Though the moon shine e'er so bright.
O they'll go no more a roving!"

"The Banks of Nith" by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

"The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,
Where Cummings ance had high command:
When shall I see that honour'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear!
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here?

"How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,
Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom;
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!"

The Martyr of John Bell, buried in the churchyard of Anwoth

"Here lyes John Bell of Whyteside, who was barbarously shot to death in the Paroch of Tongland, at the command of Grier of Lag, anno 1685.

"This monument shall tell poserity
That blessed Bell of Whitesyde here doth lye,
Who at command of bloody Lag was shot,
A murder strange which should not be forgot.
Douglas of Morton did him quarters give,
Yet cruel Lag would not let him survive.
This martyr sought some time to recommend
His soul to God before his days should end.
The tyrant said, What, dev'l yo've pray'd enough
This long seven years on mountain and in cleuch;
And instantly caus'd him, with other four,
Be shot to death upon Kirkcommel Moor;
So thus did end the lives of these dear saints
For there adherence to the Covenants."

"Sonnet 94" by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
   For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
   Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

"I slept and dreamt
That life was joy.
I awoke and saw
That life was duty.
I acted and behold
Duty was joy."

"Friendly Obstacles" -- Author Unknown

For every hill I’ve tried to climb,

For every stone that bruised my feet,

For all the blood and sweat and grime,

For blinding storms and burning heat,

My heart sings but a grateful song

These are the things that made me strong!

For all the heartache and the tears,

For all the anguish and the pain,

For gloomy days and fruitless years,

And for the hopes that lived in vain,

I do give thanks, for now I know

These were the things that helped me grow!

‘Tis not the softer things in life

Which stimulate man’s will to survive;

But bleak adversity and strife

Do most to keep man’s will alive.

O’er rose-strewn paths the weaklings creep

But brave hearts dare to climb the steep!

"Ships of Dust" by Marvin Payne

"We wandered through the shipyards,

through the timber and the rope,

and the wise men saw the longing in our eyes.

So they made for each of us

a ship of dust, with sails of trust,

and the sun behind us vanished from the skies.

 

"Now it’s a long time since the sunset,

and the time we raised the sails,

and the time the old shipbuilders waited for.

There are wonders in the night;

there are strange and dangerous shades of light,

but the dawn is gonna see me on that shore.

 

"Sweet stars, mark the night.

Fair winds, arc the right waves over my prow—

I am homeward.

 

"Wooden wheels and oaken rudders

bend like grass against the sea,

and the canvas fails and falls against our hope.

I am climbing on the mast

and I see a trace of dawn at last

and I feel a strange new feeling in the rope.

 

"Now the sun splits the horizon

where I thought the beach to be,

and the graveyard for the ships done with the sea

But I’m on a sea of glass

and the light is more than sun can pass

and the deck is turning silver under me.

 

"Sweet stars, mark my mind.

Fair winds, you can find me sailing your source—

I am homeward."

"The Theologian's Tale; The Legend Beautiful" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

"Hads't thou stayed, I must have fled!"
That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendor brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind he healed,
When he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus thou deignest
To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter's cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendor.
Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;_
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear
As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,_
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavor,
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent sate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
"Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!"

Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing.

Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said,
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849 )

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

"A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief"- by James Montgomery (1771 - 1854)

A poor wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had not power to ask his name,
Whereto he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread.
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again.
Mine was an angel’s portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone.
The heedless water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran and raised the suff’rer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and returned it running o’er;
I drank and never thirsted more.

’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof.
I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest
And laid him on my couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden’s garden while I dreamed.

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side.
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment—he was healed.
I had myself a wound concealed,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In pris’n I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor’s doom at morn.
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spirit cried, “I will!”

Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise.
The tokens in His hands I knew;
The Savior stood before mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name He named,
“Of Me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."

"Barefoot" by Victor Hugo (1802-1885). Translated by Brooks Haxton

"Her shoes pulled off, her hair let down,
she lay back under the leaning rushes, barefoot.
I stopped on the path, as if possessed, and said:
Would you like to walk with me into the fields?

"She turned to me, supremely calm
as beauty in its triumph, and I said:
If you would like-it is the time of year for lovers-
we could walk under the trees. Would you like that?

"She wiped her feet on the grass bank,
looking a second time in my face,
and frowning, pretending to be undecided.
Oh! how the birds sang in the deep woods!

"The stream caressing its banks! And I watched her
step through the tall grass rushes to meet me,
A young farmwoman, shy, and fierce, her hair
in her eyes, her cracked lips open, laughing."

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8.

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

"A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

"A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;

"A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

"A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

"A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

"A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

"A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace."