This song was found in the Bristol Radical History pamphlet (#6) ‘The Life and Times of Warren James’ about the Forest of Dean enclosures:
Arouse ye, free miners, who delve in old Dean, and all ye freeholders with rights o’er its green, ‘Tis time to be stirring for danger is nigh; and if ye bestir not, you’ll find by and by, that truth, and truth only, is this now I tell, They’ll suck out the egg if they once prick the shell!
Say will you surrender, or barter away, your Father’s old charter – twelve months and a day, while yours, the bad bargain, to take what they please, in rents and in taxes, in fines, and in fees. Remember, free miners, yea, ponder it well, They’ll suck out the egg if they once prick the shell!
Anon., The Foresters’ Egg! A Timely Warning! Dean Forest Mercury, 23 may 1884
Here is a 30 min BBC radio documentary about the British state ‘helping’ Scottish gypsy travellers to ‘settle’. Nothing problematic here at all folks… move along, get along. Go, move, shift…
“The idea that the UK Government, working in partnership with Scottish local authorities and church groups, could take children from their families and put them into residential homes to ‘knock the Tinker out of the child’ is now considered to be cultural genocide.”
Just two communities have applied to take neglected land into public ownership since the Scottish Government launched the initiative more than five years ago, The Ferret has found.
Since 2018, communities have been able to bid for the compulsory purchase of land that is abandoned, neglected or detrimental to the local environment or area, meaning that ministers can force owners to sell, even if they have no plans to do so.
Local communities can apply for the right to buy neglected land and property including greenspaces, woodlands, retail and industrial units, churches, halls, lochs, bridges, canals and foreshores.
However, just two groups have attempted to do so, and neither were successful, according to official data. Community ownership campaigners said the initiative set “too high a bar” for applicants to get past. An overhaul is needed to make it work for communities, they argued.
Arthur and May Hollins began producing yoghourt at Fordhall Farm in 1957, ahead of the multinationals that now control the current dairy market.
Arthur Hollins took over the tenancy at Fordhall in 1929 at the tender age of 13, after his father passed away. Following the intensive food production of the war effort, the land left to Arthur amounted to no more than a fallow malnourished soil, but the new farmer was soon struck by the big difference in the rich growth in the untouched woodlands.
Shortly after the Second World War he vowed never to put chemical fertilisers on the land at Fordhall again, relying solely on natural animal muck as fertiliser. He let the grassland fields return to nature, and built up a herd of dairy cows and a pioneering yoghurt enterprise managed with his first wife May. Being among the first in the country to commercially make and sell live yoghurt they were soon supplying many famous London and Edinburgh stores and markets.
After his death the farm was taken over by the teenaged children of his second marriage, Charlotte and Ben who raised money to run the farm by selling shares. Mary Keith’s community choir sang the songs to the play ‘Arthur’s Plough’ which was performed at the farm.
This tale about a knight killing a dragon in a suit of Sheffield steel is a thinly veiled attack on the Earl of Shrewsbury (soon to be the Duke of Norfolk), the areas largest landowner and eventually the most senior peer in the realm.
In 1573 a lawsuit was taken against the Lord of the Manor of Sheffield, George Talbot, the sixth Earl of Shrewsbury. The lord was accused of appropriating the proceeds of Sheffield ‘waste’ land, which hitherto had paid for civic works, church upkeep, and helping the poor. The crusading lawyer who took the case on behalf of the people of Sheffield was named George More who lived by Wharncliffe Crags.
compiled by Barry Thomas of the Melbourne Footpaths Group
Thomas Dugmore (1739 – 1820) Dugmore kept the Bull’s Head public house on Potter Street and attacked the enclosure of Melbourne parish with its effects on public roads and paths in an amazing pamphlet written in 1800. He took Lord Melbourne to court when he closed a local footpath and won.
Melbourne Luddites 1812/13 The town was a centre for framework knitting and was visited by the Luddites on at least two occasions in 1812 and 1813 when frames were smashed.
In 1816 a third of the town’s population was destitute and a letter was written to Lord Sidmouth, Home Secretary by the Overseer of the Poor asking for help.
Sir Francis Burdett (1770-1844) Up until recently Melbourne had a pub named after Burdett whose family owned Foremark Hall nearby. He was a popular local figure and was a Member of Parliament who gained notoriety as a proponent of universal male suffrage, equal electoral districts, vote by ballot, and annual parliaments. He financed Chartist leader Feargus O’Connor to run a farm in Ireland.
Pentrich Rebellion 1817 Pentrich village was the source of the last armed rebellion in England in June 1817. Protestors were betrayed by government spies (including Oliver who was active at Peterloo). Eighty-five of the rebels were arrested and twenty-three put on trial. Three men were executed in Derby and 14 men were transported to Australia for varying terms. Pentrich village lies 17 miles north of Melbourne.
Derby Reform Bill Riots 1831 Mass riots raged through the town for several days in October 1831 after the Reform Bill was rejected. Prisoners were released from the Derby jails by a crowd of 1,500 protestors.
Derby Silk Mill strike 1833-34 The Silk Mill was one of the first factories in this country and was the site of one of the first major lockouts in this country (1833-1834). Contemporary with the Tolpuddle Martyrs, hundreds of Derby mill workers were forced out of work for joining a radical new union.
Derby Chartism 1839-48 Derby was an important centre for Chartism in the East Midlands (1839-1848) along with Nottingham and Leicester. Chartist leader Feargus O’Connor was a Nottingham MP and Derby had a prominent Chartist candidate in the 1848 election (who wasn’t, unsurprisingly elected).
C F There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland C F Mulch, sow and then reap C C There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland C C And he has green fingers on both of his hands C Em7 C F C G C I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
With a coop of comrades he dreamed a bold dream To grow food for his kinsfolk as nature decreed.
By the edge the forest they spied a fine patch And to grow fruit and veg there a plan they did hatch.
But the men of the hour dreamed of buildings not plants A development would far more there profits enhance.
Our ancestors fought for this fair forest land So now against the law was the businessman’s plan.
After twelve months had past did the council relent Now we’ll work the earth as our ancestors meant.
Now if you pass by here you might hear a tune: Mulch, sow and then reap Now if you pass by here you might hear a tune, The melody is old and the words will be soon. I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
In 1866, Lord Brownlow of Ashridge House tried to enclose a third of Berkhamsted Common by putting in iron fences “without any openings and entirely regardless of public rights of way”.
But the Commons Preservation Society got together a bunch of workmen and labourers to come up on a special midnight train from London and pulled all the fences out.
This is a delightful ballad which tells the story:
A Lanthorne for Landlords was published as a broadsheet ballad to the tune of The Duke of Norfolk, and was clearly directed towards a popular audience in the countryside. Its narrative develops themes apparent in some of the earlier works in this section: most notably Robert Crowley’s poem, which ends with the voice of God promising retribution against an exploitative landlord.
In this ballad, the landlord’s crimes and punishments are described at greater length, in a mode of popular melodrama. Indeed the attention lavished on the downfall of his family assumes among the readership a reservoir of barely suppressed resentment directed against landowners. The narrative of divine retribution is designed to appeal to all readers who have felt aggrieved by the actions of those in positions of economic power.
Recommended edition – The Pepys Ballads, ed. W. G. Day, 5 vols (Cambridge, 1987).
With sobbing grief my heart will break asunder in my breast, Before this story of great woe, I truly have expressed: Therefore let all kind-hearted men and those that tender be, Come bear a part of this my grief and jointly say with me,
Woe worth the man, etc.
Not long ago in Lincoln dwelt, As I did understand, A labouring man from thence set forth to serve in Ireland: And there in prince’s wars was slain, as doth that country know, But left his widow great with child as ever she could go.
This woman having gone her time, her husband being dead, Of two fine pretty boys at once was sweetly brought to bed: Whereat her wicked landlord straight, did ponder in his mind, How that their wants he should relieve, and succour for them find.
For being born upon his ground, this was his vile conceit, That he the mother should maintain and give the other meat: Which to prevent he hied fast, unto this widow poor, And on the day she went to church, he turned her out of door.
Her household goods he strained upon, to satisfy the rent, And left her scarce a rag to wear, so wilful was he bent. Her pretty babes that sweetly slept upon her tender breast, Were forced by the miser’s rage, by nights in streets to rest.
Quoth she, ‘my husband in your cause, in wars did lose his life, And will you use thus cruelly his harmless wedded wife? O God revenge a widow’s wrong, that all the world may know, How you have forced a soldier’s wife a-begging for to go.’
From Lincoln thus this widow went, but left her curse behind, And begged all the land about, her maintenance to find. At many places where she came she knew the whipping post, Constrained still as beggars be, to taste on such like roast.
[The woman’s twins, at the age of two, get lost and die in a field of barley, where later the woman discovers their corpses in the course of the harvest. The woman determines to return to Lincoln ‘To prosecute the law against / The causer of this deed’.]
But see the judgement of the Lord, how he in fury great, Did bring this miser to distress, though wealthy was his seat. For when to Lincoln she was brought, the caitiff he was gone. Of all his cursed family, remaining was but one.
For first the house wherein she dwelt, did prove unfortunate, Which made the landlord and his friends, to marvel much thereat. For tenants four there dwelt therein, A twelve month and a day, Yet none of them could thrive at all, but beggars went away.
Whereat this miserable wretch did turn it to a barn, And filled it full in harvest time with good red wheat and corn: To keep it safely from the poor, until there came a year, That famine might oppress them all and make all victuals dear.
But God forgetting not the wrongs, he did this widow poor, Sent down a fire from heaven, which soon consumed all his store: By which this wicked miser man, was brought to beggary, And likewise laid a grievous scourge upon his family.
His wife she proved a cursed witch, and burned for the same, His daughter now a strumpet is at London in defame. At Leicester at the ‘sizes last was hanged his eldest son, For there consenting wickedly unto a murder done.
His second son was fled away unto the enemy, And proved disloyal to his prince, and to his own country. His youngest son had like mishap, or worser in my mind, For he consented to a bitch, contrary unto kind:
For which, the Lord without delay, rained vengeance on his head, Who like a sinful sodomite defiled Nature’s bed. For there were two great mastiff dogs that met him in a wood, And tore his limbs in pieces small, devouring up his blood:
Whereof when as his father heard, most like a desperate man, Within a channel drowned himself, that down the street it ran, Whereas water could scarce suffice, to drown a silly mouse. And thus the ruin you have heard of him and all his house.
The widow she was soon possessed of all the goods he left, In recompence of those sweet babes mischance from her bereft. Wherefore let all hard-hearted men, by this example take, That God is just, and will be true, for woeful widows’ sake.
A very old ballad borrowed from the private library of some aristocratby a friend of Roy Palmer’s, who spent years trying to obtain a copy. Probably connected to the Midland Revolt.
You gentlemen that rack your rentes, and throwe downe Land for corne The tyme will com that som will sigh, that ever they were borne.
Small care you have for to maintayne trueth or godlines. Yee seek your gayne and still the poore oppresse.
Yee throw downe townes and houses to, and seek for honors more. When we your tenantes arre constraynde to beg from doore to doore.
Redres we will have, or we will knowe whye no. We will adventure lief & goods and so the matter shall goe.
The king commaundes and wisheth all thinges well he askes if all be don nothing but lies you tell.
Therfoer we have agreed even for the comons sake a blooddye entreprise to take.
Yet meanyng no harme to our gracious King Quene Prince or any of those But to pull downe those hawghty myndes which against his commandmentes themselves oppose.
For usurping Jupiter we will throwe downe and restore dispossessed Saturne to his princely Crowne.
Then will not Ambicious Phaeton seeke Phebus chariot to guide. nor hunger sterved Midas covet gold or worldly pride.
It is that which our Tyrantes have, and we do lack for they cary whole townes upon their back.
They are as Cruell as Titius which never did good nay, worse than Meda for seeking after blood.
They lyve secure and think to mak a golden voiage But what was Scipio Africanus either, when he had won great Carthage
Here they lyve in pompe & glory and may not be Controulde they think scorn of there faultes for to be told.
Lyving the poore doth wante, and lyving they shall have and the prowdest of all at our handes mercie shall crave
Their peacock plumes and golden coates, shall them nought avayll When soden death shall sodenly them call.
Do not Looke to Dye in bed, as others have don before But let som think to hand upon the dore.
This taske shall well be performed eare Martilmas be one fortenight gone. and of your goodly howses we will not leave one stone upon a stone
we will be merry and take our full of ioye (joy) as Priamus had to trayle Hectors body about the walles of Troye
Yee arre lyke to Esops curre in greediness which snatched at the shadow and so lost the flesh
Your Dealinges arre so bad, the peoples harts they break in tyranny you excell Gelon which not let his subiectes speak
what was his end, histories do shew as yyt was with him, so shall yt be with you
you feare naught, but we will make you all to quake with canon shot, we will your greedy myndes oure shak
when we com out, you tyrants to ynvade we neede not feare for helpe, thowsandes have sworn to Ayde
Then let som feare when the night ye hear the Drum or goon to enquire in the woodde that shalbe the true foreteller of his blood.
Yet that tyme you must Leave your whores & dainty dames whose lascyvious apparell & dainty chere, the poore man still maintaynes
therfore take order som, which be very good orelles as we have saied, yt shall cost the price of blood
but we care not, whether you order or noe forwardes the enterprise is lyke to go
yet Pelham & Hatton take courage still to you & Shefford we owe all good will
the howse of the Henneage let us call to mynde men good to the poore & to the commons Kynde
And so all otheres that arre Knighte or stand in Justice stedde Aganst them our sword the cause shall pleade
Oh yt shall do us good to see, these tyrantes wallowed in their Blood
God bless our King Quene and prince all waies God send them happy lief & old Nestors dayes.
Epping Forest (just outside London) was in the process of being Enclosed and made private in the 19th century, but a campaign of mass trespass forced the government to place it in common hands. The first image here (from September 1871) was made just months after a demonstration there.
Around the mid-19th century, over half of Epping Forest had been enclosed and the rights commoners had for firewood, grazing or even just a walk in the woods, were (as with most of the English countryside) being stolen away and cut down.
The public weren’t happy. On 11th Nov, they took part in an annual ceremony defending their rights of pollarding in the forest (lopping higher branches for firewood while encouraging new growth). The event was celebrated on Staples Hill with bonfires, beer and joy.
Despite condemnation by the British press, the campaign continued unabated with huge public support. By 1871, a mass demonstration was called for 8th July to ‘Save the Forest’.
Attended by thousands of mainly working class people, the rally saw fences torn down. Storming the event, and making an arrest the police were then allowed to enjoy the forest for themselves and not told off for trespassing!
But eventually the campaigners won. Their “crime” of trespass became a right. Within a month, parliament began to protect the forest and by 1878 passed an act to make it public. An opening by Queen Victoria (see 7th image) was attended by 500,000. She stated: “It gives me the greatest satisfaction to dedicate this beautiful Forest to the use and enjoyment of my people for all time”.
While the green swathe on the 8th image might look like the Amazon, this is London’s Epping Forest today! It now covers some 6000 acres and over a million trees.
From Lordenshaw to Worth Forest, Right to Roam are continuing the mass trespass tradition to protect and open up the countryside for all.
Credit to Ellie Wilson, The Gentle Author and Russell Tranter for info and images.
Our very own Rachel Rose Reid has written and performs a fantastic translation of this sppech which we hope to get recorded sometime soon. In the meantime Michael also does a good job, although I fine many words too detached from modernity to land with the casual listener:
I’ve recently been learning about the failed attempts by the Scottish ruling class to start a new colony in the last 1600s and how this bankrupted them. It was financial ruin caused by this that led to their agreeing (being bribed?) to the formal union of Scotland with England and Wales in 1707 in exchange for lots of cash. This poem written in 1791 by Robbie Burns spells out his disdain for those people who sold out Scotland for money after years of Scottish blood being spilt to defend its freedom.
There are two versions below with quite different interpretations.
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel ev'n to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins over Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;
But English gold has been our bane -
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O would, ere I had seen the day
That Treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll mak this declaration;
We're bought and sold for English gold-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
Jack Hargreaves had a beautful way of talking about the world around him at a time when the urban and rural were becoming more and more divided. Many episodes of his ‘Old Country’ series can be found on Youtube and are well worth a look. This one on deserted villages, the black death and enclosures is as good a place to start as any.
Released in 1968 and often referred to as Canada’s first music video, The Ballad of Crowfoot was directed by Willie Dunn, a Mi’kmaq/Scottish folk singer and activist who was part of the historic Indian Film Crew, the first all-Indigenous production unit at the NFB. The film is a powerful look at colonial betrayals, told through a striking montage of archival images and a ballad composed by Dunn himself about the legendary 19th-century Siksika (Blackfoot) chief who negotiated Treaty 7 on behalf of the Blackfoot Confederacy. The IFC’s inaugural release, Crowfoot was the first Indigenous-directed film to be made at the NFB.
Lyrics
Comes the spring and its warm thaw Around your neck, the eagle claw Upon your head, the buffalo horn Today a great new chief is born So raise him fast towards the sun A heart now beats, a life’s begun It’s eighteen hundred twenty-one Today a Blackfoot soul is, is born
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Your years have gone, the years have past Your heart is set, your soul is cast You stand before the Council Fire You have the mind and the desire Of notions wise you speak so well And in brave deeds you do excel And it’s eighteen hundred fifty-three And you stand the chief of Confederacy You are the leader, you are the chief You stand against both liar and thief They trade braves whiskey and steal your land And they’re coming in swift like the wind-blown sand They shoot the buffalo and kill the game And send their preachers in to shame And it’s eighteen hundred sixty-four And you think of peace and you think of war
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
See the settlers in more numbers He takes whatever he encounters You’ve seen the Sioux all battered, beaten They’re all in rags, they haven’t eaten The Nez Perce’ were much the same It seems like such a heartless game And it’s eighteen hundred seventy-six And the enemy’s full of those death-dealing tricks Today the treaty stands on the table Will you sign it? Are you able? It offers food and protection too Do you really think they’ll hold it true? It offers a reserve, now isn’t that grand? And in return you cede all of your land And it’s eighteen hundred seventy-seven And you know the scales are so uneven
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Well, the buffalo are slaughtered, there is nothing to eat The government’s late again with the meat And your people are riddled with the white man’s disease And in the summer they’re sick and in the winter they freeze and Sometimes you wonder why you signed that day But they broke the treaties themselves anyway And it’s eighteen hundred eighty-nine And your death star explodes and then it falls
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
The years have gone, the years have flown A nation since has swiftly grown but Yet for the Indian, it’s all the same There’s still the hardship, there’s still the pain There’s still the hardship, there’s still the strife It’s bitterness shines like a whetted knife There’s still the hypocrisy, and the hate Was that in the treaties? Was that the fate? We’re all unhappy pawns in the government’s game And it’s always the Indian who gets the blame It’s a problem which money can never lessen And it’s nineteen hundred sixty-seven
Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
Maybe one day you’ll find honesty Instead of the usual treachery Perhaps one day the truth shall prevail And the warmth of love which it does entail Crowfoot, Crowfoot, why the tears? You’ve been a brave man for many years Why the sadness? Why the sorrow? Maybe there’ll be a better tomorrow
An Aboriginal land rights song written by Australia rock band in the 80’s, not my cup of tea to be honest but documented here for completeness sake! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beds_Are_Burning
Out where the river broke The blood-wood and the desert oak Holden wrecks and boiling diesels Steam in forty-five degrees
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them Let’s give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent Now to pay our share
Four wheels scare the cockatoos From Kintore East to Yuendemu The western desert lives and breathes In forty-five degrees
The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them Let’s give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning How can we dance When our earth is turning
How do we sleep While our beds are burning The time has come To say fair’s fair To pay the rent now To pay our share
The time has come A fact’s a fact It belongs to them We’re gonna give it back
How can we dance When our earth is turning How do we sleep While our beds are burning
And in his great poem Spiorad a’ Charthannais (The Spirit of Kindliness), the Lewis poet Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn (John Smith) wrote about island soldiers coming back from the Napoleonic wars, only to find their homes burned to the ground in similar Highland Clearances. Their persecutors, not Napoleon, but domestic oppressors, who:
…reckoned as but brittle threads the tight and loving cords that bound these freemen’s noble hearts to the high land of the hills.
The grief they suffered brought them death although they suffered long, tormented by the cold world which had no warmth for them.
From Gaelic poetry and the British military, 1756-1945 by Wilson McLeod
An atypically incisive example of such rhetoric can be found in the Lewis poet Iain Mac a’ Ghobhainn’s (John Smith) (1848-81) powerful ‘Spiorad a’ Charthannais’ (‘The Spirit of Kindliness’), composed in 1874, at the beginning of the Land Agitation:
A bheil neach beò san linn seo leis an cuimhn’ an latha garbh ’s na chuireadh an cath uamhann — Waterloo nan cluaintean dearg? Bu tapaidh buaidh nan Gàidheal ann, nuair dh’èirich iad fo’n airm; ri aghaidh colg nan treun-fheara gun ghèill ar nàimhdean garg.
Dè ’n sòlas a fhuair athraichean nan gaisgeach thug a’ bhuaidh? Chaidh taighean blàth a’ charthannais ’nam baidealaich mu’n cluais; bha ’m macaibh anns an àraich ’s iad a’ teàrnadh tìr gun truas; bu chianail staid am màthraichean, ’s am fàrdaichean ’nan gual. . . .
A Bhreatainn, tha e nàireach dhut, ma dh’àirmhear ann do sgeul, Gun bhuin thu cho mì-nàdarrach ri t’fhìor-shliochd àlainn fhèin; an tìr bha aig na gaisgich ud a theasairg thu ’nad fheum, a thionndadh gu blàr-spòrsa do na stròdhailich gun bheus.
Is anyone presently alive who recollects that awful day, on which was fought the fearful fight — Waterloo of the bloody plains? A fine victory was won by Gaels when they rose in battle-arms; faced with the blade of bravest men, our fierce foes yielded fast.
What joy came to the fathers of those who won the fray? The warm homes of kindliness towered round their ears in flames. Their sons were on the battlefield to save a heartless land; their mothers were in the saddest plight, and their homes reduced to ash. . . .
O Britain, it is a disgrace, should we recount your tale, relating how hard you dealt with your own and truest race. The land that those heroes had, who saved you in your straits, has now become a field of sports for those wasters without morals.
(Meek 2003: 362-5)
Bàrdachd – Spiorad a’ Charthannais
Tha structar teann agus reusanachadh soilleir san dàn seo. Tha sin, le cainnt gheur agus rannaigheachd shiùbhlach a’ bhàird, a’ fàgail gur e seo ionnsaigh cho làidir is a gheibhear ann am bàrdachd Ghàidhlig air na Fuadaichean.
Sa chiad chòig rannan tha am bàrd a’ beachdachadh air gnè spiorad a’ charthannais agus an diofar a dhèanadh e don t-saoghal nan leanadh daoine an dòigh-beatha seo: airson notaichean air seo cliog air Spiorad.
Anns an ath chòig rannan tha e a’ leudachadh air a’ chron a tha dìth carthannais a’ dèanamh anns an t-saoghal san fharsaingeachd: cliog air Dìth airson seo.
Às dèidh rann far a bheil e a’ cur an cèill amasan an dàin, tha Mac a’ Ghobhainn anns an ath chòig rannan a’ càineadh nan uachdaran agus nam bàillidhean airson a bhith cho cruaidh air an t-sluagh: cliog air Uachdarain airson seo.
Anns na ceithir rannan deireannach, tha e a’ toirt ionnsaigh gu h-àraidh air Dòmhnall Rothach, bàillidh Leòdhais: cliog air Crìoch airson seo.
Lean na comharran airson a’ bhàrdachd a mhìneachadh. Nuair a nì thu sin, theirig air ais agus leugh a’ bhàrdachd air fad a-rithist.
Spiorad a’ Charthannais
O Spioraid shoilleir shàr-mhaisich,
A Spioraid ghràsmhoir chaoin
Tha riaghladh anns an àros sin
Tha uile làn de ghaol,
Nan gabhamaid gu càirdeil riut,
Gad fhàilteachadh gu caomh,
'S e siud a bheireadh àrdachadh
Do nàdar chloinn nan daoin'.
Nam b' eòl dhuinn thu nad mhaisealachd
'S nam b' aithne dhuinn do luach,
'S e siud a bheireadh inntinn dhuinn
Os cionn an t-saoghail thruaigh;
Gur sona iad fhuair eòlas ort,
'S len còmhnaich thu gu buan –
'S ann tromhad tha na sòlasan
Tha 'n Tìr na Glòire shuas.
'S tu phàirticheadh gu h-èifeachdach
Rinn gnè nam flaitheas àrd;
An àite greann na h-eucorach
Bhiodh maise 's sgèimh nan gràs;
'S tu sheargadh gnè na truaillidheachd
'S a nuadhaicheadh ar càil;
'S tu thogadh chum nan nèamhan sinn
Le tarraing threun do ghràidh.
O Spioraid chaoimh nan gràsalachd,
Nam biodh tu tàmh nar còir,
'S tu dh'fhuasgladh oirnn 's a shlànaicheadh
An dream tha cnàmh fo leòn;
'S tu thogadh crìdh' nam bantraichean
Gu seinn le aiteas mòr,
'S nach fàgadh gu neo-choibhneil iad
An gainntir dorch a' bhròin.
'S tu mhùchadh teine 'n nàmhaideis
'S an t-sùil as gràinde colg;
'S tu rèiticheadh 's a chiùinicheadh
A' mhala bhrùideil dhorch;
'S tu thogadh neul na h-aingidheachd
Bharr gnùis nan aintighearn' borb
'S a bheireadh gionach saidhbhreis uap'
'S gach aimhleas tha nan lorg.
Ach 's eagal leam gun d' thrèig thu sinn
'S do nèamh gun d' theich thu suas –
Tha daoin' air fàs cho eucorach
'S do ghnè-sa fada uap';
Tha seiche ghreannach fèinealachd
Gan eudachadh mun cuairt –
Chan eòl dhomh aon nì reubas e
Ach saighead Dhè nan sluagh.
A shaoghail, 's fada tuathal thu
On uair sin anns na thrèig
Do charthannas is d' uaisleachd thu,
'S a ghabh thu Fuath is Breug;
Mar inneal-ciùil neo-cheòlmhor dhut,
Gun teud an òrdugh rèidh,
Cha seinn thu pong le òrdalachd
'S cha deòin leat dol air ghleus.
Gur leatsa neart nan aintighearnan
Is gèimhlichean nan tràill;
Gur leat guth treun nan ainneartach
'S guth fann an fhir tha 'n sàs;
Gur leatsa spìd is uabharrachd
An t-sluaigh tha 'n ionad àrd,
'S a mheasas cho mì-fhiùghail sinn
Ri sgùileach air an tràigh.
Gur leat an creideamh buaireasach
A dhùisgeas gruaim is greann,
An creideamh nach dèan suairce sinn
'S nach dèan ar n-uabhar fann;
An creideamh th' aig na diadhairean
Lem miann a' chòmhstri theann –
Nan làimh-san dh'fhàs a' Chrìosdalachd
Mar bhiast nan iomadh ceann.
An searmonaiche prèisgeil ud,
'S ann dh'èigheas e le sgairt
Gur mallaicht' sinn mur èisdear leinn
Ra chreud-san - an tè cheart;
An àite bhith sìor èigheach rinn
Mur dleasdanas 's gach beart,
A dhèanamh daoine cèillidh dhinn
An làthair Dhè nam feart.
O Charthannais, gur h-àlainn thu,
A ghràis as àirde luach!
Ach 's lìonmhor nach toir àite dhut
Gu bràth nan cridhe cruaidh.
Nan deònaicheadh a' cheòlraidh dhomh
Mo chomas beòil car uair,
Gun innsinn pàirt de ghnìomharan
Nam biast thug dhutsa fuath.
Cha robh do ghnè-s' an Dòmhnall bochd,
Am fear bu rògaich goill,
Bha 'n dùil gum biodh gach Leòdhasach
Air fhògaradh don choill;
Ach phàigh e pàirt de dhò-bheartan
Is gheibh e 'n còrr a thoill –
Gun aithnich e gu dòrainneach
Gur feàrr a' chòir na 'n fhoill.
Cha robh do ghnè-s' a' riaghladh
Ann am broilleach iarainn cruaidh
Nam bàillidhean 's nan tighearnan
Chuir sìos an tìr mu thuath;
Bu charthannach na fàrdaichean
Bha seasgair, blàth innt' uair,
'S tha tìr nan daoine còire 'n-diugh
Na fàsach dòbhaidh truagh.
Gun chuir iad fo na naosgaichean
An tìr a b' aoigheil sluagh;
Gun bhuin iad cho neo-dhaonndachail
Ri daoine bha cho suairc';
A chionn nach faodte 'm bàthadh,
Chaidh an sgànradh thar a' chuain –
Bu mhiosa na bruid Bhàbiloin
An càradh sin a fhuair.
A Bhreatainn, tha e nàrach dhut,
Ma dh'àirmhear ann do sgeul
Gun bhuin thu cho mi-nàdarrach
Rid fhìor-shliochd àlainn fhèin –
An tìr bha aig na gaisgich ud
A theasairg thu nad fheum,
A thionndadh ga blàr-spòrsa
Do na stròidhealaich gun bheus.
Nach dìblidh cliù ar mòr-uaislean,
Na fir as neònaich' mèinn –
Carson a tha iad mòr-chùiseach,
'S iad beò air spòrs gun chèill?
Nan còmhdaicheadh na ruadh-chearcan
Lem buachar uachdar slèibh,
'S e siud a b' fheàrr a chòrdadh riu
Na sràidean òir air nèamh.
O, criothnaich measg do shòlasan.
Fhir fhòirneirt làidir chruaidh!
Dè 'm bàs no 'm pian a dhòirtear ort
Airson do leòn air sluagh?
'S e osnaich bhròin nam bantraichean
Tha sèid do shaidhbhries suas;
Gach cupan fìon a dh'òlas tu,
'S e deòir nan ainnis truagh.
Ged thachradh oighreachd mhòr agad
'S ged ghèill na slòigh fod smachd,
Tha 'm bàs is laghan geur aige,
'S gum feum thu gèill da reachd;
Siud uachdaran a dh'òrdaicheas
Co-ionann còir gach neach,
'S mar oighreachd bheir e lèine dhut,
'S dà cheum de thalamh glas.
'S e siud as deireadh suarach dhut,
Thus', fhir an uabhair mhòir,
Led shumanan 's led bhàirlinnean
A' cumail chàich fo bhròn;
Nuair gheibh thu 'n oighreachd shàmhach ud,
Bidh d' àrdan beag gu leòr;
Cha chluinnear trod a' bhàillidh ann
'S cha chuir maor grànd' air ròig.
'N sin molaidh a'chnuimh shnàigeach thu,
Cho tàirceach 'sa bhios d' fheòil,
Nuair gheibh i air do chàradh thu
Gu sàmhach air a bòrd;
Their i, "'S e fear mèath tha 'n seo
Tha math do bhiast nan còs,
On rinn e caol na ceudan
Gus e fhèin a bhiathadh dhòmhs'."
There are some massive changes of landownership going on in Wales and Scotland caused by big money, often wanting to greenwash their climate crimes or make themselves look good… this Scottish centred article is a good starting place to understand the issues
I was just slipping down an internet wormhole on Scottish land rights poetry and song, and came across this juicy nugget:
…the impact of Sorley MacLean’s paper on ‘The Poetry of the Clearances’ – the most powerful piece of socio-political and literary criticism I have ever read
Sounds great, hey? He was a acclaimed Scottish poet, but this paper is not about his poetry but those who came before him and who wrote in Gaelic. I haven’t had a chance to read it in full yet but did a quick flick through after finding a pdf of it here. If this link goes dead then you can also find it hosted here on our website too.
Just parking this all here so I can find it when time comes to do more research on Scottish shazzle and you never know, someone else might find this useful too!
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