Kintyre Hogmanay
The longed for…prayed for…welcome night
Was ushered in with meagre light:
And clouds at times conceal’d from sight
The planets, stars and moon.
It was the night of Hogmanay,
The choice of all the year,
When fun and frolic have their sway
Without restraint or fear;
When Dandies and Randies
For festival scenes gathered wandered and daundered
They care not whether or whither.
Beside the cross the gathered bands
From alleys, closes, rows and lands
A team of Madawaska's hands.
With fisher lads in tow
There’s folk from Greenland and Gartgrillan,
From neighbouring hut and shieling,
From Calliburn and Ballywillin,
And droves from Kilmahoe.
Peninver, Smerby and the Rhoin,
Drumlemble and Drumore
The Lossit Pans and Auchihoan.
Send gallants by the score
The Learside and the Largieside
The foremost place contest.
And Tangy and Langa
Claim record with the best
The shepherds hut on Bordadhu,
The sheltered Mill at Killarow’
The smugglers “toor” at Mulachdoo
Their tenants missing for a while;
And squads from Machrihanish Bay
Forsake their cod lines for the day
And to Ceannloch they plod their way
Ooer moorland, road and stile
And gamekeepers from Pennygown
And from Bengullions back
Neglect their work and seek the town
Even though they might get the sack
For twelve months toil they take revenge
From servants now to Lords they change.
Kilkeddan, Dalvraddan
Are seldom far behind
Wherever, whenever
The scent is in the wind.
Kilwhipnach too has sent a couple
As ardent sturdy’ trig and supple.
There’s MacCualisky of Dalintober
A lad of taste but just a toper
The best of guides while he’s sober.
There’s Tom Rae from Broom Brae
And Wylie of Lochend and Huie and Bowie
Their wise counsel lend.
Old Dalaruan’s shaggy chiel
The lusty sutor Doogy Neil
With Caine a scion of Milknowe
Mainspring of every local row.
And a lucky fugitive ‘till now
From jail and Botany Bay.
Oh Neil Mckeich your looking frisky
After a full flask of Colville’s whisky
To the revelers Katie Blue bestows a Kebbuck Fell
That she’d been sent for hersel’;
Tam Gilkie sacrificed his crate
Of fozy fizzing Gortchan peat
To light the tar barrel in the street.
Around the sacred bluish stone
That lures the tourist to the town
- Ionas’s sculptured cross –
The bells ring out their yearly call
Another year and happy all.
History