The Scottish Lass from the Clan Called Jardine

I’ll tell ye all here of the Scottish lass
A lady that hails from Jardine
Her tale ‘tis quite to remember
Give moment and gather ye round
Not long, but not little, the story it be
Fill tankards and mugs, and settle about
All I require is your words to yourselves
For history sake and for happiness too

She hails from the Highlands, no secret
But had the craft of the Picts
Quite little be known about her younger days
‘Tis likely she rambled and scampered
Learning of the herbs and the flowers
The stones of the mountains as well
Some say all the things living spoke to her
Forests her sanctuary and made spaces her own

Yet her youth and her gather
Gave her something worthy to share
Some called it power, most just say healer
Making good that was tainted and worthless
Too, she scribed and carved sacred patterns
Standing stones, and hacksilver
Never did a day pass they say,
With not an open hand for her people

Nary another lass could match her ardour
Nor most strapping lads, yet a many did try
And she brought life in the world when asked
Her strength all her own, mindful of the Gods
Aye, that is what’s spoken when the tale often told
Mysteries abound but none oft nor unfolded
Agreed in complete that she was quite indeed

Venture she did, into the valleys and fields
All eyes often favoring to see her in passing
For the lass was quite Bonnie, quite too unaware
Gowns often simple, but with color and dash
Lads and some Lords did ask for her hand
Good and fine fellows, yet not her inspire
Yet she found those in need and gave as she could
Soothed and comforted all folk found in need

Her story likely lost, like many a lass
Yet for the saving grace of the Bard of the east
An orator once called, and he spoke for the trees
A keeper of the greens and a recorder of lore
‘Twas folly of chance that her path he did cross
How the elders recall, how in her eyes he was lost
Putting record oft written to his side that he did
Choosing verse and narrative and a muse, so he did

Surviving the years, those lines and accounts
Whenst all others were lost to the sea of time
Tomes of description, how that Bard made a choice
Yet that which uncertain if the lass was in line
Oh how his ramblings of this lass from Jardine
His praises seem worthy, and his words so divine
Admirers come plenty, but devoted very few
He calls her a Goddess or an Angel, or just you

Soft, ever doth the winds creep across the lands
Airy for but a splinter of a moment, oft to return
Yet in the moment of stillness did I give notice
My eyes round to the occasion of happening
For she stood quite asunder, with a meadow divide
Radiant in beauty, sparkling as a distant sun
Longing to take journey and close the spaces
Yet nary would each foot gather walking strength
For as a standing stone, I am anchored
Enraptured by a perpetual outpouring of beauty
‘Tis by my own hand that I put this sight to vellum
Ask of the Gods to giveth me words yet unknown
How should I paint the tale of an angel?
For nothing of the great halls can compare
Without abandonment she gazes peacefully
The trees and the winds seem at her call
Nary an ill thought should ever grow here
For a radiance shan’t give it purchase
Yet my longing grows as the sands pass
My life and all my being for a single kiss
A moment to caress her softness
To feel the warmth of the sun on her hair
Sharing the same breath in her given space
And again do I give strength to my state
Without success I cannot take a single pace
Never afore has a man been so struck
When time surrenders to something so grand
My quill renders each curve and each line
As if divinity has chosen this site for its return
Mortality stands aside while the universe watches
The rise of her bosom as she takes in the life
Warning not given as she makes her depart
All that which is living makes pathway
My final sight as she again descends to the wood
Watched her softness move like a dancing reed
Memorized every moment in glide
‘Tis likely that she does not give touch below
Her soul above the grasses, away she floated
Vacillant as no time of compare does live
Unknowing and uncaring at every moment
From here and beyond I do pledge to mine self
Again I shall seek her and mine shall be hers
Such is the script of my first meeting
The wind, and the sun, and the lass

Aye, that be the page that was written at one
The tale somehow spread like the morning sun
And from the hills they came in a way of seeking
Noble Knights and Kings some recall
Her hand they should claim, and yet no one found her
Gone back up into the Highlights I suppose
Clan Jardine kept her secrets as clansmen would do
Faded perhaps but the words still remain

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R J Schwartz

I write about everything and sometimes nothing at all.I'm fascinated by old things, rusty things, abandoned places, or anywhere that a secret might be unearthed.I'm passionate about history and many of my pieces are anchored in one concept of time or another.I've always been a writer, dating back to my youth, but the last decade has been a time of growth for me.I'm continually pushing the limitations of vocabulary, syntax, and descriptive phrasing.

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