Now May You Weep

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To my uncle, A. C. Greene, –, man of letters and storyteller extraordinaire Let torrents pour then, let the great winds rally.

Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine; That light of Home shines warmly in the valley, And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine.

Far have you, wandered over seas of longing, And now you drowse, and now you well may weep, When all the recollections come a-throwing, Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.

—NEIL MUNRO, “TO EXILES”

Map

If there’s a sword-like sang

That can cut Scotland clear

O a’ the warld beside

Rax me the hilt o’t here.

—hugh macdiarmid,

“To Circumjack Cencrastus”

Carnmore, November

Wrapped in her warmest cloak and shawl, Livvy Urquhart paced the worn kitchen flags. The red-walled room looked a cozy sanctuary with its warm stove and open shelves filled with crockery, but outside the wind whipped and moaned round the house and distillery with an eerily human voice, and the chill penetrated even the thick stone walls of the old house.

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