POEM TITLE
Blackness: The Prison and the Pit.
POEM
Dear Lady, please don’t be concerned for these
Poor wretches in the pit; though foul disease
Discomfort them and blight their worthless souls,
It is their lot to rot in stinking holes
Because of what they’ve done. They are the scum
Of the Earth; some are vile traitors and some
Have disrespected property or killed
Innocent victims on a whim; they’re wild
And quite beyond rehabilitation.
I do understand your consternation
But believe me they are not worth your care;
They lie there and twitch, like rats in a lair;
Two times each day they are washed by the sea
But nothing can cleanse their iniquity.
In that stem of the ship that never sets
Sail, they cower like slaves; please do not fret,
Life is cheap to these dogs, so let them lie,
Let them howl, let them weep, let them die – aye
Let them proceed to the torments of hell;
We’ll then see in which pit they’d rather dwell.
Our hearts must be hard and deaf to their pleas,
Cold as the swell of the unending seas,
Aloof as a king on exalted throne,
Hard as the black basalt, sharp jutting stone
That they have as their bed; fixed as the law,
Free from concern as a predator’s claw,
Firm as authority, stiff as the dead.
Life is secured by a very fine thread,
This we should know and remember it well
When we choose to do wrong; and truth to tell,
For justice to work we depend on fear
And few things can make the heart quail, my dear
Lady, than the thought of being immured
Down there – now, shall we proceed with the tour?
And after that, Lady, we may repair
To a hostel nearby that is quite fine
And goes by the name of The Lobster Pot;
Where smells from the kitchen enrich the air
And where we can take our repose and dine
While comfort and laughter and sparkling wine
Will soothe your concerns and help you forget
The cries of those souls who rot in the pit.
POEM TITLE
The Lobster Pot
POEM
The Lobster Pot
I saw three bridges and I crossed the Forth
On the back of a wandering whale
My clinker built craft
Had been split fore and aft
By a slap of its slippery tail.
I feared for my life, for the coast of Fife
Was further than I could reach;
I was starting to weep
When up from the deep
That mischievous whale did breach.
Lifting me high, he winked with his eye
And flicking his tail headed south;
I clung to his back
And my grip was not slack,
For I feared to slip into his mouth.
A goggling guillemot glided above
And gave an incredulous shriek;
He gazed in surprise
Not believing his eyes
And his lunch fell out of his beak.
A glistening mermaid swam alongside
And cheekily blew me a kiss;
She shouted ‘Ahoy
You strange sailor boy –
I’ll buy you a drink at Blackness!
At the old Lobster Pot they’ve got such a lot
Of nicknacks and curious gear;
They serve tea and scones
And mussels and prawns
And rum and whisky and beer.
All round the walls and hanging from beams
Are seashells, buoys and floats,
Capstans and wheels,
Anchors and creels
And paintings and models of boats.
There’s even a couple of mermaids there
Which makes me to feel at home;
It’s the best place to be
When you can’t be at sea
Scudding along on the foam.’
So side by side we sat by the tide
That glittering mermaid and me;
We chatted and laughed
As a few rums we quaffed,
On that shore by the shimmering sea.
At length when the sun sank low in the west
And the day was no longer hot,
The mermaid and I
Said out goodbyes
At Blackness by the old Lobster Pot.
I will always remember the hours that I spent
With that lass from the watery main;
She had me beguiled
With her laugh and her smile,
Maybe one day I’ll meet her again.
POEM TITLE
The Lobster Pot (revised)
POEM
The Lobster Pot
I saw three bridges and I crossed the Forth
On the back of a wandering whale
My clinker built craft
Had been split fore and aft
By a slap of its slippery tail.
I feared for my life, for the coast of Fife
Was further than I could reach;
I was starting to weep
When up from the deep
That mischievous whale did breach.
Lifting me high, he winked with his eye
And flicking his tail headed south;
I clung to his back
And my grip was not slack,
For I feared to slip into his mouth.
A goggling guillemot glided above
And gave an incredulous shriek;
He gazed in surprise
Not believing his eyes
And his lunch fell out of his beak.
A glistening mermaid swam alongside
And cheekily blew me a kiss;
She shouted ‘Ahoy
You strange sailor boy –
I’ll buy you a drink at Blackness!
At the old Lobster Pot they’ve got such a lot
Of nicknacks and curious gear;
They serve tea and scones
And mussels and prawns
And rum and whisky and beer.
All round the walls and hanging from beams
Are seashells, buoys and floats,
Capstans and wheels,
Anchors and creels
And paintings and models of boats.
There’s even a couple of mermaids there
Which makes me feel at home;
It’s the best place to be
When you can’t be at sea
Scudding along on the foam.
So side by side we sat by the tide
That glittering mermaid and me;
We chatted and laughed
As a few rums we quaffed,
On that shore by the shimmering sea.
At length when the sun sank low in the west
And the day was no longer hot,
The mermaid and I
Said out goodbyes
At Blackness by the old Lobster Pot.
I will always remember the hours that I spent
With that lass from the watery main;
She had me beguiled
With her laugh and her smile,
Maybe one day I’ll meet her again.
POEM TITLE
A Banquet Fit for a King
POEM
A Banquet Fit for a King
(James IV visit to Blackness Castle 1506)
Such a fine banquet has never been seen
At Blackness Castle before
We served the king well
He was pleased I could tell
Both he and the Queen
Enjoyed our cuisine
And I hope they will visit us more.
For numerous days before the feast
We sent folk out – both west and east
Far and wide on errands they roamed,
The countryside like a horse tail was combed
They foraged and gathered from hedgerow and moor
From forest and valley, from field and from shore;
The finest porkers and kye were brought
By tether and hoof; and birds were bought.
The King’s rabbit warrens were practically emptied
And all the plump doves that could easily be tempted
Were grabbed in the castle dovecot.
The fishermen all put on their warm coats
And took to the Forth – a flotilla of boats
With their nets and their pots
And their lines and their floats
To bring the sea’s bounty to shore.
And so our small army
Went out on its journey
Whether the weather was fair or was stormy
To stockpile our kitchen and store.
The cooks did us proud
For it tested their skill
With cauldron and grill
With fires well lit
Under oven and spit
In the kitchen so hot
Full of steam from each pot
All to fill such a bill
That in other days might have been thought
Overkill.
I can picture it yet
The fret and upset
And the turnbrochie’s sweat
Which was less from the heat
Than the master cook’s threat
But all in the end came right and complete.
The feast we laid out
Was, without any doubt
Fit for a King and a Queen,
The tables were groaning under the weight
Of many a bowl and many a plate,
Platters and trays and turrines.
There was lobster and ling
And dark smoked herring
And oysters and cockles and prawns,
For the sea brings her bounty right to our door
And we harvest it well
On the tide and the swell;
But for this feast we had so much more –
There was oven-baked swan
With its feathers stuck on
We had honey-roast quails
And slow-cooked ox-tails
Fancies and fritters and fruits,
A spit-roasted pig
With a cute cabbage wig
And its piglets were puddings in cloots.
There were pastries and pies
Of various sizes
And one was a tart
In the shape of Blackness
A pure work of art
But the idea was mine I confess;
A fine calf’s head
Was the star of the spread
It was sweetly adorned
With a pale anadem
And a pole we had torn
From a twisted bay stem
So it looked like the horn
Of a fine unicorn
And to make it look white
We gave it a baste
Of wet flour paste
I wouldn’t have sworn
It was in the best taste
But the King laughed out loud
So it turned out alright
And we all felt quite proud.
The mood in the hall was special that night
With roaring fires and soft tallow lights;
There were dancers clacking on wooden boards
And some that wore kilts leaping high over swords;
An old balladeer that tended to shout
And jugglers throwing fire about
(That performance was shock and awe)
But according to James
The best of the games
Was not the juggler juggling flames
But four minstrels piping on shawms
To me they sounded like tortured toms
But the King was engrossed
And if he was happy as pigs in straw
Then that’s what matters the most.
Such a fine banquet has never been seen
At Blackness Castle before,
We served the king well
He was pleased I could tell
Both he and the Queen
Enjoyed our cuisine
And I hope they will visit us more.