Rum- A History

The holy men from columns isles

With reverent step and show

By cool green dale and still blue loch

To others quietly go

O’er lonely moor and mountain praise to their god doth rise

Eagle startled soars aloft on dawns radient skies


Through narrow gap see shore and loch

The voiding Norsemen pour

The Holy men of Preistsdale a top they are no more

Ruined, sad and silent lies the humble cell

Desecante, blackened, broken the sacred silver bell


Peaks stand silent mourning tears on Kilmory’s strand

Families from home uprooted to die on foreign land

Sighs from holy Priestsdale stir the evening breeze

Wondering at mans cruelty to innocent as these


On a cool clean autumn morning the gentry well evolved as one (?)

To the new built lodge at Papadil the guns the gillies bore

The reeds and grasses whispered to the holy ones as these

Children in satanic mills died for the life of ease


The modern travellers weary gasp on the scene below

Ruined lodge and stricken trees mid primrose golden glow

On secret rock and hillock quiet spirits gently smile

Knowing that one the least of these would linger yet a while


Pale moonlight casts cold shadows on sterile counterpane

The useless restless fingers clutch and twist in vain

In far off lonely Preistdale the wise ones sit and wait

‘Come’ they whisper gravelley Come tis not to late.


Robert Fulton 21.08.2011

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