FĂ ilt [Welcome]! Ciamar a tha thu [How are you]?

• The Fiery Cross Sign-up runs through March 1, 2011 [CLOSED]
• The Fiery Cross Clan Assignments & partners posted March 15, 2011
• Sporrans mailed by May 15, 2011

Outlandish Swap V: The Fiery Cross

Scottish clans were originally a Highland way of life. The Highland clan was, above all things, a family; a family in which everybody believed they were all, from chief to blacksmith, descended from one founder or progenitor. They regarded themselves as very close kinsmen. This Swap is dedicated to such clan families and will be organized into four clans.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Part 4 ~ I Hear no Music but the Sound of Drums

Good Sisters,

We all hear a different drummer and that means we sometimes interpret things a little differently as well. For this wee quiz, we will give you one stanza from 5 different poems. Please tell us what each poem is about. (1 point each). For an extra 2 points per poem, please send us a (loose) translation.

The maximum points for this challenge is 10, so you need not do the entire challenge. Please send your answers to highlandergames (at) ymail (dot) com with the word poem in the subject line of your email, and include your swap and clan name in the email. Nemetona willna be participating in this challenge as she helped us set it up) so Chieftess Eilis will be filling in for her.

#1)
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

#2)
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I was be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

#3)
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

#4)
Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damn'd bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me
An' hear us squeel.

#5)
My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gooms alang,
An' thro' my lug gies monie a twang
Wh' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!


Good luck, lasses. Fiona and Mordag