The Story of the Inchkeith Hounds from Hell

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The Story of the Inchkeith Hounds from Hell

During my police career I specialised in two areas. For the first five years I was a dog handler and also a dog baiter. For the last seventeen years of my police service I worked on police boats. Both these specialities would come into play when I encountered the Hounds from Hell on the Island of Inchkeith.

Patrolling the Forth

The Island of Inchkeith is located in the Firth of Forth between Leith on the southern shore and Kinghorn in Fife. In the 15th and 16th centuries it was used to quarantine victims of syphilis and the plague. But in times of war it’s strategic position at the mouth of the Forth saw it fortified to defend against would be invaders. In 1804 the building of the 19 metre tall lighthouse was completed to help shipping navigate the local waters safely. Despite this, the skipper of HMS Britannia (not the Royal one currently berthed in Leith docks) failed to take heed of Inchkeith’s majestic lighthouse and managed to run his battleship  aground on the rocky shores of the island.

The Island of Inchkeith

For me, the light played an important part in navigating the Forth whilst patrolling in the police launch during the hours of darkness. It’s light has 269,280 candlepower, with a range of 22 nautical miles.

Inchkeith Lighthouse

When I first started working on the police boats, our vessels were somewhat primitive, and we didn’t venture too far from the naval base at Rosyth. But as the years went by, we upgraded our boats and the equipment we carried onboard. The police officers who crewed the vessels had to complete courses in navigation and safety equipment. As a result we became a much more professional outfit and took on more of a wide ranging role.

My first visit to Inchkeith was a voyage of discovery. The island was uninhabited at that time, but owned by Tom Farmer of QuikFit fame. We berthed the police launch at the sheltered harbour on the western side of the island and went exploring. The lighthouse stands proudly on the highest point of Inchkeith and it drew us uphill to investigate. With me that day were the two constables who made up my crew, Brian and Gordon (better know as Smithy). We followed the track from the end of the harbour wall, up through a collection of old derelict redbrick military buildings. Above us hundreds of angry sea birds noisily protested the invasion of their home. Gulls, fulmars and terns swooped around us as we made our way up the steep incline.

View as you enter Inchkeith Harbour with the lighthouse high above

 

Just below the lighthouse, the track passes through a deep cleft in the rocks. Brian was in the process of informing me that the cleft was better know as the ‘Grand Canyon’, when the inevitable happened. A large gull suffering from some horrible gastric complaint dive bombed us and struck with precision aiming. The contents of its rear end went straight down the back Smithy’s neck. What was a source of great hilarity for Brian and myself was a cause for considerable concern for Smithy. He ripped his jacket off desperately trying to scoop the foul mess out from under the collar of his shirt. It looked like melted ice cream with mint and chocolate chips through it. Unlike ice cream, this substance was hot and and it smelt of rotten fish.

With the three of us now wearing our fluorescent orange Seasafe jackets over our heads for protection, we continued our island exploration. The lighthouse door was unlocked, so up we went for a look around. From a police perspective the insecurity of the building was a concern and would need to be rectified.

 

A plaque on the wall reads,

“For the direction of mariners, and for the benefit of commerce, this lighthouse was erected by orders of the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses. It was founded on the 18th day of May in the year 1803, and lighted on the 14th September 1804. Thomas Smith, Engineer”.

I wondered if Smithy’s namesake had fallen victim to the dive bombing gulls of Inchkeith in 1803.

The lighthouse keeper’s cottages were all locked and had been unoccupied since 1986 when the light was fully automated by the Northern Lighthouse Board. One of the older buildings had a paved rain catchment area outside to collect fresh water. Inside the house we discovered the first wooden sink I had ever seen.

The old Lighthouse Keeper’s houses in the centre of the image

We spent about an hour on the island before returning to our patrols. It wasn’t until we were back within the confines of the police launch’s wheelhouse that Brian and I became aware of just how badly Smithy was smelling.

The following year the island got a new resident by the name of Kathleen Allan. Tom Farmer had advertised for a caretaker to live on the island and had been inundated with applicants. Kathleen was the one he selected, having been impressed with her reasons for applying. She ran an animal sanctuary somewhere in the Lothians. The owner of the land was selling up and Kathleen needed a new home for her collection of animals. Inchkeith island would be the ideal place for her menagerie. There were lots of buildings that could house animals and she could live in one of the lighthouse keeper’s houses.

We received the news that she had moved out to the island and when the opportunity presented itself I set the police launch on a course for Inchkeith. The plan was to introduce ourselves, let her know that the police launch patrolled the waters around her new home and that if she had any problems she could contact us for assistance via VHF radio. That was the official reason for the visit. If I am being truthful, a large part of the reason for visiting was nosiness. It is not every woman who would choose to live alone on an isolated island with a collection of animal waifs and strays. I was intrigued and looked forward to meeting her.

Police launch berthed in Inchkeith Harbour

My crew on that day consisted of Smithy and a constable called Kenny Hunter. The sea was calm and the sky was blue as we headed east down the waters of the Forth. It is not until you make the final approach to the island that you realise just how high and how steep it actually is.  As I rounded the end of the harbour wall Kenny and Smithy made their way out onto the upper deck to prepare the berthing ropes. It was a beautiful warm day and the windows of the wheelhouse were wide open. As the launch glided gently along side the harbour wall Smithy jumped ashore with the bow rope and Kenny did likewise with the stern rope.

I had my head stuck out of the wheelhouse window to see exactly how the launch was coming alongside and to judge what correction I might need to make to the approach. It also made it easy to communicate with Kenny and Smithy.

It was just as they both jumped down onto the harbour wall that I first heard a noise I was not expecting to hear. It was the unmistakable sound of a large pack of dogs, howling, barking and snarling.  The other thing of note about this canine cacophony was that it was getting louder very quickly. I stepped away from the wheel and moved to the starboard side to see where these dogs were. It was hard to miss them. A pack of dozens of assorted dogs were coming down the track from the lighthouse heading straight for the harbour wall where Kenny and Smithy were both now standing rooted to the spot. There were greyhounds, German Shepherd dogs, collies, mongrels both large and small.

The angle of descent meant that the dogs were covering several metres with every stride and were closing on my crew at a most alarming rate. Like rabbits caught in the headlights, Kenny and Smithy looked on in horror as the baying hounds charged straight at them. I, on the other hand, was a trained police dog handler and baiter. I had been on a course learning how to be attacked by dogs. I had spent three years playing the part of the bad guy who runs away for Police dogs to chase and bring down. I knew what it was to be bitten.

So, using all my experience, I kept a cool head and slammed the wheelhouse doors firmly closed and shut the windows. Well, there was no point in all three of us getting mauled, was there?

The outcome of the encounter with the dogs is related in the song. What is not included is the encounter with Kathleen Allan. We introduced ourselves to her and she introduced us to her family. There was Porky the pig who was beyond enormous, and was in love with a pony. There were several sheep, the Inchkeith Hounds from Hell, countless cats and Valery and the kids (goats).

That was the first of many visits to Kathleen who lived on the island until 1991. On one occasion I was working an overtime shift with a crew who had never landed on the island. So we headed out to Inchkeith to meet Kathleen. We took out fresh milk and bread for her as she had very limited access to fresh produce. We were standing next to the goat house chatting about the animals when Porky the pig quietly sneaked up behind one of my crewmen. Without warning Porky put his head between the constables legs and lifted him completely off his feet. I can still picture the look of sheer terror on his face to this day.

Porky remains one of the biggest pigs I have ever  encountered. His love affair with the pony was proving a bit of a problem for Kathleen. Porky like to show his affection for the pony by biting it on the bum. No doubt from Porky’s perspective it was just an amorous nibble, but the pony was now developing sores on it’s rump. Kathleen had separated them to allow the sores to heal but Porky was having none of it. Gates and barricades were unceremoniously swept aside and destroyed by the lovesick pig who refused to be kept apart from the apple of his eye.

Heading west after a visit to Inchkeith Island

One wild wintery night we were not venturing to far away from the shelter of the naval base at Rosyth, when we received a call over the radio. Someone had reported to Fife Constabulary that there was a fire burning at the top of Inchkeith Island. We battened down the hatches and headed down the dockyard channel towards the Forth bridges. It was going to be a rough journey out to Inchkeith. We picked up a couple of officers from Burntisland Harbour who had received the initial call and headed back out into the darkness and the heavy seas. Initially they were very excited to be going out on a police launch for the first time. But as the conditions worsened and the waves crashing over the bow grew larger, they became very quiet indeed.

There are rocky reefs close to the harbour entrance at Inchkeith and it is vital to avoid them as you make your approach. The waves were sufficiently rough that they were being picked up by the launch’s radar. As a result the rocks were lost amongst the clutter of echoes on my radar screen. It is on occasions like this that local knowledge proves invaluable. I took a wider than normal approach to make absolutely sure that I was well clear of the rocks and entered the comparative calm of the harbour. Unlike other occasions, there was no sound of howling from a pack of excited dogs to greet our arrival. Just the howling of the wind.

The two Fife police officers seemed mightily relieved to set foot back on terrafirma. We could see the glow of a fire coming from behind the lighthouse and I was sure that it was not from the lighthouse keeper’s cottage where Kathleen lived. The noise of the storm, I was sure, had masked the engine noise of the police launch entering the harbour and it was therefor reasonable to suspect that our arrival had gone unnoticed.

We made our way up the track by torchlight, through the Grand Canyon and arrived at the lighthouse. It was from here that we could see a the source of the flames. A large mound of hay and straw was smouldering away several yards down the slope that faces towards Kirkcaldy.

One of the Fife officers spotted a light on in one of the lighthouse keeper’s cottages and like a moth drawn to the flame he headed straight for it. At this moment in time, Kathleen was stretched out in her living room peacefully reading a book. All around her, and in some cases, on top of her, were cats and dogs. She, and the dozens of animals which surrounded her, were blissfully unaware that we had landed on the island. After all, who would be out and about on a wild night like this?  I arrived at the living room window just as the Fife officer banged loudly on the door. The scene that unfolded before me was one the likes of which, I will never see again.

As if a charge of T.N.T. had been detonated underneath them, every living creature in the room took off vertically and then formed a whirling chaos of fur, barking and screaming. As Kathleen’s book hit the ceiling, cats with eyes wide open in terror, leapt over dogs who in turn howled as the cats claws dug into them. The noise was deafening as twenty plus dogs did a canine version of the wall of death around the erstwhile tranquil room. The cats, who seemed to outnumber the dogs, tried desperately to avoid being bowled over by hysterical hounds by climbing up whatever they could, including poor Kathleen.

We may have established that she had come to no harm from the fire, but now the new risk of heart attack seemed a very real one.

Kathleen had had a hard day working in the animal sheds, cleaning out old bedding. She felt that the best way to dispose of it, and any parasites that may have been lurking in it, was to burn it. The straw and hay had generated a good going blaze which, from the mainland, gave the impression that the buildings around the lighthouse were on fire. From Kathleen’s perspective, the fire was a good distance away from everything else and had been blissfully unaware of the concerns for her well being.

The Hell Hounds of Inchkeith

When I was out a’sailing just of the coast from Leith

I chanced intae the harbour at the Island of Inchkeith

And as my crew were tying the boat up I heard these awful sounds

Aye coming down the hill side was a pack of forty hounds

 

They were barkin’ they were snarlin’ they were bearin’ all their teeth

And it looked just like the Hounds from Hell had landed on Inchkeith

But I know all about dogs Sir, ‘cause I’ve been bit before

So as quick as I could move myself I shut the cabin door

 

Now Kenny and young Smithy they had faces filled with fear

As I looked out of my cabin at them out on the pier

There was nowhere they could run to – for them it was too late

The Hounds from Hell were closing at a most alarming rate

 

A rabid looking greyhound he was leading out the pack

While a corgi with three legs it was chasing at the back

I couldn’t bring myself tae watch as my crewmen met their fate

‘Cause if I see the sight of blood I’m guaranteed to faint

 

So I cowered in my cabin and I wished them both “Adieu”

And I wondered how I’d sail my boat with out my trusty crew

But the Hounds were nearly on them – They made a dreadful din

And I listened as the Hounds from Hell ripped them limb from limb

 

Well I was shaking I was petrified I was just a nervous wreck

And then I heard the Hounds from Hell – they were on the upper deck

The cabin door flew open and the Hounds from Hell leapt in

Followed by Kenny and Smithy not missing a single limb

 

“As skippers go” young Smithy said “you’re just a dammed disgrace”

“The worst thing that these dogs’ll do is lick ye on the face”

“Aye, on yer feet” said Kenny “and explain the big idea”

“O’ shuttin’ yersel’ inside the boat leaving us oot in the pier”

 

Now Kenny went tae the starboard door and opened it quite wide

They grabbed me by the arms and legs and they flung me o’er the side

I was thrown intae the harbour by an angry mutinous crew

And then the Hounds from Hell decided they’d go swiming too

 

Well like a droon’t rat I waded from the sea

While the Hounds from Hell they swam aroon’ and barked and yelp’d wi’ glee

And as I struggled back onboard the boat wi’ my skin all turning blue

Kenny said “Dinnae settle yet – You’ve the Dog Watch yet tae do!”

 

So if you’re ever sailing just of the coast from Leith

And ye chance intae the harbour at the Island of Inchkeith

Be sure tae take along yer Pal – aye and yer Pedigree Chum as well

And you’re guaranteed tae make good friends with the Inchkeith Hounds from Hell

The Story of Mortimer’s Deep

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For seventeen years I was privileged to police the waters of the River and Firth of Forth. Over that time, I developed a great deal of local knowledge about the Forth as we patrolled up and down in the Police Launch.

Patrolling the Forth

Inchcolm Island off the coast from Aberdour was a place of great interest and it draws many visitors to its shores each year. The island is most famous for its stunning medieval abbey. The Augustinian abbey was founded in the 12th century, although there are some who place its origins even earlier than that.

All these centuries later, it remains in a remarkably good state of preservation. Perhaps the inscription above the abbey entrance may have something to do with that. The inscription translated reads,

“May this house stand until an ant drains the flowing sea, and a tortoise walks around the whole world”.

Inchcolm Abbey

The deep-water channel that separates Inchcolm Island from the town of Aberdour on the Fife coastline, is called Mortimer’s Deep. It fell within the patrol area of the police launch and I have sailed through it on more occasions than I care to recall. If we had guests out for a trip on the launch, I would entertain them with stories about the various parts of the Forth including how Mortimer’s Deep got its name.

Seals at Inchcolm

When my daughters were youngsters, they were both into Fighting Fantasy Books like Ian Livingstone’s “The Warlock of Firetop Mountain” and “Deathtrap Dungeon”. It would be fair to say that I too enjoyed an adventure through these books. Inspired by the concept, I concocted my own adventure book for the girls called “The Mad Monks of Mortimer’s Deep”.

First, I drew maps of the island and then all the different passageways and rooms of the abbey and various other buildings on the island. Then I created a scenario whereby the girls were captured and held prisoner by the mad monks in the abbey. Clues and dangers were hidden in the creepy rooms and corridors. The girls were given two or maybe three options about what they did, what they looked at, what rooms they went into, who they spoke to, who they hid from. Depending on their choice I would then explain what happened next.

I suspect I had more fun putting it together and playing it with them than they got trying to find a way to escape from the mad monks. Dastardly fun….

In 2006 I wrote the monologue about how Mortimer’s Deep got its name. I wove a mixture of historical fact, legend, and fantasy together to generate a light-hearted story about dark deeds. The tale is set during the reign of King David 1 of Scotland. The Heiress of Aberdour, Anicea Veteriponte, marries the villain of the story in 1126. He was called Sir Alan de Mortimer and at the time of their marriage, his bride was only 15 years old. But by marrying her, Mortimer acquired the Barony of Aberdour. Legend has it that his marriage was more about land acquisition and financial gain than love of Anicea.

But, as in all good stories, the villain gets his comeuppance.

The Evil Duplicitous Cad

MORTIMER’S DEEP

There once was girl called Anicea, who lived in the reign of David the First

Her choice in men it was woeful, but her choice of husbands was worse

For she fancied Sir Alan De Mortimer, an evil, duplicitous cad

Sadly Mortimer, he didn’t love Anicea – but he fancied the land that she had

They were soon engaged to be married, and when the wedding feast it was o’er

There was singing a drinking a plenty, through the streets of old Aberdour

But Mortimer, he was so treacherous, a two-faced tyrannical swine

After consummating the marriage, he said, “Your land is all mine now – all mine!”

It would be fair to say that Anicea, wasn’t too chuffed at this news

And as fury coursed through her body, she blew her proverbial fuse

“A curse – A curse on you Mortimer” cried his hysterical wife

“A curse – A curse on you Mortimer – the foulest man in the Kingdom of Fife”

“I place a curse on you Mortimer – may nightmares take over your sleep”

May your body be food for the fishes – and creatures that lurk in the deep”

Well Mortimer he just laughed at poor Anicea – tossed his greasy hair back with panache

And it was then, that Anicea first noticed, that he had waxed his pointy moustache

“Stand aside wife!” roared Alan de Mortimer, “For I have work that needs to be done”

“I have taxes to extract from the peasants – and boy – it’s going to be fun!”

For Mortimer he had decided, using lots of evil intent

That he would top up the gold in his coffers by doubling the poor peasants rent

And woe betide any tenant, who refused, or wasn’t able to pay

From their houses they would soon be evicted, and banished from Aberdour Bay

But each day at sunrise and sunset, that curse was made by his wife

“A curse – A curse on you Mortimer – the foulest man in the Kingdom of Fife”

“I place a curse on you Mortimer – may nightmares take over your sleep”

May your body be food for the fishes – and the creatures that lurk in the deep”

Now Mortimer feared he would never see heaven, when the time came to pass on from this life

And each night he dreamt that the devil was doing a deal with his wife

So, he donated half of his lands, to the monks, out on Inchcolm’s fair Isle

To secure a Christian grave, where his remains could be buried style

In the grounds of that beautiful Abbey, where the monks spent their time deep in prayer

There was no chance of his wife, or the devil, condemning his poor soul from there

And so, Sir Alan De Mortimer, he reigned with terror and threat

And he robbed all his poor starving tenants, of all he was able to get

Since the dawn of time there had never, been a man with such horrible ways

But illness it struck, without warning, and ended his bloodthirsty days

“A curse – A curse on you Mortimer” was the cry of now smiling wife

“A curse – A curse on you Mortimer – the foulest man in the Kingdom of Fife”

“I place a curse on you Mortimer – you were a conniving, cold callous creep”

May your body be food for the fishes – and the creatures that lurk in the deep”

Now the folks of old Aberdour, were delighted to hear he was dead

And they cheered as Mortimer, was laid out, in a coffin constructed from lead

And that night the monks came from the Abbey – they sailed o’er the surf and the spray

To collect the malevolent Mortimer – And ferry the tyrant away

But half way back to the island, the monks they encountered a storm

With the wind at gale force eleven, the waves, round the small boat did swarm

The boat was taking in water “We’ll sink! We’ll drown!” the monks cried

So they grabbed De Mortimer’s coffin, and they chucked it o’er the side

With a splash the lead coffin it vanished, and at once the howling gale eased

And as calmness returned to the waters, the monks were exceedingly pleased

Some said that the storm, it was God’s will, to send Mortimer down to the deep

For a man as evil as Mortimer, in an Abbey you never should keep

Some placed the blame on his widow, and the bitterness Anicea nursed

Did she really make that pact with the devil, to make sure that her husband was cursed?

Make you own mind up if you go sailing, past that beautiful Isle of Inchcolm

Or if down by Aberdour sands, some evening, you happen to roam

Somewhere, down in those waters, lays a coffin constructed from lead

And some say that, when it hit bottom, the lid of the coffin was shed

And now there is no trace of De Mortimer, that conniving, cold, callous creep

Cause his body was eaten by fishes and the creatures that lurk in the deep.

And some say that on a really wild night, as the waves, down on the shore crash

An ugly old seal, pops up preening, his waxed and pointy moustache.

The Story of the Heathery Knowes of Auchnafree

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The Story of the Heathery Knowes of Auchnafree

 

This story is a combination of a personal encounter with a strange character on the summit of a Scottish mountain, and a friend’s superstitious beliefs that a visit from a raven was an omen of death. 

As part of my work as a police sergeant on a boat unit, I was doing a week long course on navigation at the Faslane Naval Base on the Clyde. As I plotted imaginary courses across large sea charts, countering the effects of wind and tide, my work was not made any easier by virtue of the glorious weather that afternoon. I kept looking out of the classroom window on that spectacular late summer afternoon, wishing I was climbing somewhere in the nearby mountains of the Arrochar Alps.

At 4:00pm, we packed up, and I headed for the hills. My plan was an evening assent of Scotland’s southern Ben Vorlich (there are two of them). I parked the car at Ardlui at the northern end of Loch Lomond and put my foot to the hill.

There are two tops on Ben Vorlich connected by a short ridge. I arrived at the southern top and then headed north along the ridge. Mist was rising swiftly and vertically on the updraft from Loch Sloy far below to my left. Through that curtain of mist the evening sun was sinking quickly towards the horizon. I knew I was going to have descend in darkness but I was looking forward to watching the sunset before heading back down the hill.

As I approached the northern summit I walked past a cluster a craggy rock with a cleft running through it. I had not seen anyone on my climb and as far as I was aware I had the mountain to myself. So it gave me quite a start when I spotted someone standing in the cleft amongst the rocks.

There were several odd things about this person that stopped me in my tracks. Whoever it was could not have been much more than 4 feet 8 inches in height. I am still undecided as to what gender this person was. If I had to guess, I would opt for male. But it would only be a guess.

He was wearing a coat that resembled a duffle coat. It was dingy fawn in colour and had a hood unlike anything I had seen, or have seen since. The hood was up and hiding the face of the wearer. It seemed ridiculously tall and rose to a sharp forward facing point. The overall effect was something that put me in mind of a hobgoblin or dwarf from a fairy tale.

In his hand he held what appeared to be a cardboard tube about 2 inches in diameter and about 18 inches in length. He seemed to be irritated and trying to extract something from the tube without success. I was confident that he had not heard me approach. So I guardedly said “Good evening!”. There was no response. Either he couldn’t hear me or he did not want to acknowledge me.

I tried again, “Good evening!”

Suddenly, I had this overwhelming desire to get away. It was a strange feeling, and not a nice feeling. I just needed to put some distance between this other worldly character and my self. Not quite running, I hurried along the ridge occasionally glancing back to see if I could spot him.

After covering a distance of about 300 yards I  stopped in my tracks. To my right a saw a most remarkable sight. It was my first sighting of the Brochan Specter. Hovering just above the ground in the mist was a perfectly circular rainbow, and in the centre of it, my shadow. I had never seen it’s like before. I put my arms out horizontally watching my shadow do likewise. I stood there watching my form combine with the circular rainbow to create a strange version of Leonardo de Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

And then it was gone, as suddenly as it arrived. The sun was dipping below the hills to the west and darkness would soon follow. I looked back along the ridge for any sign of the hobgoblin, but saw none. It had been an unusual evening on top of Ben Vorlich and I was more than happy to be on the way down and get back to the safety of my car.

Whilst I now know all about that rare and beautiful natural phenomenon, the Brochan Specter, I still have no explanation of who, or what, the diminutive person in the pointy duffle coat was. But that encounter came to mind one night when I was talking with a friend about superstitions. She had a total belief in the ability of crows and ravens to foretell death. A visitation from a black bird was a certain sign that someone was about to die. I took that fearful superstition and mixed it with my own spooky experience on Ben Vorlich to create the story that follows.

Whilst it is a blend of those two things, it is obviously a work of fiction. It was therefore an easy thing for me not to set it on Ben Vorlich but to move the action to a Perthshire mountain called Auchnafree. After all there are a lot more rhymes to Auchnafree than to Vorlich.

 

I wrote it initially as a ballad but subsequently found that it worked better as a spooky monologue.

 

The Heathery Knowes o’ Auchnafree

A shepherd lad set oot yin evening, his ain sweetheart all for tae see

And the path he took, it took him oot, o’er the heathery knowes o’ Auchnafree

But the light that shone frae the setting sun, it glint sae bright in a raven’s ee

He was perched high up, on an auld peat hag, on the heathery knowes o’ Auchnafree

And the raven watched the shepherd lad, as he cam scramblin’ o’er the knowe

Wi’ his plaidie hingin’ loose around his shou’ders, and the sweat running free frae aff his brow

“Aw turn yer heid ye croakin’ hoodie, aw turn yer gaze awa frae me

For I’ve a sweetheart, who’s  waitin’ for me,  o’er the heathery knowes o’ Auchnafree”

Then o’er the riggin’ there cam a beggar, an auld fesh’t beggar wi eyes o’ green

And in his hand was the finest fiddle, that the shepherd lad had ever seen

“Oh Beggar! Beggar! Tak up yer fiddle, and play a tune of love tae me

As I gang aff tae see my sweetheart, o’er the heathery knowes o’ Auchnafree”

“I’ll play nae tune for a love-sick shepherd, tho’ mony’s the tune of love I know

For although my fiddle it is the finest, this very nicht I’ve broke my bow”

“But turn aroon ye love sick shepherd, and the broken-spectre ye will see

As the sun and mist dance aroon yer shadow, on the heathery knowes o’ Auchnafree”

The shepherd turned to the broken-spectre, that summer’s night up on Auchnafree

But the shadow o’ a beggar’s knife, was the last thing that he e’r did see

The summer soon gave way tae autumn, then came the snaws sae cauld and white

And the raven ruffled up his auld black feathers, against the winter’s bitter bite

But when the spring came and the snaws had melt’d, o’er the knowes the raven’s flown

And he’s carried tae the auld fesh’t beggar, a shepherd’s white and weathered bone

The beggar sat doon amongst the heather, and frae this bone he’s carved a bow

And wi’ the raven perched upon his sho’der, around them baith the wind did blow

Then the beggar he’s tain up his fiddle, all in the blink o’ a raven’s ee

And he played a lament for a love-sick shepherd, ca’d “The Heathery Knowes O’ Auchnafree”

He plays his fiddle as he walks the knowes, he plays in sun and mist and rain

With the raven flying close a’hint him, should ‘er he break his bow again.

 

Written by Duncan A. MacNab    2003