Peter Sutter photo (the old Urquhart Church in Scotland)
Among the trees where humming bees
and blush, red roses hang so low,
a stranger came from out the West;
his kilt and weaponry in tow.
O’er Scottish moor , our gallant roams,
his tartan and his bagpipe thrown
o’er shoulder ’til at Urquhart Church
about the Old Beech tree he searched.
He came upon a maiden, Oh
with love so quickened by her sight.
Her honeyed hair is heather bright.
She is the fair Caledonia
With ardent look, the maiden shook;
she is a chaste and timid soul.
Her father came to question her
and caution her of love too bold.
“Oh, father, cast me to the moors!
My heart is his; I’ll not deny.”
She glanced at Michael, gave a sigh.
He touched her palm and both did cry.
“We cannot wait for marriage bands;
I will not seek your dowry grand.
I’ve journeyed from the far, far West;
yet father disapproves my hand.”
And so, the two with transfixed glow;
they held each other; tears did flow.
It was at once he reached for her;
so gathered in his arms, they go!
No! ’tis a story, old but true.
Their haste gave her sweet father strife
so sad his heart which takes his life.
So, in her thoughts, her heartache grew.
Upon a mountain flows a tune;
upon a stack of stone; a rune
amid the flower’s constant bloom;
her haunted heart is withered soon.
Wisteria; it waves and sighs
among the trees where sing the bees;
Beyond that stone where Michael lies
a lonely, withered hag we see.