Poem about the Red Book of Appin
IT’S a far, far cry to Appin,
But worth your while to go
If ye would learn the secrets
That Highland witches know:
They’re written in a red book
Concealed within a rock;
Its iron bands keep reiving hands
From meddling wi’ the lock.
There still are folk in Appin
Who ken the story fine,
Of how a witchy gentleman
With features aquiline
Walked over a big mountain
And stepped into the glen
Where Ian dubh with collie true
Watched o’er his cattle-pen.
‘Good evening,’ spoke the traveller.
‘To you the same,’ said Ian,
Raising his gun from off the moss
And loosening his skian:
For many a man came past that hill
To lift his neighbour’s cattle:
Wherefor the herd, with never a word
The more, prepared for battle.
‘Put down your arms,’ the stranger cried:
‘Is this a Highland greeting:
To take me for a common thief
The first time that we’re meeting?
I’m wanting neither cows nor ewes
From any of your clan;
But well content, if ye’d consent
To be my serving-man.
‘Be sure ye’d muckle wages get,
And twa’ braw suits of tweed,
With food and drink in plenty,
And a’thing else ye need.
And holidays whene’er ye wish
For every fast and fair:
Dinna say nay, but come away
And leave your beasties there.’
‘Not me for one,’ the lad replied,
‘For all your muckle wage
And promises of cloth and food;
To you I’ll not engage
Before the laird is made acquaint
With all ye’ve said to me;
Now I’m awa, and thank ye for Your generosity.’
The traveller stole an evil glance
At brave young Ian dubh:
He took a red book from his pouch
And scanned the pages through.
Then in the dark he made a mark:
‘Write here your name,’ he said:
‘That I’ll remember how ye’re called,’
But Ian shook his head.
‘Good-night then-till tomorrow’s e’
The stranger made reply;
‘And at the setting of the sun,
We’ll meet here-you and I.’
Young Ian clambered up the brae
Straight to his home, and told
His laird what curious happenings
Befel him at the fold.
‘God’s mercy, lad; my heart is glad
Ye heeded not his guile:
He’s known abroad on every road
From Renfrew to Argyll.
But ye shall keep your tryst wi’ him,
And it shall cost him sore;
His knees will quake when once ye take
Your iron-shod claymore.
‘For iron is the witches’ bane:
Its power brings to naught
Foul incantations, shapes and spells
Which from the deil they bought.
Go! Wave your sword above your head,
Nor heed the warlock’s yelling;
Take no alarm nor fear of harm,
But listen what I’m telling:
‘Within a circle space ye’ stand
Upon Saint Andrew’s cross,
And call upon the Trinity
To save your soul from loss.
There wait the coming of the fiend,
Your feet and body stark,
To guard that consecrated cairn
Nor move beyond the mark.
‘He’ll try to wile ye from your stance
By all the powers of evil:
Ye’ll hear him out, and then ye’ll shout
“Saint Andrew scorns the Devil”.
Ye’ll point your iron at his breast
And bid the man begone;
Or, by the rood, ye’ll have his blood
Before the sun is down.
And so it was, as just foretold
By Ian’s trusty laird:
He took his post upon the cross
Within the zone prepared;
He called upon the Trinity
And held his claymore bared.
Out from the shade that twilight made
Stepped forth the mountain-ranger;
His twisted smile bewrayed his guile,
But Ian knew no danger.
Firmly he stood all unafraid
Within the mystic mark:
‘Halt there,’ he said, ‘Ye renegade
From God, and mind your sark.’
Ripped from his plaid, the iron blade
Leapt out and, at its sight,
The witch-man fell upon his knees
In miserable plight.
‘Spare me my life, brave herd,’ cried he
As from his pouch he took
And gave into young Ian’s hands
That little red-bound book.
‘Ye’ve tested me, ye’ve bested me,
And here’s the prize of war;
Had ye fared worst, ye had been curst
And mine for evermore.
Read, mark and learn its dark content
Which no man knew before;
‘us our black bible, and the key
To all our wizard lore.’
Then, swifter than the lightning,
A dark misshapen fiend
Caught up the beaten warlock
And fled upon the wind.
Young Ian sped him homeward,
Fast as his soles could run,
And offered for his laird’s pleasance
The book that he had won.
‘Take you it, laird and master,
And hide the book away:
For I’ve nae time to fash my head
About what witches say.’
‘Right willingly I’ll take it,
My clansman, good and true;
And write a screed to praise the deed
Of faithful Ian dubh.’
It’s a far, far cry to Appin,
But worth your while to go
If ye would learn the secrets
That Highland witches know:
They’re written in a red book
Concealed within a rock;
Its iron bands keep relying hands
From meddling wi’ the lock.