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    Appin of Yesteryear – Appin, Argyll, ScotlandAppin of Yesteryear – Appin, Argyll, Scotland
    Home » The Red Book of Appin
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    The Red Book of Appin

    witch
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    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.

    Appin poem poems red book witch
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