The Gath’ring, by Cass Wright

On the great yar-wheel (for the Pictish Sun does watch us all),
Our blood pumps Stormward, pushing against the tide & the cold & the rock,
Sliding like a loom’s shuttle ‘crost the ages, back & fore, as we turn from
Far Atlantic beaches, from surging deltas of vast, foreign rivers,
Our ears ever piqued for the summoning cry o’ the Caledon eagle, as his shadow
Lofts thro’ roiling fogs of Time, weaving warp & weft of a whole
World’s Tartans, as we grew the green of Gaelic harvests under scores of different
Flags, showered tropic plains scarlet with Alban blood,
Smithed Celtic gold into craft all ‘round the spinning globe,
Sparked the hot white flame of Scotian truth for the worthy of the Earth,
AYE, and turning now, we scan the wide horizon, for finally,
The Highland horn has winded, echoes ringing like old King Stag’s bellow,
Rising from the silvery lochs, the aurora’d isles, the elders’ glens & crags,
Calling: “Come Ye All Hame, Sons & Daughters,
Come ye noo tae the Gath’ring here – for the Ancestors would look upon your Faces,
And hear the song o’ yer Hearts, booming forth the Thunder of oor Race !”