Games Day Oh gather then, gather then,
From hamlet and ben;
Oh gather then, gather then,
From farmstead and glen.
From deep gushing falls
On Feochan's cold heights,
From whirlpools at 'Niver'
Where water is white.
From woods, dark, at Dunach,
Where roars the wild stag,
From wet hills at Lonan,
Grey rocks at Lerags.
They come to the field
At sandy loch-shore,
Where wind from the ocean
Hits Balinoe-mor.
And gathered the old blood,
And gathered the new,
The ancient and young,
The many and few. |
Come dancers, come pipers,
Come tossers of sheaf,
Fling high the good hammer,
And run for your chief!
And swing the plaid far,
And thrill the drum wild;
The war-notes of Oban,
The cries of Kilbride.
So listen ye visitors,
If listen ye will,
From loch-shore and lay-by,
From roadside and hill,
And see at these games,
On Balinoe shore,
Competitive spirits
Of ancient Kilmore.
EL.
A poem printed in the programme for the
games. |