Skye Bridge Song

Some old sentimental songs lend themselves to parody.
I see nothing romantic about the rebellion of 1745 and the disaster it caused to many of the common folk of Scotland. 
What is great about the Skye Bridge is now it is so much easier to get to the beautiful Isle of Skye.

Skye Bridge

Skye Bridge Song(Tune: Sky boat song)

Rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

There’s now no toll
To drive on this thing;
That’s on the road to Skye.

Carry the sad
And all that they bring;
All the way over to Skye.

They’ve come to take
A break from the stress;
Some lazy days on Skye.

They’re come to make
A real bloody mess;
And litter the paths of Skye.

So rattle rusty van
Like a tin on a string;
Bouncing along round Skye

Yes rattle rusty van
Like a can on a string;
Over the bridge to Skye.

©Trevor Morgan 2002

The original romantic lyric follows:

Skye Boat Song

Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye
Loud the wind howls
loud the waves roar
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes
stand by the shore
Follow they will not dare
Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing
Onward the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that’s born to be king
Over the sea to Skye

When you consider this is about Charles Stewart, who led a rebellion to disaster then left with all the gold it is plain sloppy. He ended an obese dissolute waster.


Tide Line

A walk along the high tide line of a shore reveals much.
I love to walk the tide line.


Tide Line

This weed at the tide line
Where flies are swarming near,
The flotsam and the grime;
The stink that brings no cheer.

The beach above the line,
There’s pebbles damp with rain.
They glisten in the sunshine
Around each little stain.

Below the dirty beach
The shore is washed more clean.
Where cleansing waves can reach,
At low tide there’s a sheen.

Below each rock or stone
Shrimps hide at low tide.
Worms heap up each sand cone;
Sand flats are wet and wide.

Here when you lift a rock
The shrimps will dart away.
They flee the sudden shock
Exposed to light of day.

The shore’s a varied place
Some of its full of mess.
But it’s so touched with Grace,
There’s more here than you’d guess.

By weeds at the tide line
The flies they swarming until
The storm clouds are a sign
And weather’s cold and chill

© Trevor Morgan, 2005

From: “Tale of a Half Dane Child”


Taking action is often the road to folly



I could spend a lifetime in tears,
Atoning for what I’d not done
And dwell with those ghosts and those fears
And hide from those Demons who won.

I could wreck great vengeance sublime,
Shed blood, bathe in its warm flow,
Kick back at each spiteful low crime;
Feel rage and its wonderful glow.

I could write great tomes that accuse
The wicked of every misdeed.
I could take to drink and to booze,
Seek comfort and greedily feed.

There’s little now I wish to do,
Nor think of each petty past wrong
As I look at this wondrous view,
Mid so many birds in full song

© Trevor Morgan, 16/5/2018





“I am the pool upon the leaf,
So, it seems the simplest notion
That You’re the pool beneath the leaf.”
Said the Dewdrop to the Ocean.

© Trevor Morgan

From: My Muse

Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul

I have felt for a long time that from turmoil comes the best poetry.
The idea that you can subsidise poets with grants and they can then write powerful verses is wrong.
Great poetry has come from war, failure, defeat, victory, anxiety and elation. It comes with falling in love or in death and loss.
It is difficult to write with passion over tea and biscuits in the warm.
Difficult, that is, for me.


Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul

Now wallowing through the mire that’s left by Hopes,
False Hopes that had proclaimed life would be good.
With spirits left all trussed up as with ropes;
Sad victims of false Hopes did what they could.
For wherein is there good in futile rage?
And how in sad souls can new joys be found?
It seems the Fates have writ upon their page
And Fortitude is now what must be found.
There is no point at all in seeking strife,
No point in gestures, nor in vain pretence.
It seems that turmoil like some jagged knife
Mars souls in ways that never can make sense.
New joys may well now come from smallest things,
Like some bird that’s unseen now sweetly sings.

© Trevor Morgan, Samhain 2004

The Stream from the Holy Well

There are “Holy Wells” all around the South West of England
There may be nothing in this.
However, the nearby village of Holywell Lake has not war memorial.
This is because of all its men who went to the World Wars, all came home.
So, no memorial was needed.
Nice story that, sadly, Wellington has a memorial with many names upon it


The Stream from the Holy Well

The stream seems to chuckle
As it flows round the stones.
The foal starts to suckle
‘Neath pine with its cones.

The waters flowed here
Through the aeons of time.
The wagtails appear
And seem in their prime.

While water weeds wave
In these currents below,
The Wagtails won’t brave
The stream’s deepest flow.

They’ll feed by the edge
Or by every stone.
Then flee to their hedge
When they’re not alone.

There’s moths on the bark
Of the lofty pine tree.
There’s a song of the Lark;
It’s good to be free.

© Trevor Morgan

From: “Tales of Aethelwulf of Lyng”

The Glance

Strange how just a single glance can cause a thrill.
Maybe we are programmed to fall in love.
It seems I was.


The Glance

The vagaries of time and place
The randomness of chance.
The memories I can’t erase
You bring back with a glance!

The thoughts I think and do not feel,
The feelings without thought;
That make the mind revolve and reel,
You cause by doing nought.

My brain it dreams, is in a spin,
My mind it seems to dance;
It is as though you’re here within
Each time I catch your Glance.

Feelings explode without a thought
As I then seem to reel.
You do all this by doing nought;
Pure Joy is what I feel.

The vagaries of time and place
The randomness of chance.
The memories I can’t erase
You bring back with a glance!

Trevor Morgan 1968 amended 11/5/2018

Dedicated to My Lady Love

Passion and intellect

We seem to be complex creatures.
Children of a universe that is all about complexity.


Passion and intellect

The passion and the intellect,
The two sides of the soul
And without the two of them,
None of us are whole.
The passion drives our lust and rage,
Our love and tenderness.
The intellect is part the sage,
But would give no caress.

The dark side of our passions are
The raging heat of hate.
The intellect is worse by far;
Like damp cold hands of fate.
Our better passions urge us on
To giving and true Grace.
Our intellect is dragged along
Just slightly out of place.

The bright side of our intellect,
That spark that is true thought,
Gives to us when we least expect
New themes we’ve not been taught.
Like then, when oh, so long ago
As sitting in his bath,
Old Aristotle felt its glow,
Ran naked down the path.

The soul that’s driven to the dark
In passion and in thought,
May do those deeds so cold and stark,
That conscience stands for nought.
Some murderers and kings who win
Are cold and dark inside.
The one is known for all his sin,
The other’s puffed with pride.

Those saintly ones whose hearts are pure
Invite the blows of rage.
They seem to hold a sweet allure,
Their deaths fill history’s page.
It may be good to help the weak,
Be good not to strike out.
There may be risk to those who speak,
Where bigots stalk about.

The passion and the intellect,
The two poles of the soul.
In balance, then, the two of them
Make all of us quite whole.
With passion we may lust and rage,
Or show much tenderness.
The intellect is part the sage,
But gives no warm caress.

© Trevor Morgan, 2003

From: “Tales of Aelfrede and Gudrum”

Little Egret

Last year there was a single Little Egret in our local stream.
This year there are two and there is an increase in numbers near by in Devon.


Little Egret

That egret she was frozen still.
Then struck with sudden might.
The young trout was just one more kill
She’d had since dawn’s first light.

Small stones within her crop would grind
The life from all therein.
Events they can seem so unkind;
Some lose whilst others win.

That trout she would not to spawn that day,
Her offspring are no more.
The egret soon she flew away
To feed the young she bore.

Wee daisies turn t’wards the sun,
They slowly turn all day.
Some life is done and some’s begun.
Some grows, some fades away.

Trevor Morgan, 4/5/2018

The Scriptorium at Winchester

I like Narrative verse.
Much of my work is about the ninth and tenth Century in England. The Viking raids and invasions devastated the land. Out of this came a new wave of writing, art and illustration. Much of this came from Winchester.
So in a narrative I have a monk there beginning this school


The Scriptorium at Winchester

Osric the scribe worked that long day,
As long as there was light.
He only put his quills away
As dusk turned into night.

This book of Proverbs he worked on
He copied for his Lord.
He rarely saw the sun that shone
And never went abroad.

Within the confines of these walls
He now had spent long years.
He’d never heard the fairies’ calls
And never did shed tears.

A man of plain and simple faith
Who had stuck to his vow.
Before him stood what seemed a wraith,,
What could the monk do now?

He fell down to the floor in fear
He heard a tender voice.
“Get up, good monk, there’s no one near
Get up you face a choice.

My name’s Gabrel, I’m sent to you
To guide you in a task.
Your work it lacks a tender view,
So now do as I ask.

Come with me through the world of men,
Come outside of the walls.
Come see the hills, come see the fen,
Come listen to bird calls”.

Led by the hand through vistas grand,
He saw a wondrous isle.
“God has much planned for your sweet land”,
Gabrel said with a smile.

“The ebb and flow of how things go
Will not be shown to you.
But of this realm there’s much to know,
For deeds that you must do.

For scribes like you must copy well,
Writing the books of God.
And your works here could well excel,
You’ll need to be well shod.

And go from here with books wrote clear,
With these good words you write.
And never sneer, nor ever fear.
The Danes must know what’s right.

Your King has dreams and righteous schemes
Of more monks here with you.
Who’ll write in teams and write vast reams,
And their guide must be true.

So, walk this land with quill in hand,
Record the woods and ways.
Then take in hand what has been planned,
And guide scribes all your days”.

It seemed like Osric had a fit,
His mouth was wet with froth.
That night beside a cross he’d sit,
He was frail as a moth.

So, Osric did as he was bid
And wandered round our land.
And Gabrel saw that nought was hid
And helped him understand.

He went outside into the realm
And wandered for a year.
He knew soon he would take the helm,
But this caused him no fear.

The flowers in the field and fen,
The plants by each wayside,
Osric the monk he saw it then;
God’s work spread far and wide.

Each flower and leaf helped his belief,
Helped him see Christ as King.
Through sin and all of men’s mischief,
Not all could see this thing.

For God is found here all around,
In his creative zest.
His small herbs that spring from the ground
Seemed far above the rest.

© Trevor Morgan 5/5/2018

From: “Tale of Aelfrede and Gudrum”