Appendix 6 - 'Helen (Gunn) of Braemore' (a rubbish Victorian poem)
. Helen (Gunn) of Braemore (a Victorian poem)
The individual chapters can be downloaded as pdfs from latrobe.academia.edu/AlastairGunn
A Victorian version of the Helen Gunn of Braemore[1] myth discussed in chapter 7.2 is in the following poem.[2] It was published in James Traill Calder’s 1855 collection Poems from John O’Groats but may have been published earlier. Calder first worked as a ‘private tutor for the Rev Mr Gunn of Caithness’.[3] For a poem of similar theme see ‘The Curse of Moy. A Highland Tale’ by J. B. S. Morritt which gained real fame when collected in Sir Walter Scott’s The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Borders.
Helen of Braemore by James Traill Calder
’Tis summer eve—the setting sun goes down,
Gilding yon mountains desolate and brown,
That giant-like in naked grandeur soar
Above thy sweet secluded glen Braemore !
Lo ! in the midst, uprising like a cone,
Stands the proud Pap, fantastic and alone.
With long dark belt, magnificent and high,
The shadowy Scaraben is swelling nigh ;
While o’er the whole in eminence and height,
Majestic Morven towers upon the sight,
Capp’d with the cloud that—beauteous to behold--
Looks like a glittering diadem of gold.
The happy lark that carolled all the day
O’er mead and moor, hath sung his latest lay,
And the gay linnet, too, hath hushed the note
That flowed so sweetly from his little throat ;
But from the moorland waste, the plover’s wail
And curlew’s lonely cry are on the gale,
Blent with the snipe’s peculiar bleating sound,
And wild bee’s dreamy murmur floating round.
But who is she that at the close of day
Trips o’er the gteensward like a “ vision gay,”
To meet her lover in the gleaming bright,
Her youthful features beaming with delight?
’Tis Helen Gunn, the beauty of Braemore,
Whose fame hath gone to many a distant shore.
Fain would the muse portray that lovely maid,
In nature‘s own simplicity arrayed.
Her native Highland plaid disposed with care,
Adorns the figure of the charming fair,
And falls around her in a graceful fold,
Clasped at the bosom with a brooch of gold.
The silken snood confines her raven hair,
That clusters richly round her forehead fair.
But who the sweetness of her face may speak ?
The rose-like bloom upon her virgin cheek--
The large dark eye, so beautiful and bright,
Whose lustre fills the gazer with delight--
The oval countenance—the snow-white brow--
And honied lips, where love sits smiling now.
And then her voice’s music, when she sung
Some touching ball'ad in her native tongue,
Flowed with a dulcet melody and swell,
That bound the ear in a delicious spell.
Like a sweet wild-flower blooming in the shade,
The Keith’s rude Chieftain saw the lovely maid,
Her form, where grace and beauty seemed to vie,
At once attracted his licentious eye.
Inflamed with ardent passion, much he strove
From time to time to gain the lady’s love ;
But still a deaf ear to his suit she turned,
And all his ofl‘ers resolutely spurned.
So when he found that all his practised art
And flattery failed to touch the maiden’s heart,
With wounded pride and keen resentment fired,
A dubious threat he uttered and retired.
Among the hills that tower so proudly up,
There lay a glen embosomed like a cup--
A sweet, romantic spot beyond compare,
Where oft the straggling wild deer made their lair ;
The mountain-daisy and the heather-bell
Were thickly scattered o’er the fairy dell,
With many a bright and nameless flower beside,
That yearly budded there, and bloomed, and died.
In this secluded spot, when day was done,
Sat Helen and her lover, Alick Gunn.
Her kinsman he, a sprightly youth and fair--
’Twas long since they in heart aifianced were.
While yet but children sporting in the glen,
They seemed as destined for each other then.
Still hand in hand were seen the little pair,
Prattling together without thought or care.
They ne’er were separate ; and, on sunny days,
They played together on the broomy braes ;
0ft chased the painted butterfly and bee,
And laughed and shouted in their sportive glee.
And when, at length, a hardy stripling grown,
If Alick chanced to roam abroad alone,
The exulting boy would bring home with him still,
For her, the choicest berries of the hill,
Some moorfowl’s eggs, or bunch of scented thyme,
With radiant wild flowers, gathered in their prime
Along the lofty Scaraben and Pap,
And lay the treasure in his favourite’s lap.
Their love grew stronger as they grew in years,
Without that passion’s jealousies and fears,
For life as yet was all a happy dream,
Radiant with fancy’s first and brightest beam ;
While hope still pointed with a smile of joy
To future years of bliss without alloy.
In Corriechoich’s romantic bosom fair,
At early gloaming sat the youthful pair.
Whate’er the cause, on Alick’s manly brow
A cloud of anxious thought seemed resting now,
And oft a struggling sigh escaped his breast,
That told how much his spirit was depressed.
The kindly maiden prayed the youth to tell
If aught distressed him, if he felt unwell.
“ My dearest Helen, if I seem to be
More sad than wont, ’tis all for sake of thee.
’Tis said the Keith has offered thee his hand,
With all his wealth, and heritage, and land ;
And, though I scarce can doubt thy plighted faith,
To me the torturing thought is worse than death.”
“ My Alick, why thus needlessly cast down?
Distrust me not, my heart is still thine own.
Oh ! I would sooner die than wed that man,
Who bears the name of a detested clan.
Thou dost remember (’tis a tale of woe
To make the heart sick, and the tears to flow,)
How, in the bloody Chapel of St Tayre,
Our sires by them most foully butchered were.
No, no, the Keith need not excite thy fears,
Heaven is my witness, and these truthful tears !
I love him not—his bride I ne’er shall be,
His suit is hateful as his race to me ;
No one on earth shall wed me ’gainst my will,
The heart I gave thee once thou hast it still.”
“ And. is thy young heart still my own ?
O ! then, I am to-night the happiest of men ;
I wronged thee Helen—but ’twas the excess
0f love too strong for language to express ;
Yes, love the deepest and the most unfeigned,
With not one gross or selfish feeling stained--
’Twas love that gave these jealous fears their birth,
And dashed with shade my brightest dream on earth.
Then let me clasp thee once more to my breast,
Since all those anxious cares are laid to rest.”
Before the lovers parted for the night,
Beneath the holy stars that burned so bright,
’Twas fixed that they within a month should wed--
How oft they wished that long, long month were fled.
The moon is up, and beautiful and bright
Pours o’er the lonely glen a flood of light.
In dazzling masses piled against the sky,
The lofty mountains wear a look of joy ;
The moorland stream is glancing in her rays,
And near at hand the honest watch-dog bays.
In yon ancestral hall are sounds of mirth,
Which seems to-night the happiest home on earth ;
For now, in all her beauty’s bloom and pride,
The lovely Helen is become a bride.
The wine-cup circles round the guests to cheer,
The bagpipe’s notes are thrilling on the ear ;
And many a foot is tripping it with glee,
And all is gladness there and revelry.
There comes no thought of harm to cloud their joy,
“On with the dance,” and fill the wine-cup high.
Among the guests, tho’ blind and aged now,
None happier seemed that night than Evan Gow,
The grey-haired bard, who many a night before
Had sung the joys and sorrows of Braemore.
Cheered with the mirth that did each breast inspire,
He caught a portion of his former fire,
And in a voice unbroken yet and strong,
Thus poured his rude extemporaneous song :--
THE BARD’S SONG
The harp that has rung with the strains of the fight,
Shall to beauty and love be devoted to night ;
For the maiden is wed that we all did adore,
The pride of our valley, the flower of Braemore.
As the stately foxglove with its bright purple bell,
Outstrips all the flowers in the desert and dell,
So the sweet Helen Gunn, with her beauty so rare,
Excels all our maidens, the flower of our fair.
Her looks with the raven in darkness may vie,
And dark is the hue of her beautiful eye,
And sweet is her breath as the fragrance that flows
From our own native thyme, in the moorland that grows.
Tho’ here we are all full of joy and delight,
There are hearts in the glen that are breaking to-night ;
And many a sigh, from the sad bosom wrung,
Is heaving for Helen the charming and young.
The Keith, in the lowlands, that dastard abhorred,
For the loss of the maiden may brandish his sword ;
But we mind not his threats—let him come to Braemore,
And we’ll give him a taste of the Highland claymore.
May the choicest of blessings descend from show,
On the gallant young man and his dear ladye love ;
And long may they flourish in beauty and pride,
Like the ash and the birch on yon green mountain side.
There is a hireling band of armed men,
With stealthy footsteps marching through the glen,
And at their head on fiery barb is seen
A fearless chief of dark and daring mien.
There is a wild impatience in his look,
That no impediment would seem to brook;
His brow is knit—and oft his eye of fire
Flashes with fury and indignant ire.
In his stern visage one may clearly read
That man is bent upon some desperate deed.
What sudden sight arrests the eyes of all ?
That gloomy leader stalks into the hall :
Alone he enters there, without his band,
The ruthless falchion glittering in his hand.
At first the revellers in mute surprise
Survey the unbidden guest that damps their joys ;
But rage soon takes possession of each breast,
And dread confusion reigns around the feast,
When Keith—’twas he himself—with daring brow,
Thus speaks the purpose of his visit now :--
“ I come to claim this lady as my bride;
Nay, frown not so—I will not be denied--
But dare to thwart my will, and by the rood,
I ’11 make each craven here the eagle’s food !”
“ Strike down the braggart !” was the general cry,
“By heaven, the treacherous Keith deserves to die !”
Scarce said the words, when forth the chieftain drew
A silver mounted horn, and quickly blew
A shrill and startling summons ;—at the call
His banded followers rush into the hall.
Instant ensues a fierce and bloody fray,
Too darkly wild and tragic to pourtray
The clash of swords and shouts of men arise,
Mingled with women’s wild heart-rending cries.
The gallant Gunns, tho’ few, fight nobly all ;
But, in the end, o’erpowered and butchered fail.
Among the rest, the bridegroom on the floor,
Pierced deep with wounds, lies weltering in his gore.
But who may paint the anguish of the bride ?
Ah, happier far, if she then too had died !
In frantic agony she tore her hair,
That fell dishevelled round her forehead fair,
And prayed to heaven to avenge this deed of blood,
And smite the ruthless murderers where they stood.
In vain she wept—in vain to heaven did pray--
Distracted, screaming, she is borne away,
By the fell hands that laid her bridegroom low,
To drink on earth the bitterest cup of woe.
In tower of Ackergill, whose massy hold
Looks o’er yon noble bay—so grim and old
The beauteous Helen weeps the hours away,
Her once dark ringlets are already grey.
The wretched captive, pale and woe begone,
And sick with suffering makes her plaint to none ;
But inly hopes that death will shortly close
Her life’s dark span with all its nameless woes.
Her cell-like chamber has one narrow pane,
That fronts the blue and melancholy main ;
The rays of heaven but faintly light the room,
And scarce a sound of gladness cheers the gloom.
From morn to night, within that chamber lone,
She only hears the wild, wild billow moan,
Or burst around her, with terrific roar,
When the storm visiteth that desert shore.
If to her sad and lonely couch she goes,
To seek a brief oblivion of her woes,
Her sleep is troubled,—to her mental sight
Still busy fancy paints her wedding night,
And the wild tragedy seems acted o’er,
With all its fearful horrors, in Braemore.
The Keith still tried her widowed heart to gain,
His threats and blandishments were all in vain ;
She turned from him with loathing and disgust,
Her heart was his that slumbered in the dust.
In this sad state of wretchedness and fear,
No eye to pity, and no voice to cheer,
Two months she now had spent, and day by day,
The lonely mourner seemed to pine away,
Like a sweet flower that withers on the sight,
Nipt in the blossom by untimely blight;
So Helen sunk and faded to the tomb,
A virgin flower in brighter climes to bloom.
*****
[1] The vision of woman in Scott’s novels is of the delicate, home-based female and this stereotype infects Clan histories. The ‘Helen Gunn of Braemore’ story is a Gunn example supporting this image (see http://clangunn.weebly.com/helen-gunn-of-braemore-myth.html accessed 12 August 2019). Professor Celeste Ray highlights the limited role for women in today’s Clan Societies because it’s about ‘male visions of the (Scottish) heritage’ see pages 90-94 Prof. Celeste Ray Highland Heritage ; Scottish Americans in the American South. Professor Ray is Professor of Anthropology at ‘Sewanee; The University of the South’. Dated sex role stereotypes help explain the elderly profile of Clan Society membership – and suggest a major challenge in the future as younger generations are progressively alienated from being restricted to such roles.
[2] Some may consider this poem worthy of the ‘poet’ William McGonagall.
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Traill_Calder accessed 14 August 2018.
The individual chapters can be downloaded as pdfs from latrobe.academia.edu/AlastairGunn
A Victorian version of the Helen Gunn of Braemore[1] myth discussed in chapter 7.2 is in the following poem.[2] It was published in James Traill Calder’s 1855 collection Poems from John O’Groats but may have been published earlier. Calder first worked as a ‘private tutor for the Rev Mr Gunn of Caithness’.[3] For a poem of similar theme see ‘The Curse of Moy. A Highland Tale’ by J. B. S. Morritt which gained real fame when collected in Sir Walter Scott’s The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Borders.
Helen of Braemore by James Traill Calder
’Tis summer eve—the setting sun goes down,
Gilding yon mountains desolate and brown,
That giant-like in naked grandeur soar
Above thy sweet secluded glen Braemore !
Lo ! in the midst, uprising like a cone,
Stands the proud Pap, fantastic and alone.
With long dark belt, magnificent and high,
The shadowy Scaraben is swelling nigh ;
While o’er the whole in eminence and height,
Majestic Morven towers upon the sight,
Capp’d with the cloud that—beauteous to behold--
Looks like a glittering diadem of gold.
The happy lark that carolled all the day
O’er mead and moor, hath sung his latest lay,
And the gay linnet, too, hath hushed the note
That flowed so sweetly from his little throat ;
But from the moorland waste, the plover’s wail
And curlew’s lonely cry are on the gale,
Blent with the snipe’s peculiar bleating sound,
And wild bee’s dreamy murmur floating round.
But who is she that at the close of day
Trips o’er the gteensward like a “ vision gay,”
To meet her lover in the gleaming bright,
Her youthful features beaming with delight?
’Tis Helen Gunn, the beauty of Braemore,
Whose fame hath gone to many a distant shore.
Fain would the muse portray that lovely maid,
In nature‘s own simplicity arrayed.
Her native Highland plaid disposed with care,
Adorns the figure of the charming fair,
And falls around her in a graceful fold,
Clasped at the bosom with a brooch of gold.
The silken snood confines her raven hair,
That clusters richly round her forehead fair.
But who the sweetness of her face may speak ?
The rose-like bloom upon her virgin cheek--
The large dark eye, so beautiful and bright,
Whose lustre fills the gazer with delight--
The oval countenance—the snow-white brow--
And honied lips, where love sits smiling now.
And then her voice’s music, when she sung
Some touching ball'ad in her native tongue,
Flowed with a dulcet melody and swell,
That bound the ear in a delicious spell.
Like a sweet wild-flower blooming in the shade,
The Keith’s rude Chieftain saw the lovely maid,
Her form, where grace and beauty seemed to vie,
At once attracted his licentious eye.
Inflamed with ardent passion, much he strove
From time to time to gain the lady’s love ;
But still a deaf ear to his suit she turned,
And all his ofl‘ers resolutely spurned.
So when he found that all his practised art
And flattery failed to touch the maiden’s heart,
With wounded pride and keen resentment fired,
A dubious threat he uttered and retired.
Among the hills that tower so proudly up,
There lay a glen embosomed like a cup--
A sweet, romantic spot beyond compare,
Where oft the straggling wild deer made their lair ;
The mountain-daisy and the heather-bell
Were thickly scattered o’er the fairy dell,
With many a bright and nameless flower beside,
That yearly budded there, and bloomed, and died.
In this secluded spot, when day was done,
Sat Helen and her lover, Alick Gunn.
Her kinsman he, a sprightly youth and fair--
’Twas long since they in heart aifianced were.
While yet but children sporting in the glen,
They seemed as destined for each other then.
Still hand in hand were seen the little pair,
Prattling together without thought or care.
They ne’er were separate ; and, on sunny days,
They played together on the broomy braes ;
0ft chased the painted butterfly and bee,
And laughed and shouted in their sportive glee.
And when, at length, a hardy stripling grown,
If Alick chanced to roam abroad alone,
The exulting boy would bring home with him still,
For her, the choicest berries of the hill,
Some moorfowl’s eggs, or bunch of scented thyme,
With radiant wild flowers, gathered in their prime
Along the lofty Scaraben and Pap,
And lay the treasure in his favourite’s lap.
Their love grew stronger as they grew in years,
Without that passion’s jealousies and fears,
For life as yet was all a happy dream,
Radiant with fancy’s first and brightest beam ;
While hope still pointed with a smile of joy
To future years of bliss without alloy.
In Corriechoich’s romantic bosom fair,
At early gloaming sat the youthful pair.
Whate’er the cause, on Alick’s manly brow
A cloud of anxious thought seemed resting now,
And oft a struggling sigh escaped his breast,
That told how much his spirit was depressed.
The kindly maiden prayed the youth to tell
If aught distressed him, if he felt unwell.
“ My dearest Helen, if I seem to be
More sad than wont, ’tis all for sake of thee.
’Tis said the Keith has offered thee his hand,
With all his wealth, and heritage, and land ;
And, though I scarce can doubt thy plighted faith,
To me the torturing thought is worse than death.”
“ My Alick, why thus needlessly cast down?
Distrust me not, my heart is still thine own.
Oh ! I would sooner die than wed that man,
Who bears the name of a detested clan.
Thou dost remember (’tis a tale of woe
To make the heart sick, and the tears to flow,)
How, in the bloody Chapel of St Tayre,
Our sires by them most foully butchered were.
No, no, the Keith need not excite thy fears,
Heaven is my witness, and these truthful tears !
I love him not—his bride I ne’er shall be,
His suit is hateful as his race to me ;
No one on earth shall wed me ’gainst my will,
The heart I gave thee once thou hast it still.”
“ And. is thy young heart still my own ?
O ! then, I am to-night the happiest of men ;
I wronged thee Helen—but ’twas the excess
0f love too strong for language to express ;
Yes, love the deepest and the most unfeigned,
With not one gross or selfish feeling stained--
’Twas love that gave these jealous fears their birth,
And dashed with shade my brightest dream on earth.
Then let me clasp thee once more to my breast,
Since all those anxious cares are laid to rest.”
Before the lovers parted for the night,
Beneath the holy stars that burned so bright,
’Twas fixed that they within a month should wed--
How oft they wished that long, long month were fled.
The moon is up, and beautiful and bright
Pours o’er the lonely glen a flood of light.
In dazzling masses piled against the sky,
The lofty mountains wear a look of joy ;
The moorland stream is glancing in her rays,
And near at hand the honest watch-dog bays.
In yon ancestral hall are sounds of mirth,
Which seems to-night the happiest home on earth ;
For now, in all her beauty’s bloom and pride,
The lovely Helen is become a bride.
The wine-cup circles round the guests to cheer,
The bagpipe’s notes are thrilling on the ear ;
And many a foot is tripping it with glee,
And all is gladness there and revelry.
There comes no thought of harm to cloud their joy,
“On with the dance,” and fill the wine-cup high.
Among the guests, tho’ blind and aged now,
None happier seemed that night than Evan Gow,
The grey-haired bard, who many a night before
Had sung the joys and sorrows of Braemore.
Cheered with the mirth that did each breast inspire,
He caught a portion of his former fire,
And in a voice unbroken yet and strong,
Thus poured his rude extemporaneous song :--
THE BARD’S SONG
The harp that has rung with the strains of the fight,
Shall to beauty and love be devoted to night ;
For the maiden is wed that we all did adore,
The pride of our valley, the flower of Braemore.
As the stately foxglove with its bright purple bell,
Outstrips all the flowers in the desert and dell,
So the sweet Helen Gunn, with her beauty so rare,
Excels all our maidens, the flower of our fair.
Her looks with the raven in darkness may vie,
And dark is the hue of her beautiful eye,
And sweet is her breath as the fragrance that flows
From our own native thyme, in the moorland that grows.
Tho’ here we are all full of joy and delight,
There are hearts in the glen that are breaking to-night ;
And many a sigh, from the sad bosom wrung,
Is heaving for Helen the charming and young.
The Keith, in the lowlands, that dastard abhorred,
For the loss of the maiden may brandish his sword ;
But we mind not his threats—let him come to Braemore,
And we’ll give him a taste of the Highland claymore.
May the choicest of blessings descend from show,
On the gallant young man and his dear ladye love ;
And long may they flourish in beauty and pride,
Like the ash and the birch on yon green mountain side.
There is a hireling band of armed men,
With stealthy footsteps marching through the glen,
And at their head on fiery barb is seen
A fearless chief of dark and daring mien.
There is a wild impatience in his look,
That no impediment would seem to brook;
His brow is knit—and oft his eye of fire
Flashes with fury and indignant ire.
In his stern visage one may clearly read
That man is bent upon some desperate deed.
What sudden sight arrests the eyes of all ?
That gloomy leader stalks into the hall :
Alone he enters there, without his band,
The ruthless falchion glittering in his hand.
At first the revellers in mute surprise
Survey the unbidden guest that damps their joys ;
But rage soon takes possession of each breast,
And dread confusion reigns around the feast,
When Keith—’twas he himself—with daring brow,
Thus speaks the purpose of his visit now :--
“ I come to claim this lady as my bride;
Nay, frown not so—I will not be denied--
But dare to thwart my will, and by the rood,
I ’11 make each craven here the eagle’s food !”
“ Strike down the braggart !” was the general cry,
“By heaven, the treacherous Keith deserves to die !”
Scarce said the words, when forth the chieftain drew
A silver mounted horn, and quickly blew
A shrill and startling summons ;—at the call
His banded followers rush into the hall.
Instant ensues a fierce and bloody fray,
Too darkly wild and tragic to pourtray
The clash of swords and shouts of men arise,
Mingled with women’s wild heart-rending cries.
The gallant Gunns, tho’ few, fight nobly all ;
But, in the end, o’erpowered and butchered fail.
Among the rest, the bridegroom on the floor,
Pierced deep with wounds, lies weltering in his gore.
But who may paint the anguish of the bride ?
Ah, happier far, if she then too had died !
In frantic agony she tore her hair,
That fell dishevelled round her forehead fair,
And prayed to heaven to avenge this deed of blood,
And smite the ruthless murderers where they stood.
In vain she wept—in vain to heaven did pray--
Distracted, screaming, she is borne away,
By the fell hands that laid her bridegroom low,
To drink on earth the bitterest cup of woe.
In tower of Ackergill, whose massy hold
Looks o’er yon noble bay—so grim and old
The beauteous Helen weeps the hours away,
Her once dark ringlets are already grey.
The wretched captive, pale and woe begone,
And sick with suffering makes her plaint to none ;
But inly hopes that death will shortly close
Her life’s dark span with all its nameless woes.
Her cell-like chamber has one narrow pane,
That fronts the blue and melancholy main ;
The rays of heaven but faintly light the room,
And scarce a sound of gladness cheers the gloom.
From morn to night, within that chamber lone,
She only hears the wild, wild billow moan,
Or burst around her, with terrific roar,
When the storm visiteth that desert shore.
If to her sad and lonely couch she goes,
To seek a brief oblivion of her woes,
Her sleep is troubled,—to her mental sight
Still busy fancy paints her wedding night,
And the wild tragedy seems acted o’er,
With all its fearful horrors, in Braemore.
The Keith still tried her widowed heart to gain,
His threats and blandishments were all in vain ;
She turned from him with loathing and disgust,
Her heart was his that slumbered in the dust.
In this sad state of wretchedness and fear,
No eye to pity, and no voice to cheer,
Two months she now had spent, and day by day,
The lonely mourner seemed to pine away,
Like a sweet flower that withers on the sight,
Nipt in the blossom by untimely blight;
So Helen sunk and faded to the tomb,
A virgin flower in brighter climes to bloom.
*****
[1] The vision of woman in Scott’s novels is of the delicate, home-based female and this stereotype infects Clan histories. The ‘Helen Gunn of Braemore’ story is a Gunn example supporting this image (see http://clangunn.weebly.com/helen-gunn-of-braemore-myth.html accessed 12 August 2019). Professor Celeste Ray highlights the limited role for women in today’s Clan Societies because it’s about ‘male visions of the (Scottish) heritage’ see pages 90-94 Prof. Celeste Ray Highland Heritage ; Scottish Americans in the American South. Professor Ray is Professor of Anthropology at ‘Sewanee; The University of the South’. Dated sex role stereotypes help explain the elderly profile of Clan Society membership – and suggest a major challenge in the future as younger generations are progressively alienated from being restricted to such roles.
[2] Some may consider this poem worthy of the ‘poet’ William McGonagall.
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Traill_Calder accessed 14 August 2018.