Thoughts.com Blogs - Corries Roar of Betrayal

On moons rise 'n' tide she rolls her sails trimmed afresh
the patterned waves beneathe her hulls tell wher' she be,
on Scottia's coast fair Scottia's coast, tho' land we yet not see
for silence we wait til the sea hags' washbowl screams
so fogged the lay and latitude, but what hears we abreast?

The auld hags cloth, a wash again we know the rimmed place
to dare we must have hearts like axe blade done in fire
the breath of foam we hear it rise, we see wit' the ear and not the eye
the Kull be near and stone of legend stacked, we're sure to sack
into the spiral tides we go where no man der'st, sail the race.

Oh courage! Whited hearts not be, Oh courage! Bear lads we'e of the sea.
tho' hair did twist and tongue did lie, we've not to fear, we'll no the same die
for maids hair not our, knots do make, nay, nay bear lads tis horse hair made
oh do sea swell and draw us to ride, and yank on the oars all as one tied.
We seek a treasure new, a bride of rank perhaps to take, circlets gold for me.

Be quit now lads and girt your lions, pull the great oar to toil for gain
in halls o' sing us an' raise a drink, to the dragoneers, cups wilt klink
Oh swirl the sea an' whirl the glog, under the safey of the hushering song
silent we do come ashore for none can supress Great Corries wide roar.
Roar you on berserkers untamed we'v skirt a 'round sea to pillage to blade.

Up the shore rocks edge o'er, on ward to landward and up the craigy way
no Keep shall belay us, we highland ascend, to knock on the hinges of castle an' glenn
crofters cot or fishers net, we catch treasure, then home we get
No battry of sea no oaken door, no vrechtens furries no malstrom roar
can slog the Norsemans serpent or sail, on wolfs.... we've yet to feast this day

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In the waters off the isle of Mull a huge whirlpool some times forms
its seasonal roar can be heard for miles, about twenty as the locals report.
This poem though not 'epic' captures the idea of the feirce Vikings as they plan to raid on the dangerous coastlands in the season of the whirlpools appearing. Apparently lost in fog they don't flinch a bit.
They wait until the waters stir and let their long boat be dragged past all the rocky places because the water must rise in order to swirl so violently. They need to strap all the oars to gether to make then strong enough to row across the top of the vortex. The noise is so loud they nearly faint and the hole of suction in the middle of the raging whirpool is horrifing enough to make them pale with fear. Not a normal feeling for a Viking Berserker. The wildest and bravest of the brave. Their plan works and while the whirlpool is still screaming it's lengendary deafening noise they ascend the cliff to a wealthy Lord s' castle. They haul a battering ram to assault the huge doors and of course they will raid else where if it suits them, then they will rush back to the ship and slip away the dragons head on the ship protecting them as they leave.

Legends in Scotland and in the Norse lands tell of a great son of a Viking Chief whose ropes for his ship where made of the hair of virgins true. He anchors his ship to close to Corrievrechten, as the whirpool is called. Because one of the maids was not a true maid having given herself to a member of the crew before they left to sail to Scotland. ( many hundreds of year ago.) After the first rope gave way. The rest of the nine ropes all snapped one by one and everyone perished in the waters of the violent malestom, as large whirpools are some times called.

Legend also says that a haggerd old woman a giantess, washes her clothes in the whirlpool when the seasons change. So there is lots of lore to draw upon for the body of the *ahem* "poem". Hope you like it and yes the meter is irrelgular not everthing rhymes, I used a structure called assonence, ( what you can use when the ryhme "don't cut it" )