I set our tale, and from here we’re lost,
Upon the land of ice and frost,
Where myths lurk within the lochs,
Shadowed by the highland rocks!
Of legends, fables and History,
Cursed and coated in mystery,
On moors and mounds where thistles grow,
Or dusted in the October snow.
In the still, beasts roam and pillage,
And terrify their local village!
Of stories both new and old,
That of Nessie has most been told,
There dwells in water a giant eel,
Where speculation of if it’s real.
Some say it’s legend, just folklore,
Other say it could be a dinosaur.
But I for one would never swim,
In the loch for what’s within,
As if it wanted something to eat,
I’d rather it wasn’t my toes and feet!
Seen on dreary foggy days,
Across the glens the haggis play.
On Tuesday hunts with guns and hound,
They follow tracks left in the ground,
For 3 legged haggis raid farm and field,
Stealing sheep and oatmeal.
These pests found in burrows and digs,
Look a little like baby pigs!
I assure you they aren’t half as sweet,
But in Scotland they are great to eat!
The Kelpies or the water foals,
Feeds on hearts and broken souls.
They have the ability to change,
From glowing eyes and dripping
Mane,
To women whose beauty seeps,
And lures them into waters deep.
As men they can never resist,
The seducing temptation of being kissed.
So stay away from rivers and lakes,
Or yee too shall meet your fate.
The stodge, well it goes best in pies,
And the delicacy is it’s tail and eyes,
These bits are usually best served,
On Hogmanay as hot h’orderves
For it tastes so succulent and sweet,
As it feeds on tatties and ripened neeps.
In the country you will often find,
It Sat grazing on it’s big behind,
Commonly mistaken for a giant rat,
With a little more fur and fat!
The Wulvers are the hairy beasts,
That’ve left the poor a many feast.
They say they are part wolf, part man,
And live in groups called a clan.
In the hills they’re in a cave,
And are not like werewolves behave.
The legend says these mighty boars,
Leave fish and bread outside your doors,
In preparation for what winter brings,
They leave to those, wholesome things.
The Grock is not said but sung,
For the ‘R’ must roll right off the tongue,
There have been many stories said,
That he’ll grind your bones for his bread.
That he steals the sleeping out their room,
And takes them to awaiting doom.
For Grock came from way up high,
When the beanstalk fell from the sky.
But be glad that there is only one,
For half of Scotland would be gone!
For those that live north of here,
Know these are what to fear,
So if you venture past the wall,
Heed that yee have been warned.
Amydot's Imagination 