In the Hielands’ mist, ‘neath the siller moon’s beam,
Whaur the thistle an’ heather brawly bloom an’ teem,
Lies a tale o’ auld, frae the lips o’ those
Wha’ve lang syne passed, yet in mem’ry, close.
In the year o’ our Lord, seventeen fifty-five,
When spectres an’ wraiths did sae seem to arrive,
To convene in secret, in Scotland’s ain heart,
For the Annual Ghost Summit, their stories to impart.
Frae the shadowed glens an’ auld stanes, they came,
Gathered, these silent, ethereal frame,
Each a story o’ yesteryear clutched in their grasp,
A mem’ry’s echo in each ghostly clasp.
The air, laden wi’ whispers o’ ages past,
As if time itsel’ had at last been outcast,
They spak o’ battles, o’ love, o’ despair,
O’ the fleeting beauty o’ life, sae rare.
The castle ruins, bathed in moonlight’s embrace,
Served as the venue for this spectral space,
Whaur history’s weave, thin an’ threadbare,
Allowed past an’ present to meet an’ share.
Here, the Braveheart’s cry an’ the bard’s verse,
Mingled wi’ the banshee’s mournful curse.
Tales o’ valour, o’ tragedy, o’ jest,
Were shared amongst those who no langer rest.
As the first light o’ dawn crept o’er the land,
The summit concluded, as time’s shifting sand,
They vanished, like dew ‘neath the morning’s gleam,
Back to the realm o’ shadow, mist, an’ dream.
Yet, still in the Hielands, when moonbeams play,
An’ the wind whispers secrets o’ yesterday,
Ane can sense the spirits, baith bold an’ meek,
The Annual Ghost Summit, o’ which they speak.
Sae here’s tae Scotland, wi’ her lore sae deep,
Whaur the past through the veil o’ time daes peep,
In seventeen fifty-five, ’twas last seen,
The Gathering o’ Ghosts, in twilight’s sheen.
