The Hope of Christmas - TheBody.com's Bulletin Boards

While visiting Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands, I hired a guide who retold the story of the massacre of the MacDonalds by the Campbells on 13 February 1692. On that night, thirty-eight MacDonalds were murdered in their beds by Campbells who had accepted the hospitality of the MacDonalds. As the Ballad of Glencoe says,

They came in a blizzard, we offered them heat
A roof for their heads, dry shoes for their feet.
We wined them and dined them, they ate of our meat
And they slept in the house of MacDonald.

They came in the night when the men were asleep
This band of Argyles, through snow soft and deep.
Like murdering foxes amongst helpless sheep
They slaughtered the house of MacDonald.

Some died in their beds at the hand of the foe.
Some fled in the night and were lost in the snow.
Some lived to accuse him who struck the first blow;
But gone was the house of MacDonald.

I remarked to my guide that there must not be many MacDonalds in Glencoe. She touched my hand, looked steadily into my eyes, and said, “No, there are not many Campbells about.” I was shaken by the realization that a mass murder more than 300 years ago still enraged the hearts of the MacDonalds in Glencoe.

Scotland has such a weight of history that one feels often burdened by it. Burns, whose work is best read aloud, wrote in To a Mouse, On Turning Up her Nest with a Plough :

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Many people interpret this poem as proof of the deterministic soul of the Scot who believes that forces outside his control, like history, determine his fate. I however, look to the line-

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee.

I believe Burns is saying that living in the moment is the preferable state rather than -

… On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

In this season of hope in a time of economic hardship, I wish all of you the peace of the moment and the promise of a better tomorrow. We are made of sterner stuff; and, we endure.

Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year,

Charles Edward Hay

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Life is a river.
Carpe diem.

Post Extras: Remind Me!