At Dandaleith one takes
And climbs up the back of
A history which, alas, is lost to us
Where a fragment of a church
Is visible
With fishings on the Spey
And other pertinents
Leased, with consent
Small teinds and vicarages
[Regality of Spynie]
Then dwelling and pitifully plundered
A good mile west
This is a castle
I can learn nothing whatever about
And yet
The lady of the castle died
The letting of the blood awoke
Sir Archibald Grant of Monymusk
[The dell of the monks]
Below which, by the railway,
This old chapel was carried away
By the Spey
To those who make a study of stone circles
A vicarage depending
It is said, on the parson
B.R.I.C.I.U.S
[The first of our Bishops]
Mother of
Sister of
[Eleven times they intermarried]
Two hundred Douglases
Feued by a James Ogilvy
For the support of the poor
And a Sang School
From the Kirdals one has a lovely run
But for the scenery
One sees the last vestige
A roughish road
Worth traversing
Not so very long ago
Cut up poem taken from Chapter XVI of HB Mackintosh’s ‘The Pilgrimages of Moray’. From my project Pilgrimages.