A passionate little blog started by a deerhound dog in Scotland called Rogue ‘Brylach’ MacAllister and Passed to Rascal ‘Logan’ Dorrator Heath

Friday, November 10, 2006

Rogues 100th Deerhound blog today

Following the removal of my stitches and receiving the results of the test on the removed growth, which as it transpires was a benign Histiocytoma I am glad to announce - go here for details on these little annoyances.

I am not prepared to refrain from licking my paw and the wound at this stage and will continue to do so, and generally make lots to slobbering sounds whilst at it. But in celebration that I am on the road to recovery, and the fact that I have now reached my 100th blog, I thought it apt to reproduce the short excerpt below from The Old Gaelic Poem of DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. I think it reflects how a hound would wish to return to the chase after what I have been through . . .

. . . enjoy

Miann a' Bhàird Aosda.
(The Aged Bard's Wish.)

. . . Far in the gentle breeze
The stag cries on the field;
The herds answer on the hill,
And descend to meet the sound.

I hear the steps of the hunter!
His whistling darts--his dog upon the hill.
The joy of youth returns to my cheek
At the sound of the coming chase!

My strength returns at the sounds of the wood
The cry of hounds--the thrill of strings.
Hark! the death-sbout--"The deer has fallen!"
I spring to life on the hill!

I see the bounding dog,
My companion on the heath;
The beloved hill of our chase,
The echoing craig of woods.

I see the sheltering cave
Which often received us from the night,
When the glowing tree and the joyful cup
Revived us with their cheer.

Glad was the smoking feast of deer,
Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;
Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,
Sweet was our rest in the cave.

I see the mighty mountain,
Chief of a thousand hills;
The dream of deer is in its locks,
Its head is the bed of clouds.

I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,
The wood of cuckoos at its foot,
The blue height of a thousand pines,
Of wolves, and roes, and elks.

Like the breeze on the lake of firs
The little ducks skim on the pool,
At its head is the strath of pines,
The red rowan bends on its bank. . . .


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