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WE
ALL HAD
2 PARENTS
4 GRANDPARENTS
8 GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
16 GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
32 GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
64 GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
128 GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
256 GREAT- GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
512 GREAT- GREAT- GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS
1,024 GREAT- GREAT- GREAT- GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDPARENTS

JUST IN THE
COURSE OF
EXACTLY 10
GENERATIONS
Logan
Paterson
Motherwell History
Motherwell Football
Old and New Photographs of Motherwell
Stories Of Motherwell
The Auld Manse Cemetery
South Dalziel Church Motherwell
Dalziel Estate
Stastical Account
Dalziel Parish
1798
Statistical Account Parish of Dalziel
1836
Freedom
The Auld Manse Graveyard
The Covenanters Graveyard
The Covenanters Oak
Andrew
John
Jane Brown
Ode tae Rabbie
Ma Frien'The Robin
LOOKING FOR ANCESTORS

A poem in the style of Thomas Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard."
Hopefully, it evokes feelings of rooting amongst old gravestones
searching for ancestors.

DEEP shadows post farewell to parting day,
Solemn tolls the church clock from the tower high;
I put away my pen and wend my way
From the silent graveyard where my ancestors lie.

Night owls swoop and hoot their raucous calls;
Bright fireflies come dancing on the air;
Inside these timeworn, friendly, grey stone walls,
Generations of my forebears lie a-sleeping there.

'Neath sturdy oaks and ancient elms they rest,
Midsy crumbling, tumbling, flaking, rough-hewed stones;
And weary, but exultant, in my quest,
I pay my lonely tribute to their perished bones.

Where now I stand in tranquil meditation,
Once walked a merry host of kinsfolk grand;
Many a village swain did find his inspiration
To woo a fair young lass, a-strolling hand in hand.

Their names have all but vanished now,
Who once did tread these paths with strides so bold;
Yet they bequeathed to us a fleeting vow
Of better lives and dreams, these steadfast folks of old.

Soft moonlight strays across the muted churchyard,
Sends eerie shadows flickering through the trees,
And if I raise my head and harken hard
The voices of my forebears come whispering on the breeze.

Now far too soon the cloaking night has come,
My search must end, alas, to my deep sorrow;
But, rest assured, until my quest is done
I will be here again upon the morrow.

        * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Wean Cau'd Anne
Thoughts
Sweeties
The Duchess of Hamilton Park
Me----- Cauld
Nurse
Angela
Jimmy Gallacher---1942-2001
Other Poets
David Wingate Collier Poet
Scottish Songs
Scottish Songs 2
Scottish Songs 3
Irish Songs
Irish Songs 2
Old Scottish Words   In Use Today
Parliamo Glasgow
Old Map of Scotland
Bits an' Bobs
All Standing In a Row

If you could see your ancestors
All standing in a row,
Would you be proud of them,
Or don't you really know?

Some strange discoveries are made
In climbing family trees,
And some of them, you know,
Do not particularly please.

If you could see your ancestors
All standing in a row,
There might be some of them, perhaps,
You wouldn't care to know.

But here's another question, which
Requires a different view--
If you could meet your ancestors,
Would they be proud of you?

Author Unknown.
DEATH & INEQUALITY

Have you ever taken a stroll in a graveyard and noticed that the old
saying about everybody being equal in death just isn't true?

DOWN the twisting churchyard path I tread,
'Neath a sullen, melancholy sky;
With pensive, sombre thoughts I turn my head,
To solitary graves where my ancestors lie.
In bleak and joyless cells they sleep abed,
Where rustling spectral winds do hiss and sigh;
And yet, somehow, to me they are not dead,
We have a lonely bond, my forebears and I.

'Neath ancient oaks and weeping willow trees,
Where strolling sweethearts once their love did ply,
Ghostly, mournful voices murmur on the breeze,
In muted, futile protest, injustices to cry.
'Tis said that death is just another room,
Where all are equal, yet I wonder why
Here rests the noble squire in his marble tomb,
Whilst humble peasant folks in austere graves do lie?

As' twas in life remains it so in death,
Rich men sleep 'neath angels soaring to the sky;
A last, defiant vestige of their worldly wealth,
A simple, spartan headstone marks the poor man nigh.
Once they toiled and tilled the ripening fields,
The squire, proud and haughty riding by;
And in this silent churchyard, affluence still wields
The power to divide the lowly from the high.

How shall we ever strive to understand,
The truth 'bout base injustice, lest we try?
Come with me, good people, I'll take you by the hand,
To that lonely graveyard where my ancestors lie.
Fine statues serve the mighty, bare earth shrouds the poor,
Now perhaps you'll see at last just why
To right the wrongs of history we'll never any more
In such disparate circumstance permit equal men to die.

     * * * * * * * * * * * *
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