Witch Burning: Remembering Bessie Dunlop.

This is a poem I have written about Bessie Dunlop. A female burned as a witch, from Dalry.

Witch of Lynn, Dalry, arise
Return across our minds and skies
Free us from our bonds and chains
As deep divisions rise again

Banish sadness in your path
Hatred gone and Love at last
Minds of hatred let them rot
Come in peace Bessie Dunlop

Continue reading “Witch Burning: Remembering Bessie Dunlop.”

How the Longbar got it’s name.

I was trying to explain to a friend about the “Longbar”  when he asked me where the name came from.

It was built on top of another earlier group of houses known as “the Lambert”. Over time and with the number of folk moving in with different accents it then became known as the Lamber, then langbar wth the brogue northern Irish accent among others.

By the 1950s it had evolved into “Longbar” because people thought langbar referred to the Scottish word “lang” which meant “long” and the Government starting putting up signposts with the name.

If Kilbirnie Were a Harp…

If Kilbirnie were a harp with strings
I'd surely sweep a strain,
An everlasting melody
Which no man could restrain


I'd write a song of thanksgiving
Of peace and love and cheer
To bless the town with all its woes
Bring pleasure to their ears


I'd play the song on Knoxville road
And at the Walker Hall
I'd play it at the Labour club
While drunkards take their fall


I'd play the harp so silently
For those who hate the sound
To aid them out of hopelessness
To turn their lives around


I'd sweep a strain of sad refrain
At steel works passing by
I'd touch upon a melody
And older folks would cry


I'd play it softly at the match
While folks would cheer their team
And move along the park so long
To watch the Garnock stream


I'd play the harp across the tracks
As cyclists speed me by
I'd play and wait at graveyard's gates
For mourners with their sighs


I'd play it at the Garnock's heart
Right up at Jacob's Well,
where no one goes to see it flow
Or care to even tell


I'd play a tune right at the school
The Children would be pleased
I'd pass the harp to little ones
To hold upon their knees


So to the town with all my sounds
And everlasting strains
I leave the harp right at the cross
For others who remain


To strain their sounds of happiness
And hope for all the town
To watch it grow with sadness no!
As an everlasting crown.

Easter 2023

Easter 2023

A gentle rising over mountains and hills
The new, God filled mornings where birds gently shrill
Small new born lambs dance closely by mills
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

Sacred songs, worship, with words full of praise
In Churches surrounding the Largs hills and braes
Children hunt eggs and voices are raised
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire 

Another ray shines, o'er  those still asleep
Hope for all people from the Great Mercy Seat
A baby is born, little feet, mothers weep
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

O'er darkened bleak  forests, beams shafts of white light
Laying beacons of hope, joys, filled with delight
The Saviour has risen, o Beautiful Sight
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

Every day of our lives we await his appearing
Through our darkened thoughts and opinions still seething
Power so Gentle and soft,ever nearing
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

Shining with hope for people oppressed
And those with anxiety, seeking some rest
Bringing peace to our town, all people are Blessed
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire



Pillars of light upon earth's lofty shafts
Old time honoured rituals falling at last
A new Light is dawning and all are agast
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

An angel appears and rests on our thoughts
Like butterflies clinging to their earthly lot
Of Thoughts and Prayers higher than possessions sought
as Easter dawns upon Ayrshire

Joseph McTaggart

Meet Malcolm McTaggart and Janet Smith

Malcolm McTaggart and Janet Smith (my Great Great Great Grandparents) lived in Montgomery Street as well as the Paddockholm area of Kilbirnie and then Glengarnock and were in many ways the parents of most McTaggart families who live in Kilbirne and Dalry today. The others came from his siblings, aunts and uncles.

He died in the late 1890s and she lived until 1919. His first wife was Jane Leitch, with whom he had one child and he is pictured here with his second wife Janet Smith. Together they had a lot of children.

Their parents came from Islay, the island off the west coast and they could only speak Gaelic when they first arrived here in the 1840s. Malcolm was born in Kilbirnie. His father was also married to a Janet Smith, Father and son married Mother and niece. Everybody worked in the steel works.

Malcolm and Janet are buried with their son John and they are one of the first graves as you enter the old cemetery across from the old old cemetery gate.

Poem: The Bing, Kilbirnie

The bing was a huge mound of cement and gravel where kids climbed on the corner of Place View and Newhouse Drive. It was converted into a playpark in the mid 80s.


Oh the years upon the bing 
with cousin Margaret children played
climbing up with all our power
by Newhouse drive where people stayed

Amid the thorns and grey cement 
there seemed a moment, time well spent
and sliding down the gravel slope 
I skinned my knees without a hope

My grannie waiting at the door
with borax, plasters by the score

O the hills we thought were steep
when now in older lives we keep

Mountains slopes upon our minds
perhaps a bing of different kind
climbing o’er our darker thoughts 
just like the thistles we did trod

Lessons from the bing well learnt
of my granny’s soothing balm
o how that Love returns to me
a
nd brings with it a sense of calm

And behind the trees sat Warrior’s bing 
perhaps a sign of future years
with bigger slope and hills to climb
amid the darker fading years

Poem: Snow in Paisley

And comes a pure white blanket laid
around the river Cart
Across the darkened thoughts of man
a Love which does impart

And o´er the bogs and swamps there´s ice
up to the Abbey door
A voice says “Man with all your cares
be still for just an hour”

The darkened views of waning health,
exchanged for winter cheer
The snow reflects a gentle calm
upon the town so dear

And on the braes the deer are seen
walking proudly by
For no man can touch their safety now
upon their mountain high

Upon the tombs of rested men
lies layers of icy sense
Reflecting that the One great Mind
preserves their innocence