Pibroch of the Domhnall
By Joseph Charles MacKenzie
Author’s Notes:
§ The refrains at the end of each stanza are to be recited by the Inaugural crowd.
§ A Pibroch is a rallying bagpipe tune and is pronounced like “PEA-brohgh.”
§ Domhnall, the Scottish form of the name Donald, is pronounced like “TONE-all”
§ Torquil was the royal progenitor of the MacLeods of Lewis, the outer hebridean island and birthplace of President Trump’s immigrant mother, Mary Anne MacLeod.
Come out for the Domhnall, ye brave men and proud,
The scion of Torquil and best of MacLeod!
With purpose and strength he came down from his tower
To snatch from a tyrant his ill-gotten power.
Now the cry has gone up with a cheer from the crowd:
“Come out for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!”
When freedom is threatened by slavery’s chains
And voices are silenced as misery reigns,
We’ll come out for a leader whose courage is true
Whose virtues are solid and long overdue.
For, he’ll never forget us, we men of the crowd
Who elected the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
When crippling corruption polluted our nation
And plunged our economy into stagnation,
As self-righteous rogues took the opulent office
And plump politicians reneged on their promise,
The forgotten continued to form a great crowd
That defended the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
The Domhnall’s a giver whilst others just take,
Ne’er gaining from that which his hands did not make.
A builder of buildings, employing good men,
He’s enriched many cities by factors of ten.
The honest and true gladly march with the crowd
Standing up for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
True friend of the migrant from both far and near,
He welcomes the worthy, but guards our frontier,
Lest a murderous horde, for whom hell is the norm,
Should threaten our lives and our nation deform.
We immigrants hasten to swell the great crowd
Coming out for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
Academe now lies dead, the old order rots,
No longer policing our words and our thoughts;
Its ignorant hirelings pretending to teach
Are backward in vision, sophomoric in speech.
Now we learnèd of mind add ourselves to the crowd
That cheers on the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
The black man, forgotten, in poverty dying,
The poor man, the sick man, with young children crying,
The soldier abroad and the mother who waits,
The young without work or behind prison gates,
The veterans, wounded, all welcome the crowd
That fights for the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
Whilst hapless old harridans flapping their traps
Teach women to look and behave like us chaps,
The Domhnall defends the defenseless forlorn;
For, a woman’s first right is the right to be born.
Now the bonnie young lassies that fly to the crowd
Have a champion in Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
But for all his great wisdom, the braw gallant man
Is matched by his children, the handsome Trump clan,
And the flower of Europe, Melania the fair,
Adds a luster and grace with her long flowing hair.
May they flourish and prosper to form a great crowd
Around the good Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
Is there man left in Scotland, without base alloy,
Who remembers the Wallace, the Bruce, or Rob Roy?
Or have five hundred years of a blasphemous lie
Robbed your manhood of might that you lay down and die?
Get up and walk free, all ye brave men and proud!
Long life to the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
© Joseph Charles MacKenzie, all rights reserved
Joseph Charles MacKenzie is the first and last American to win First Place in the Long Poem Section of the Scottish International Poetry Competition, Henry M. Austin Poetry Prize.
(The views expressed in individual poems on this website do not reflect those of the Society. The Society does not endorse political candidates.)
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Gentle Readers,
I am very pleased to announce that a magnificent Scottish voice has agreed to make a recording of what has become known throughout the world as “Mr. Trump’s Inaugural Poem”—quite possibly the most widely read poem in British-American circles at this moment. I hereby release it to the general public for its enjoyment and edification. If I must accept the title of “Inaugural Poet” from the hands of History herself, no more intending to wear this mantle than Mr. Trump initially intended to bear upon his shoulders that of President of our nation, know that I accept it in deepest humility and gratitude to all those who have supported my endeavor, in particular Mr. Evan Mantyk, the brilliant, young editor of the Society of Classical poets. Contrary to rumors—the fruit, no doubt, of great excitement at the appearance of so novel a work—my poem, alas, is not to be read at the official ceremonies of Inauguration. For, Providence has arranged that the “Inaugural Poem,” rather than descending from the pretentious podium of an academic elite, should arise instead from the hearts of those Forgotten Men and Women standing upon the solid earth of their convictions. For, I am one of the Forgotten Men, a worker who knows too well life’s common struggle. In offering the gift of the “Inaugural Poem” to that courageous gentleman who clearly deserves the homage of the muse, and as my financial circumstances prevent me from attending the Inauguration of the very subject of my poem, may I please invite those assisting at this happy event to share in my absence the “Pibroch to the Domhnall” with the Inaugural Crowd whose diverse members are also celebrated in my rhymes. Thank you, Scotland, birthplace of song, for the lilt of my verses, and for the large and generous character of the world’s new leader. Congratulations, Mr. President!
Joseph Charles MacKenzie
Bravissima!
What’s the difference between Mick Jagger and a Scottish farmer.
Mick says, “Hey, you, get offa my cloud.”
The Scottish farmer says, “Hey, MacLeod, get offa my ewe.”
the Domhnall, the best of MacLeod!
It seems as if MacKenzie has hit a raw nerve. There is no doubt that Wallace Stevens was less metrical than MacKenzie.
Edna St. Vincent Millay was the last American poet who could write a perfect sonnet, both in the Petrarchan and English forms.
I must say your poem here reminds me very much of the work of Julia A. Moore, whose poem on Andrew Jackson I think it would be most apposite to quote here in full:
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
“Old Hickory” was their friend.
As a President o’er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The “hero” of “New Orleans.”
Thank you so much, good Sire, for bringing us all, this night of doom and shadows and grim forebodings, a good laugh and smile to see us through til morning. Yours is surely the best attitude and antidote, the eve of the day when the evil Jester takes the throne, to not forget that he is a Jester still, that we should laugh, not cry, at his antics, and that ours is the powers in his tiny hands, but a loan, but a loan. Thank you, really!! <3
I do appreciate the spirit of generosity
shown towards this poem
which has traditional meter and commendable historical imagination
but reflects neither an understanding of America’s long seeded woes
nor empathy for the depth of very real fears present
on this the eve of presidential transition.
This is the best poem I’ve read since “The Tay Bridge Disaster”!
It is quite the bardic tradition all right though it is totally against my politics… in the old style it features the strong points as the king would like them seen, and insults his adversaries…
The rollicking rhyme is something else, very enjoyable, but alas I am working on a retort to it!!!
As you will have seen in my writings the Don is not my favourite character at all, as I see at best a return to the pre Kennedy WASP America which will be brilliant… for some, but not us…
Again as a poem, and as a poet who put his heart into it, kudos, its just not my politics that’s all!
Another consideration for the inaugural poem…
Flags
By Quinn Kobrin
Why do we fly the flags half-mast?
I think it means something now it didn’t in the past.
What once was a symbol of grief and respect,
Now represents hatred, blindness, neglect
For others, and the lives that are taken.
I think somewhere along the line, someone was mistaken.
Our country is caught in the midst of a storm.
Since when did grief become the new norm?
Flying a lowered flag was a sign of hurt pride,
As mentioned above, respect for those who died,
And their loved ones who kneeled at their side and cried
For the future guaranteed which now is denied.
But for nearly a month now when I go outside,
I’ve seen this symbol of fallen pride.
Each day is filled with grief and despair.
You can feel the hatred rise in the air.
The streets are full of strengthening tension.
Why can’t everyone just pay attention?
With every day lost, we increase the cost,
The cost of the peace we so desperately want.
We spend so much time grieving, hating and blaming
When we should be uniting, together reclaiming
This country we fought so fervently for.
The time to sit back and take it’s no more!
Now I’m not saying we shouldn’t mourn a lost brother,
But mourning is one thing, giving up is another.
And flying our flags half mast each day,
Feels like we’re mourning a death on it’s way.
The death of us, this country, our nation.
It’s like we grieve in anticipation.
But now is the day to bring that mourning to an end.
We must all come together, as a people, as friends,
And raise this nation to what it was meant to be:
The home of the brave and the land of the free.
As promised… the retort verse of mine to this has been written and can be read here:
http://www.writingsinrhyme.com/index.php/may-the-lord-in-his-mercy-save-us-from-the-worst-of-mac-leod/
A fantastically powerful poem. Political views aside, great poem.
Ceremonial Poetry
It is no longer the thing
to write poems in praise of the Pope,
[or the King or the Shah or the Tsar]
quite respectful,
and elegantly traditional.
Quite as well,
Considering.
In fact, the poem has many admirers on both sides of the increasingly vapid political dualism.
Bravo
Thank you.
What’s up to every body, it’s my first pay a quick visit of
this webpage; this website includes awesome and genuinely fine stuff in favor of visitors.
While my politics are more left than the majority of the respondents here, I commend the poet for his eloquence and use of language reminiscent of Tennyson, Walter Scott and Andrew Lang. It is a fine poem, sir. I may not agree with Mr. Trump or his politics, but I believe poets of all political persuasions may speak with each other and with various audiences through verse rather than vitriol.
With regards to issues of traditional metre and rhyme structures, that re-invokes the perennial controversy between traditional forms of poetry and contemporary experimentation, but I suppose that will be another discussion. Well done again, sir.
Which utter rogue from my country lent his voice to reading this monstrosity and what hireling traitor’s wages did you take to record it?
This poem is considered a typical USian appropriation of Scottish culture, a bastardisation of our living language, and, like Donald himself, a national embarrassment.
Scottish folks, we need to stop enabling this behaviour by taking money from the right wing US every time they want to use our language and culture to make some sort of bio mystical ethnonationalist volley.
I feel terrible about the USA appropriating Scottish culture… but what about the Scots taking on the America hamburger chain MacDonalds??? We feel just heartbroken that you have appropriated American hamburger culture… maybe we should all get together and cry, cry, cry…
A fast-food chain is the peak and pride of US culture, and commercial export is “appropriation”? Parody really is dead….
And humour is obviously dead as well…
I agree that if all you’ve got to offer the world is a planet-raping fast food chain, Mike, that is indeed a heartbreaking thing.
I agree completely. And if all you have is a litany of woke talking points that is also quite sad. At least, here we are crying together… so much better.
Dear Reiver Scott,
Mr. MacKenzie has many old friends in Scotland who enjoy his poetry, including the poet Sam Gilliland, so I believe you are mistaken on that count.
https://www.scotslanguage.com/articles/view/id/4352
As for a McGonagall comparison, again you seem mistaken. Maybe this would interest you: https://classicalpoets.org/2020/08/16/understanding-bad-poetry-the-verse-of-william-topaz-mcgonagall/#/
The interesting thing about McGonagall is how popular he is for bad poetry, which I think says something about the enduring nature of rhyme and boldfaced sincerity. MacKenzie and McGonagall are using rhyme and have an unabashed sincerity, but that could also be said for the great Scottish poet Robert Burns, as well as Robert Frost, Longfellow, Wordsworth, Milton, Shakespeare etc. But, McGonagall is failing completely in terms of meter. MacKenzie’s poem is in excellent meter. McGonagall often seems to make points, some nonsensical, for no other reason than to fulfill rhymes whereas MacKenzie makes points using rhyme to add flourish.
You probably disagree with MacKenzie politically, so you may benefit from a little mental exercise imagining him or someone else championing something that you support in a similar fashion, if not in regular poetry than in lyrics of a song on the radio. I suspect you would have no issue then.
Regards,
Evan Mantyk
SCP Editor
I’m delighted you—in the first version of this response—invited me to submit poetry rather than offer literary criticism about a ‘poem’ ostensibly written in my own native language. I was of course terribly flattered you think your publication would fit its extensive and virile literary girth in my niche.
I see though, in the interim, you’ve done your google search and found out the areas in which my literary arts are plied, Mr Mantyk, and subsequently edited your invitation for me to come and submit my arts before the master editors of your publication. Could it be that you’ve discovered I write in the tradition of Veronica Franco and Hwang Jini?
I am but a humble temple-slave in Eros’ service, after all. You will have discovered, and thus beat it back here for a hasty edit, I write erotic poetry of kinky variety. Currently, given the … niche nature of my subject matter, my poetry can mostly be found at in a few select and mostly top-shelf publications, where doubtless all you good ole boys lurk when you think the missus isn’t looking.
I’m a little hurt. I have in the ensuing months since I first read your invitation to submit, slaved away (if you’ll pardon the expression) on a masterpiece of the *ars poetica* just for your publication. It’s a an epic sonnet crown—working title ‘Do Tread on Me, Mistress Reiver’— about a Scottish Anarcho-communist sex worker disciplining by means of her riding crop and a pair of thigh-high leather boots (an intertextual reference to Ovid’s Tragedy and Elegy in the Ars Amatoria) the ever-living daylights out of a Nazi Uniform fetishist (and my oh my, the US republican party has a fantastic selection of this type of gentleman caller, doesn’t it?).
I was about to hit ‘send’ on the submission email only to find your invitation to send you my work has been mysteriously withdrawn.
Such a shame.
But I’m all about consent—unlike conservative politicians—so of course you’re entitled to withdraw it.
Like the consensual victims of the best dominatrices, my erotic sonnets are cuffed into perfect formation, the form following function, the sensuous balance of freedom and . . . restraint, no?
It’s clear to me, being a lady experienced in assessing gentlemen’s tastes, Sir, that you may be caught in the Catullus 85 paradox of ‘odi et amo’. I can help with that. Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I’m substantially sure it would increase your readership—albeit in a certain direction.
Now, some would say that my poetry is too p̴e̴r̴v̴e̴r̴t̴e̴d̴ sensual for your publication. To which I say, poppycock! The editors of Society of Classical Poets are clearly not ones given to prudery! Why, they publish with narry a maidenly blush dubious didactic ‘poetry’ in fake Scots for in praise of a man who reached the highest office in the USA with freely-circulating videos of golden showers from Russian hookers and open admission to sexually harassing teen beauty-queens and grabbing women non-consensually by their vulvas!
Clearly, kinky poets accustomed to writing classical verse on the subject of erotic degradation are in the right place.
So if you want my poetry, gentlemen, I’m happy to oblige you. Regardless of the area of sex work, conservative men are our best clients, after all.
And I deliver value for money.
I promise you, my erotic sonnets scan better than Mr MacKenzie’s offering, but classical poetry is not merely all about the scan. The sheer sound-sex, music, alteration, the sensuous push and pull, the slap and tickle…all are necessary to get the poem to sing. No one likes the leaden thud of the didactic boot or the sychophant’s simpering.
But allow me to submit to you, gentlemen, and I will give you an apt demonstration of the art.
Of course I— being as I am a courtesan-poet in the house of literary sex work—will expect you to pay me for my time.
£155 for the first ten lines, £3 per line for the next twenty lines, £1.95 for the next twenty lines thereafter. The professional rate.
Much like Donald Trump’s intimate conquests, I don’t put out for free.
Do take time to reconsider. My business email account is always splayed wide and and open for business.
Naso magister est,
Reiver Scott.
Dear Reiver Scott,
I can’t recall how or why I might have rewritten the above message four months ago. Assuming what you said is true, it is possible that I just thought it unlikely that you would want to submit poetry to the SCP given your message. I do not recall looking up anything about you. At any rate, submitting poetry to the SCP is completely open to the public as indicated on our submission page (press “submit” in the main menu above). That page also explains that we require traditional meter. Send submissions to [email protected].
Regards,
Evan
I’m sorry Mike, could you explain to me what you 1) mean by the word ‘woke’ and 2) its origins? 3) why you would be applying it to a Scot?
Mr MacKenzie—the pomposity and grandiosity of his responses to criticism, *especially* criticism from the people who actually live in Scotland, is particularly telling. He fails to acknowledge the reason why his poem has been so widely read is because many have noted his poem bears startling resemblance to a pompous humourless man called William Topaz McGonagle—who would have been a very find doggerel writer if only he’d *intentionally* set out to write nonsense.
As it is, MacKenzie’s poem has been universally hailed across Scotland as dire, appropriative, sycophantic and cringeworthy on every level.
Reiver, I’m not even talking about the poem. I’m talking about your use of the “cultural appropriation” canard. I live in Texas, so I suppose that if I eat a taco or wear a sombrero I am some sort of criminal. I don’t even want to tell you that I ordered in a haggis and celebrated Burns Night with my lovely wife for fear of offending you. The whole world is looking for reasons to be offended and I am tired of it. WOKE… willfully overlooking known evils… the divisive nature of the current worldspeak is evil.
Mike Bryant—
What you eat in Texas is none of my concern, as long as White Supremacists leave the Scottish language and arts alone. ‘Woke’ is an African American English term and it has nothing to do with Scotland or Scottish poetry at all. It means, as far as I can gather, an African American person becoming alive to the systemic oppressions in present-day USA. Zero to do with Scotland.
When Scottish people tell you this fascistic, sycophantic, meretricious, biomystical propaganda ‘poem’ is appropriative of our culture and White Supremacist, please do not speak over Scottish voices. You do not live here, and you have no knowledge of the living language or culture of Scotland. Neither does Mr MacKenzie—being the occasional tourist to the ‘motherland’ does not count. Nor does having a Scottish name or Scottish ancestors. And ‘the poet is friends with Sam’ is not a defence. Sam isn’t here to defend himself—nor can I imagine any Scottish poet wishing to associate themselves with the above, or with your publication.
My understanding is the reverse—that the few native Scottish poets you had writing here withdrew their work in protest—and wrote about it extensively in poetry circles in Scotland. And I don’t see Sam showing up to defend this piece of garbage. Currently the Society of Classical Poets counts as a negative publication credit in these islands—that is, you’re less likely to get published if anyone knows you’ve been accepted for publication here.
> tacos
Good for you. I’m glad you enjoy the cuisine of the people who originally inhabited Texa even as you’ve built a horrible wall over their tribal lands. Zero to do with the Scottish language or culture though. You’re right. I should not have used the term ‘appropriation’. This poem is a perfect example of Anglo-American colonial cultural *exploitation*, rather than Texan tacos, which is the sort of benign appropriation that stems form cultural fusion (Rogers, 2006).
“Exploitation”… yeah… you’re woke alright.
The WEF, though, is composed of angels who are putting the world right. Stand back and watch them do to Scotland what they’ve already done to Sri Lanka and are doing to the Netherlands.
You, Reiver, are helping to bring about your own destruction.
When you use all the code words of the new world authoritarians, you have fallen under their spell.
You can write, but your sensibilities will destroy everything that allowed you to be heard,
Good luck
What does this even mean?? World authoritarians? Holland and Sri Lanka???
Those are all words, allright, but just randomly banging them out on your keyboard does not magically an argument make, I’m afraid.
Allow me to translate from USian Christian Nationalism to Normal People. Mike believes that I, humble socialist pornographer Reiver Scott, am single handedly bringing about Judgement Day from his god upon my nation.
Mike believes that the current climate castastrophe has not been brought about by egegrious capitalist exploitation of our beautiful Earth, but by by some sort of Wrath of a mid-eastern mountain weather deity who made it big.
Such a shame really. As the seas rise and the sky falls upon my Judged Nation (Mike no doubt believes he’ll be swept up by the rapture), Scotland will take Donald Trump’s golf courses to hell with Her.
Oh, did you know that Glasgow, not Rome, is the City of the Beast?
Built on Seven Hills, you know.
And I am very fond of wearing red. . .
Signed,
Reiver Scott, World Authoritarian.
(The Lizard people are coming! Duck!)
You are really funny, Reiver…
At least you admit you’re part of the socialist new world order… Klaus Schwab is, no doubt, proud of his ardent disciple, Reiver.
Still… if you would like to submit a poem to SCP, I’m sure Evan will take a look at it… Cheers!
Anyone who doesn’t know what the WEF has done in Sri Lanka and IS doing in the Netherlands is so hopelessly out of touch with current events that even this response is a waste of my time.
It might be a good idea to get informed before starvation reaches your shores.
Change Domhnall to Dunghill and best to worst and you might have an accurate poem.
Five years on, this excruciatingly funny doggerel is still one of the best things on the internet.
Joseph Charles MacKenzie is truly the Chris-chan of poetry!