a family story

John Roxborogh

The Men of Lochbroom

In the scenes of my childhood amongst the green valleys

And mountains all covered in heather and broom,

There's dwelling a people that's loyal and steadfast,

My kindred and comrades, the men of Lochbroom.


They are not forgetful to entertain strangers,

Be it the midnight, the morn or at noon,

There's no need for one to go cold, wet or hungry,

While walking about in the hills of Lochbroom.


They gave of their best in two mighty world conflicts,

When the Kaiser and Hitler went down to their doom,

And for those that return not they have their remembrance,

On a knoll overlooking the shores of Lochbroom.


The cruel evictions of a past generation,

Clouded both mountain and valley in gloom,

But far over the ocean you'll still find the descendants,

Of stout-hearted men that once lived in Lochbroom.


The mountains are lovely with birch and with heather,

The lochans they sparkle by sun or by moon,

And from all over Britain do come the trout fishers,

To try out their skills on the lochs of Lochbroom.


Ah me, but some of the homesteads lie empty.

And strangers have come to reside in the room

Of those who once lived there and now who are sleeping,

In God's little acre in lovely Lochbroom.


Here's luck to my birthplace: may it flourish forever,

While foameth the river and nature doth bloom,

May the men of the future be like their forefathers,

Who dwelt in the hills and the glens of Lochbroom.