Stones and Crows

[smokingboot]

Returning to the museum, my heart lifted at seeing the beauties of Pictish art; I still love the crescent and broken arrow, which R is convinced is an early depiction of some prototype compass/sextant. That makes more sense to me than the usual interpretation; what tribe takes keenly to the symbolism of a split weapon? Looking at the Z-rods and discs, I'm resisting the temptation to declare that Picts invented the bicycle.



Whatever they mean, they're pretty, like these.





It would have been fine to enter a stone circle surrounded by such designs! Then again, I guess it would depend a lot on why you were there. Old beliefs gave way to Christianity, but they left their mark.



At the top we see the cross and the monks, next we see what the Museum tells us is the Lion of St Mark. It's a fine looking beast, but why St Mark? He was said to cross Europe preaching, but he rested at Venice apparently, so why would his emblem be found on an isle off Scotland?
Then we see this pair and what they are eating.




There's more to this than initial revulsion; to me it points right back to the magic of the head in Celtic folklore, from the Welsh legend of Bran to the dark protagonist of Sueno's Stone. There's more, much more, but again, so much stuff I don't know what to do with it.

The lowest tier's indistiguishable. I don't know if I'm sorry or relieved. The whole thing reminds me of the Twa Corbies ballad.


As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day?’

‘In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's taen another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

‘Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

The English version is much less cynical, sweeter, though still sad.

There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as blacke as they might be
The one of them said to his mate,
Where shall we our breakfast take?

Downe in yonder greene field,
There lies a Knight slain under his shield,
His hounds they lie downe at his feete,
So well they can their Master keepe,

His Hawkes they flie so eagerly,
There's no fowle dare him come nie
Downe there comes a fallow Doe,
As great with yong as she might goe,

She lift up his bloudy head,
And kist his wounds that were so red,
She got him up upon her backe,
And carried him to earthen lake,

She buried him before the prime,
She was dead her self ere euen-song time.
God send euery gentleman,
Such haukes, such hounds, and such a Leman.

So we see how it is; even Ravens have their own versions of North and South.