The Hound of Hells Lake

A story of a ghostly dog from Scotland. Operation Restoration has begun!!!

The Hound of Hells Lake

 

Loch Hourne, where the ghost dogs are said to be...
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Barking from its rocky shore
At sailors passing by
Sometimes at the death of day
Sometimes under a noontime sky
The black dog and her starving pups
Haunt this area the locals tell
That’s known to all as Loch Hourn
Otherwise the Lake of Hell

This remote Scottish area
Would make a great landscape
Was said for a thousand years to be
Home for the creature that can change shape
That it desired itself to do
It would form for those to see
That it would lure to their death
It was called the Kelpie!

And among its shadowy waters
That sometimes are covered by dense clouds and fogs.
There lies a landmass in the middle
Knows as the Isle of the Wild Dogs.
And on dark and stormy nights
Its not just the wind... the locals know
But the dark howling of the dogs who died
Some ninety years ago!

A son to hunt rabbits went
Donald Cameron and his pet
That was due to have puppies son
To hunt together out they set.
After sometime the dog got lost
As Cameron cursed his luck
His dog in a cave he found
That had collapsed – the dog was now stuck!

Though he tried, to save he failed
And so back home he went
For till his faithful dog was freed
He would not rest content
But storms were blowing stronger that day
And held for many more
And the Cameron boys were thwarted
Each time the storm cast them back to mainland shore.

The Great War was now raging
And young Cameron got the call
And the morning he left he was his dog
Had freed itself from the rockfall
And it stood on its shoreline
Looking at its master and friend
Who by cruelty and mankind
His country to war him did send

And when to war the boy had gone
His brothers tried some more
The stormy waters for to cross
And reach the islands shore
The dog had her pups since then
Though food was in scarce supply
And temper and trust she had not for them
And to attack she was not shy.

On a spring evening in 1915
As her half grown pups around her played
She sat upon a shoreline rock
And quite a sight she made
As the sun sank behind the ocean
Telling end of day to beast, to man and fowl
Her head she threw back to the sky
And let an eerie high pitched howl,…

All that long night she could be heard
Crying to the black black sky
Next morning on the shore was found
Her corpse… for she did die!
Some time later the word came
That on that very day
Her master died at war in Europe
Round the time she began to bay.

Her pups ruled the island as their own
Attacked those who on it did land
Including an unfortunate yachtsman
Who nearly lost his like, not only his hand!
The men folk from the village
To organize themselves set out
And after some days were happy
That the wild pack was wiped out.

Some said that still a dog was seen
By the shoreline, crying to the sky
Across the loch from where it came
In distant days gone by…
In April 1930, a shepherd there slept
With flock and dog for the night
And, to the baying of a pack, he rose to check
But nothing of them was in sight.

The flock were grazing peaceful
Normal all did appear
Only the whimpering terror of his own dog
Gave substance to his fear
In time the island was sold
By major Lewis O’ Conner it was bought
His son Kevin went to the isle to see
Though locals told him that not he aught.

Shortly after he landed
It is told by other men
Came barking loud and a cry for help
Kevin was never seen again.
The Major’s men through the island wildly searched
But nothing found at all
Of man or dog, that was ever there
No matter where they looked or did call.

As the search boats back to the mainland went
One constable claimed to see
A Labrador black upon a rock
Looking out at them on the sea.
So rapidly back they returned
And tracker dogs from the mainland they brought
The mysterious creature had disappeared.
They found not what they sought.

There are people to this very day
Who to the isle won’t go
For they of the tragedy
And of the stories know.
Should you dear reader be so bold
As your way there to make
Steer clear of the Isle of the Wild Dogs
On Loch Hourne, in English: Hells Lake!

Author's Note

Changed title as suggested by reviewers!!!

Reviews

[J.e. Doherty]

I had a read of this and I have to say, the story and the imagery you have created are really good. Call it "Hells Lake" and I have no problems with this at all. It is rich and spooky, The rhyme scheme for a ballad is typically abab or abcb so yours is fine, sharp and constant. The poem tells a rollicking yarn but calling it "The Ballad of Hells Lake" poses a few concerns.

Ballads are usually meant to be sung or recited in musical form. Typical ballad meter is a first and third line with four stresses (iambic tetrameter) and then a second and fourth line with three stresses(iambic trimeter), the metre of this is off for a Ballad.

The first stanza is (4)-(3)-(3)-(4)-(4)-(4 & a half)-(4)-(3) stresses
The second is (3)-(3)-(4)-(4)-(4)-(3)-(4)-(3) stresses
The third is (3)-(5)-(4)-(4)-(4)-(4)-(4& a half)-(3) stresses

And so on...

So, as a poem it is great but if you want it to be a ballad pick your favourite stanza and try and work the rhythm of the other stanzas to match it. (It doesn't have to be (4)-(3)-(4)-(3) rhythm - thats just the typical as long as you stick to the rhythm throughout.

I have just posted a ballad I wrote long ago called "The Wanderer" If you are interested, check out the metre in it. The refrain is not (4)-(3)-(4)-(3) but the verses are.

[Dead Angel]

wow!! i almost didn't read it because it was so long but man am i glad i did!! the rhyming never missed a beat and the storyline was so awesome!! excellent, excellent work on this Thomas, i absolutley loved it!! :)

[Barry S. Maltese]

As others have said, the rythm does fall off once in awhile, but that is a MINOR problem. I love the visuals you use. I love the way you keep track and let the tale unfold so nicely. I enjoyed the fable quality, and how real you make it feel.
All-in-all it was a very enjoyable piece.

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

what a great tale, very well written...

[[untitled]]

This is a very entertaining piece, I should say.

[Pict Girl]

What a wonderful myth! I had never heard of it before. Were they truly labs or did you make that part up? :)

[Angelheaded Hipster]

I like the fact that you did research for the write, to inform us, through poetry, the history of Scotland. I have never heard of Hells Lake, and I now find myself wanting to know more about it.
You played a very good ghost tale for us, and yay for us, Halloween is right around the corner....you should store more of these tales for next month, I will most def. be reading them!

[Red Raven]

Its nicely written. I am new about ballat but i like the rhyme and how you tell the amazing story.
Just Love it.
Do give us more stories from scotland.

[R J Askew]

Well I am on the Isle Of Dogs in London, reading this! I like ballads and enjoyed this one. It takes the reader outside dull reality...with the prospect of adventures to wild parts and doubtful goings on pitting reality against more romantic forces.

[TL Boehm]

ah yes, Love this one. the blend of the macabre and the ryhme make it similar to a song sung on moonless nights....to scare the little ones, before TV came along and numbed us all to the art of storytelling.

[Greg the Bard]

I see this as prose made into ballad. English ballads almost always were sang by selfmade bards in pubs. Often they never followed a sceem but wondered where the music took them. The orignial ballad of Loch Hourn goes back 2 centruies and was not about a son going of to war. It was about a madiens virgenty being stolen by a creature of the night. Her body was found but it had not marks on it to show why she died. After that at the raising of the moon a distant howl could be heard from miles away. Through out the ages the legean grew and took on many gueises. Still the story is told today and not a lot of people will go to the island in the dark of night. An explanation of the rhyme and the style is not needed in the songs of the bard. But is taken out of content the story has to fit in to the sceem of the writer. Not an easy thing to do because of the amount of information a ballad calls for. A reader of ballads such as the late great Richard Burton would make your skin crawl when reading this. It is a great translation of a wonderful ballad. It is rough to read but only in flow. The information is crisp and the image maintains your attention to the end. I like it very much.