Weihnachtsfeier 08.12.2012

Friends of Clan MacLaren 2012

Weihnachtsfeier 2012


The year 2012 was a succesful and exciting year for us. In addition to many events – especially our Scottish Days / Highland Games 2012 – a delegation visited  the 50th. Anniversary 2012 from the Clan MacLaren Society in Scotland. At the same time to this memorable event starts the Clan Games in Lochearnhead. We supported succesful the Clan MacLaren in the „Tug of War“ Likewise, Helga and Michael were married this  weekend in the Church of Balquhidder and a few weeks later we start to smithing our clan sword in the Chapel of the miners in Muttental. We welcome a large number of new members and so on … as already written … an exciting year!


So it was more important that we were able to complete this amazing year with the celebration of a christmas party on 08. December 2012. With nearly 40 members was this party one of the largest christmas partys in our history.
In this sense once again thousand thanks to all helpers, members and friends to make this celebration so special. Many thanks for many delights that have enriched our buffet, many thanks for the whisky and many thanks to all for all … 😉
So we can go reinforced into the new year in which we’ve been already numerous events announced. We look forward to each event and most of all – to go back to Scotland. So let me end this article with a poem by Robert Burns.

A Winter Night

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro‘ the leafless bow’r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,
Far south the lift,
Dim-dark’ning thro‘ the flaky show’r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi‘ snawy wreeths upchoked,
Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro‘ the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.

List’ning, the doors an‘ winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O‘ winter war,
And thro‘ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o‘ spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o‘ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing
An‘ close thy e’e?

Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d,
Lone from your savage homes exil’d,
The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d
My heart forgets,
While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.

(Robert Burns)