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Agnes Maxwell MacLeod

Mark Clavey: vocals, guitar
Mary Hanover: vocals, hammered dulcimer
Rachel Gaither-Vaughan: lead vocals, fiddle

Agnes Maxwell was born in 1786 on the island of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland. In her early youth, she lived with an uncle and aunt in Drumdrissaig, on the western coast of Knapdale. When of age, she went to receive her ”finishing” at an Edinburgh school, then returned to her Highland home. She met Norman MacLeod, and after four years married him and the Church of Scotland – and would spend the next nearly-sixty years as the minister’s wife in Campbeltown, Campsie, and Glasgow. She was the wife of a poet and the mother of poets, and a poet herself. She would go on to write and compile a volume called “Songs of the North”, that would be edited by her granddaughter Annie Campbell MacLeod Wilson (along with Harold Boulton and Malcolm Lawson), and dedicated to Queen Victoria. One of those songs was “Sound the Pibroch”, a spirited song “which breathes the old and faithful Jacobite enthusiasm”. To be candid, it generally being a great Scottish song really did nothing to distinguish it from other great Scottish songs – of which there are far too many to record. What clinched it for us was that it is a favorite of Mike Moran’s – one of our dearest friends and fans. We whipped up a meat-and-potatoes arrangement to perform at O’Malley’s – which he loved and which gave us the impetus to dress it up even more… culminating in the arrangement we’ve recorded. The phrase “tha tighin fodham” is pronounced ‘ha cheen fo-um’, and means “it comes upon me" or "I have the wish". ('Pibroch' is an Anglicization of the Gaelic 'Piobaireachd'.)


Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham… tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham… tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham… Rise and follow Charlie.

Sound the pibroch loud and high frae John o’ Groats tae Isle o’ Skye. Let every clan their slogan cry, “Rise and follow Charlie!”

Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham, &c

See that small devoted band – by dark Loch Shiel they’ve made their stand, and bravely vowed, wi’ heart and hand, to fight for Royal Charlie.

From every hill and every glen are gatherin’ fast the loyal men. They grasp their dirks and shout again - Hurrah for Royal Charlie.

Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham, &c

On dark Culloden’s field of gore, “Hark!” they shout, “Claymore! Claymore!” They bravely fight. What can they more than die for Royal Charlie?

Now on the barren heath they lie, their funeral dirge the eagle’s cry. Mountain breezes o’er them sigh wha fought and died for Charlie.

Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham, &c

No more we’ll see such deeds again. Deserted is each Highland glen. And lonely cairns are o’er the men wha’ fought and died for Charlie.

Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham, &c