Scotlands Fighting Men
Scotland’s Fighting Men
I stand on a hill over looking a valley, a rainy windswept Scottish glen,
History soaks the very landscape, etched in blood by our fighting men,
I close my eyes and time goes backward, ancients walk across this land,
Women, children, pulling livestock, all are working, lend a hand.
Carrying their homes behind them, trudge through rain, the mud and gorse,
Occasionally they’d have some transport, some poor English farmers’ horse,
Women clear the scrub filled earth, set up homes of wood and hide,
Men are gathered in a circle, planning traps for genocide.
Planned and schemed to free this country, fought and died so we’d be free,
So no Scotsman would be tethered, live a life on bended knee,
On Scotland’s fields they faced their quarry, heads held high awaiting battle,
Lifting kilts they shamed opponents, swords bang shields and weapons rattle.
Shouts go up, the charge begins, archers’ arrows blacken the air,
Axe strikes sword, tartan ‘gainst armour, comrades falling every where,
Friends and family die around you, fighting close now, hand to hand,
All because some greedy monarch wants your livestock, wants your land.
Bloodlust fills your very vision, through their ranks you hack and slash,
Muscles scream with straining effort, blood and gore your tartan splash,
Standing on this war torn landscape, to survive you cut and rend.
Row on row of desperate faces, will this carnage never end?
Sword point down in blood soaked earth, head bowed low on blood stained hands,
Comrades dead and gone forever, for the sake of rain swept lands,
Groans of wounded, mangled bodies, Hundreds gave their lives that day,
Shield in hand you sheath your sword and breathing hard, you walk away.
Eyes snap open, watered vision, ghosts fade back into the past,
The fight for freedom spanned the ages, we finally got their wish at last,
I never realised the struggle, others had for what I’ve got,
So I’d have something to be proud of, the fact that I was born a Scot.