Culloden

Dawn creeps chill o’er the moor;

The birds stir, then wing into flight.

Blood of man stains this early hour

With the ravages of the fleeing night.

The drums roll thunder, the pipes now shriek,

Calling courage to the dread fray.

Youths join arms with the frail and weak.

Will any return again this way?

Proud William seeks to enslave the free,

To oppress our people once again.

Thus will the future of the Caledonii

Be decided this day in the rain.

The English, damnèd English, march

Onward ‘cross the barren heath.

Distantly sounds Inbhirnis’ arch

Like a whispered faerie breath.

Two lines of men glare across the plain.

Not a sound but the silence of death

Sounds in the foggy dew and rain.

The wind herself holds her breath.

It begins. The cannons set off their roll.

Scotland’s sons go down before

English guns. Ol’ Death collects his toll,

And stretches forth, collecting more.

Our Bonny Prince watches and weeps

To see his men cut down like wheat.

On this curs’d day, may bless’d Mary keep

Those at home from this bitter defeat.

The moor now sits empty of cannon and gun,

The bodies lie slain in the glen.

Brave Scotland is dead, England has won

This sad day, at Culloden.