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A battle plan was hastily drawn up, as a campaign got under way,
three thousand men mused if they would lose their lives that day.
Jacobites were many; out-numbering the Highlanders two to one,
but determined Scots defiant, will fight ‘til a victory has been won.
An awe-inspiring sight; long hair and beards flowing in the breeze,
pleated tartan kilts of countless clans, flapping around their knees.
Unyielding and determined to conquer, regardless of the final cost,
prepared to battle for freedom, or endure a cause now almost lost.
Stout hearts beating with intent, in chests fuelled by fervent pride,
each vowed to himself to slay several, before he too fell and died.
An uneasy hush fell on Jacobite ranks, as they faced the fiery foe,
and pipers played a battle hymn, as apprehension began to show.
Proud pipers stood in full view, beneath banners fluttering unfurled,
as the Scots brandished big broadswords and hostile insults hurled
and many Jacobites that very day, wished he was in another place,
as they gazed at their enemy, armed with axes, swords and mace.
The Jacobite generals mounted high, their stallions strutting proud,
ordered buglers to play attack, as officers yelled out clear and loud.
Arrows fell upon both sides as they crouched beneath their shields,
and the first drops of blood spattered, on the grassy emerald fields.
The two hordes clashed head to head and a ferocious fight ensued,
no man gave any quarter, as a cauldron of hate boiled and brewed.
The broad swords dealt deadly blows, as they slashed and hacked,
and the maces only took one hit, as heads burst apart and cracked.
And battle they did with desperate ease for they had a goal in sight,
they wanted to live as free men do and not worry through the night,
see their children grow to maturity, as all parents do upon the earth,
for Freedom is a God given gift for us, from the very day of our birth.
A Scot fought intently with almost severed arm dangling by his side,
as stubborn crimson blood gushed, on that meadow green and wide.
Gory body parts littered the field, among deceased and injured men,
mournful moans from fallen echoed, around that once peaceful glen.
Buglers played retreat, for Jacobite numbers had now started to wain,
so the Scots took the opportunity to regroup and tend to all their slain.
The silence sometimes broken, by cries from the injured and maimed,
or fallen loved ones when found, shocked wails cried out unashamed.
Many tears mingled sombrely onto that blood soaked lush green field,
fond memories of the fallen came, as comrades beside them kneeled.
Pride and passion swelled their veins and revenge was on their mind,
and more determined fighters when the pipes skirl, you will never find.
Loss of life is a sad fact of war, but we must live by our codes of belief,
defending principles with strong will, and endure cries of death or grief.
Freedom and Democracy so often written, with the ink of human blood,
spilt on fields of valiant resolve, heart-rending rivers of flowing red mud.
When the breeze blows at night and the heather moans in a sad refrain,
I hear the ring of cold angry steel and lingering cries from those in pain.
I thank those who came before to pay the price with their life and blood.
We rose from soil to savour Freedom, before we’re returned to the mud.
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Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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Well hello. Now let me say that this is a really well written poem, and I like very much the story that you weave. One thing, I believe you have "Scots" misspelled with "Sots" somewhere in there. Another thing, your rhymes did not seem to forced, but if you are using strict endryhme in your poems, try using traditional feet and meter; it really makes a difference.
Thanks for the read. -
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Thanks a lot.
Thanks for the typo error you pointed out ... last thing I want is an angry Scot being offended by being called a Sot. Bloody hell, its a wonder no one has picked it up before. I dont like meter much as it becomes too mechanical and boring.(to me that is) Sometimes I use it but mostly I try to avoid it as my poems are designed to be read to an audience and not performed or read and the punctuation will bear that out as it is designed to allow pictures to form in the audience's mind. I dont spend the extra time writing a "reader's" copy for AP. Thanks for taking the time to comment, I appreciate it very much.
Barry.
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Gre@t Write !
as usual another well written peice. your imagry is well used as it always seems to be.Wonderfully written peice, and a pleasure to read ! Brenda Gae
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thank you amazing
amaingly wrote good luck, very deep simply breath taking
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Great Poem!
Very impressive Bazza! I'm sure that took a lot of work. I was very impressed with how the rhyme seemed to work throughout the poem. Every rhyme in the poem seemed to have its place and didn't seem to just be put there. It made for a realistic read.
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Great stuff Bazza! Such a "ripping" good read!
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You have penned a fine piece here Bazza, for a man who as never seen the land of his descendents you have caught its essense well. The heather is in your blood mate and it shows. Well done. Val
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I am trying to figure out which battle of the Jacobite era this is supposed to be... Killiekrankie in the '15?... Culloden in the '45?... Maybe all of them. Stirring and evocative stuff, though, from our own Aussie folk-chronicler!
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Wow - great rhythm rhyme and flow in these long lines. Quite the story you tell in these verses. Stout Hearts indeed.
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