Rob Roy

We lay as kings in fields of green that longed for better men;
such paupers we had never been, save lordship, now and then.
What turns the hands of disrepute to strike the noble son,
let unknown evidence refute the wicked deed so done!

We stand as paupers before kings whose lordship wrests the land,
we paupers sport no wedding rings for those who take our hand.
What turns the price of love to gold, that honor owns no field,
should love then honor kings of old that to it's call won't yield?

Our women shame these mortal souls by laws that they profess,
rules they keep in golden bowls to make men's lives a mess.
But touch the fairest hair we know, and curse our honored love;
then fury bends the archers bow, well aimed by God above!

We lay as kings in fields of green, beneath the eyes of God;
laugh, as though He's never been, above this verdant sod.
For who lays claim to lordship's reign as though they ordered fate?
The one who preys as if insane, as god, without debate.

But challenge not the sword of men whose will it is to rest;
who stand upon these fields again, well ready for the test.
For when we rise as kings to fight our swords defend our cause,
disturbed, we stand to sleep at night, and not for your applause!

So should we lay as kings or poor, or would we stray from peace,
pray God we knock not on your door, but pray for your release!
And tread not on that pauper's place where love commends it's strength
for paupers have naught to replace the love you kill at length.

We lay as paupers, kings of love, whose strength will know no bound;
to rest until this life will shove it's own on what we've found.
Then God demand this life's repose, and strengthen all our aide,
for we defend what heaven knows, and live for what love made.