The Claymore

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tribute to the fighting spirit of the scots.

Submitted: June 28, 2017

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Submitted: June 28, 2017

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The Claymore

 

The green sweeping valleys, the grey watery lochs

Heather on the hills, Snow on the mountain tops.

Mist covers the land like deaths own vale.

The highlands will see killing this day.

 

The shrill cry of the pipes rises from the mist

Calling the clansmen from their stone tower brochs

They cross the moors, the mountains and icy lochs.

Rugged stone boundaries’ cannot separate the clans

The tartan kilted warriors gather with claymore in hand.

 

Upon the heather speckled moor they came

Shouting and jeering calling out their clan name.

Father with son, brother with uncle all clansmen all kin.

Bound in blood and faith and pride

They fight as one, with claymore in hand and god at their side.

 

The red coated invaders are butchered and killed

Their corpses lie strewn across the heather scented hills,

Blood stains the mountain sides, red covers the land

With Claymores dripping scarlet in calloused hands

 

A savage Eden veiled in shadow, mist and snow.

Where the keening of its women, echoes throughout the valleys below.

Where men kill for their colours, for family and lord,

wielding axe and hammer and claymore sword.

 

The men gather in their homes sitting at their hearths’ side.

Boasting of their heroic deeds, their hearts full of Celtic pride.

It was a day where clansmen laid down their lives

They fought for their tartan, for family and clan

They fought for a free Scotland with their claymores in hand.


© Copyright 2017 Celtic-Scribe63. All rights reserved.

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