A Lost Dream Poem by PAUL COLVIN

Ancient castles dot this land
Like dappled islands on a loch
Where chieftains led their tartan band
From Kelso, north to Rannoch.

They travel light, no bulky weight
And weave their way o’er coarsest moor.
Pick their way down glens so great
They’re off to fight their war.

The bonnie Prince on charger white,
Above Glenfinnan, his standard raised.
The Catholic Scots with him unite,
Then kneel to let the Lord be praised.

The goose fat covered tartan plaid
Helps protect from wind and rain
From sword to kilt, it’s all hand made
They’ve gained their pride from pain.

Their spirits high, their hearts are strong
Their courage is unrivalled
They know that some won’t be here long
A free Scotland, means survival.

Laughter fills the Highland air
But not too loud, lest foe will hear.
They’re cautious, spies are everywhere
Even kilts, they’re known to wear.

Twelve days march is up ahead
Possessions, few, are on their back.
The kilt’s their blanket when they bed
With sgian dubh to fend attack.

A highland berth can be so cold
Up in these treacherous hills.
The summer’s night can turn so bold
And a freezing wind can kill.

They’d rather die at the enemy’s hands
Than miss the chance, the chance to fight.
They dream a dream, to free this land,
Our Scottish soil, they will not blight.