The Red, Red Rose (In Good Ole Scottish Slang) Poem by Claire Hastie

Across the rollin’ greens afar,
The soldiers' fought fae land an’ Queen,
No tellin’ where the blood shots are,
But wee James is naewhere tae be seen.

Dirt an’ blood scathed the flowers,
Brave men sauntered – dazed an’ wounded,
But most had lain, banes showin’ fer hours,
All the while, wee James lay shocked an’ stounded.


His ma, had cried fer her only bairn,
No very tall an still so very young,
She wouldnae see his fiery hair again,
Or hear his awfie childish tongue.

No one can hear his woes,
Such an eerie sight fer such a young lad,
Another lies wi’ the devil at his toes,
Tis’ the only one left in the Scottish Guards.


A red, red rose lay by wee James side,
He smells its pureness wi’ full of pride,
An’ remembers his ma’s gentle ways,
Whilst touching its thorns wi’ a seethin’ pain,
But no his finger did the blood remain,
But only his heid as he thinks of sweet, sweet hame.