Women Of The Ages Poem by John Beaton

I'm the lass of Invergarry,
singing by the loch alone
of the lad I was to marry,
of the baby in my belly
he begot but would not own.

I'm the mother of Glenfinnan,
feeding sons who gird and go,
dreading battles, ripping linen,
dressing wounds and watching crimson
drench the strips of my trousseau.

I'm the widow of Culloden,
sowed and reaped and left to weeds
till I'm winter-tilled and sodden,
till my tilth and clods are broken
by the cold that kills my seeds.

We're the women of the ages,
wooed to walk the aisles of grief;
we're the wear on well-worn pages
where posterity retraces
deeds of men in bold relief.