The Lion Rampant flutters,The wall ahead stands tall,
Prayers or curses muttered,
Which army this day will fall?
Each man moves in order,
As the army makes for war,
Standing either side the boarder,
On the right hand there’s the shore.
On the left sleeps the moors,
The rolling hills like waves of sea,
Minds and legs all weary sore,
Days are remembered when one was free.
No sail from the sea shows,
No help from the rear arrives,
Waiting for the sign of our foes,
Dreading the bloody death-cries.
Conscripted for Bonnie Prince Charlie,
To fight against King George,
Gazing across the barley,
We feel the heat of the Devil’s forge.
A flag unfurls over Hadrian’s Wall,
Horse’s hooves pound the thistles and earth,
The battle begins with the gunshot’s call,
The men charge for all it’s worth.
“Claymores!” That cry rang through our ears,
As army to army we clashed,
Our God granted grace and took our fears,
Though claymore with claymore crashed.
Old One-Hundredth rang in our head,
Cheering our hands to war,
“Wars into peace I’ll turn,” Christ said,
For Christ, not Prince, our guns we bore.
--- Anna Michael
