Highland cries

A ray of light breached the clouds
and blinded my sore eyes
and on turning I saw the tall
valiant figure of a Highland man.

Not perceived by his sight
and sneaking through gentle grass
I silently followed this fierce lad
and saw there was nothing he could lack.

The long red squared kilt was crossed
by a leather coated maze and spear
and drops of blood of unlucky redcoats
dripped through savagely wounded legs.

And the clouds dispersed and I saw;
behind the hill, a vast army of clans
had gathered in this year of Our Lord
seventeen hundred and forty five.

Highland warriors held their stand
urged by the call of Stuart’s House
to claim their rightful throne, once
bitterly torned clans joined in arms.

The Cadence to Arms, the final Albion
shout and the valiant first strike.
Rivers of redcoat blood now drown
the injured and deceased alike.

But Bonnie Prince Charles wished more
and seeked only his Kingdom come.
And spirits and ideals left aside
the Stuart House shows Scotland his back.

Alone, unprotected, forsaken and betrayed
hundred of Highland warriors offer their lives
bleeding and hurting, crying for a cause,
an idea that, for a few, could be left to die.

(This was the first poem I ever wrote. Be merciful :) . Sorry to the Scots for any historical inaccuracy.)