By: BrilligSky~


Come forth piper to stand upon high hill
that all may know the sorrow of the day,
and send agony of demise past highland rill
as a chanter weaves it’s spell upon the fay.
Come forth Blind Rory with your harp,
sing of fields of Flodden and lang syne,
give poetic voice to darkened hearth,
the laird lays cold beneath slate sky.
Rise up stone crags with winding paths,
block the sun and bring soft rain
where thistle grows among sparse grass,
and heather scent wafts soft again.
Place clan tartan on his chest,
and claidheamh mòr in both hands,
so all may know he was the best
as he strides the low road to far off lands.
No more the wild stag surveys his own,
no more the wild winds tamed,
no more the fealty of vanquished foe,
the warrior has come home.