The Highland Battle

The wail of the pipes, the Scots too well know the call

To battle they are led, led where the valiant always stand tall

Their leaders flaming red hair blazes in the morning breeze

Swirls like the tartan of his Black Watch kilt on his knees

With cold steel in one hand, a rifle in the other

The highland clans once again rally to battle another

The battle cry of the brave, the death rattle of last rasp

Onward through the smoke of Armageddon they gasp

The smoke clears the air and their victory is clear

The leader shivers at the cost of the carnage so dear

There is blood on his tartan and blood on his hand

As he kneels amongst the brothers who were lost of his clan

He picks up a boy child and carries him weak and numb

To the steady death march of the old Thompson drum.

Now he takes his son home and above the victory cries

No one hears his sobs or sees the tears in his eyes.