The hand that clutched the sword,
The one that cleaved men apart,
The arm that fought for right,
Drew blood from a strong brave heart.
Across the dank moors green,
To the peat bogs down the glen,
The fog crept ‘or them all,
Eating the souls of fallen men.
But one stood above it there,
In Ferguson kilt and shaggy mane,
A warrior of the blue plaid clan,
Fergus Prince of Galloway was his name.
A Jacobite from the highlands,
The Scots Ferguson King from Ayrshire,
He raged against the English,
With steel and stone and fire.
Twixt the rivers Givan and Stinchar,
From the south to the Firth of Clyde,
It was the cause of Killing Times,
Stuarts were want of British hide.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour
You remind me of the intellectual rock musician Sting of Police.