Pipes of Glengarry..revised..editor friend Michael

Pipes of Glengarry

 Tears fall
 under the rising
 of a Scottish moon
 as lasses
 line the streets
 for the coming doom.

 Highlanders march off
 to the conflict end
 distant to the Glen
 from the Garry River bend.

 A glint of sun
 now appears
 upon a crimson sash>
 Gaelic's dressed in tartan black
 with basket-hilt broadswords next to their thighs
 as the bonny pipes play their bellowing cry.

 I must now go my sweet love
 I must go you see
 I must now join with them
 the Clan Mac Donnelly.

 From the deepest part of my soul
 With my claymore in hand
 I will go onto the battlefield
 To fight the Mackenzie's with sword and shield.

 If I fall at Morar on this day
 my final thought is the love you gave
 I will cherish every moment we spent in love's twine
 just knowing in my heart you were mine.

 The Clan MacDonald now waits for me
 I must go while my heart still is free
 While the pipes play for the land of Shome
 which has always been our clan's home.

 Much blood shall spill on this highlander's day
 For I will not ever run away
 pray for my soul I ask of thee
 as the pipes play on in Glengarry.
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Submitted on July 05, 2016

Modified on March 05, 2023

1:04 min read

Quick analysis:

Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 1,072
Words 211
Stanzas 9
Stanza Lengths 1, 6, 4, 6, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4

Norman Wilson

IntroductionForgotten are the times the tick of a clock once chimed sobering sounds that caressed my hearts nightly dreams. As I awaken to the touch of light that burns upon a candles wick flickering my words for all to see. This drives my thoughts through the darkest of nights of loneliness that renders my quill upon parchment with ink that dances to minds and souls.Now I hear the screeching of my heart when the blue horizon covers the orb of emptiness.Within the shelter of my mind with little, purpose other than my words that keep me sane. These are my new poems I have written in the quiet of my night, forever wished away in a writer’s pain. As I strive to write that perfect poem that, my soul desperately seeks. Then and only then can my words rest upon a sleep. more…

All Norman Wilson poems | Norman Wilson Books

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