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Longboats bob up and down on the tossing waves of the
harbor.
The Vikings, in helmet and skins, swords drawn, shields up,
March across the emerald grasses,
crushing the daisies of the Scottish meadows.
Churches, built stone by stone, sacred and cherished,
Knocked down, tossed aside like feathers scattered in the wind.
Monuments of honor, of the brave and fearless ones
Tumble in the path of the raiding Norsemen.
The landscape, once peaceful, now a battlefield of blood.
The King, strong and able, the mighty MacAlpin,
Like an oak, ancient and proud,
Calls for his kinsman to preserve their heritage.
Sword in hand, he stirs patriotism, fierceness,
As sword, axe, and spear clang against shields and helmets.
The sun, swallowed by the evening heavens,
Leave a victory for Scotland;
Though the grass, trees, and rivers
weep tears of blood for the loss of her sons. |
