The struggle of Scotland

The gentle breeze is in my hair,
and sun upon my face,
the flower of Scotland is so fair,
with none to take its place.

The purple heather allures my eye's,
and lifts my heart to sing,
while every breath within me cries,
Scotland where is thy king.

Dark clouds blow upon the wind,
and winter days are nigh,
will every man again to ride,
and fight with freedom's cry.

Why does this task upon my shoulders fall,
this burden cannot be,
to rise up, and take a life,
and end this tyranny.

There will be blood upon my hands,
to secure the crown on which it stands,
on the field to show no quarter,
to man, and beast caught in the slaughter.

Flashing lances fly,
anvil hammers cry,
anger, fear crazed insane,
blood, guts,sweat, and pain.

I tyre from battle,
and count the cost of every fallen soul,
this victory is but bitter sweet,
many brothers in a hole.

Loose this sword from my grip,
and let me pennance cry,
to wash my soul from all its guilt,
and God bring mercy nigh.

I thirst again, but not for wine,
to turn again the hands of time,
home, and family, love, and peace,
for battles tumult voice to cease.

This dream in vain is all but dead
to silence this cannon in my head,
nor dry the eye's of one so red.

Where is the king of this land,
the lord of glen, and hill,
where every man would live so grand,
and every child their fill

The purple heather allures my eye's,
and lifts my heart to sing,
while every breath within me cries,
Scotland where is thy king.

big Alzer.