Poem by Robert Nicoll

The Battle Word

IN Scotland's cause—for Scotland's gude,
We'll blithely shed our dearest bluid,—
An' stand or fa' as freeman should,
                          As we hae done before.
Now proudly come the foemen on,
Against auld Scotland's mountain throne;
The sun its last on them hath shone,—
                                                     Claymore!

We're freemen, an' maun ne'er be slaves—
We fight for heather-covered graves—
To tell yon comin' warrior-waves
                          That men our mothers bore;
For maidens loved—for parents dear,
Fourscore would battle were it here,
An' stand like us, nor think o' fear—
                                                     Claymore!

They break—they halt—they form again—
We well have borne the battle-strain:
The grass that clothes the reeking plain
                          Is wet with stranger gore.
Remember! for our native soil,
That a' we love at hame may smile;
Nerve ilka arm for bloody toil—
                                                     Claymore!

We've conquered! wives an' bairns a',
We've conquered! baith for grit an' sma'—
For maid and matron—puir and braw—
                          The bluidy darg is o'er.
Our fathers' weapon and our ain,—
Thou'lt be our sons' we brawly ken—
By foughten fields! by foemen slain!
                                                     Claymore!

1. We'll A' Go Pu' the Heather
2. The Muir o' Gorse and Broom
3. The Hopes of Age
4. Down by the Wood
5. Menie

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