Bearing low and misty bright,splashing rays upon the turf
The moon with wary eyes was watching, breathless was the silent earth.
Drifting o'er the marshy ground and swirling in the restless air
Like ghosts the rolling waves of fog were creeping through the heather there.
That night the eerie winds were whistling, shivering through the mountain's core,
As if the ancient Druids still were roaming on the lonely moor.
Crouching in the reaching shadows cast by ragged crags of land
Coats of red, their hearts hard beating, gripped their muskets firm in hand;
When distant on the thistled cliff, a wail to chill the hardest bone
Came drifting like the fabled banshee...one lone drone.


Rising from the murky height, tassels swaying to and fro
The battle-ready voice of Scotland snatched the breath of all below.
Like apparitions in the night the clansmen gathered on the height
A hundred score or maybe more, their claymores* gleaming in the light.
Tall and broad they halted there, a wall of tartan on the hill;
Men of might, and freedom driven, iron arms and iron will.
Kings of brash intimidation, lords of pride and strength in war
As one the columns crossed their swords beneath them on the hillock floor;
And as they sprang among the blades in nimble boast of power and tone
Like phantoms pipes from all around rejoined the lonely drone....
What sentiments were beating in each patriotic breast?
So long a heritage to own, by every dance expressed!


Recall when history's true Macbeth, July ten fifty-four
Was marched upon at Dunsinane by rival Malcolm Canmore.
'Tis said the Sword Dance first was done when Malcolm won his raid,
And in triumph crossed his swords and leaped among the blades.
This dance became an omen, by which the chiefs would say
If a warrior's foot displaced a sword they'd lose their fight that day.
But if their fortunes proved the brighter, and the victory met their stand
The flying Fling* of jubilation was the eldest in that land.


That night the Highland warriors would fight for more than ancient ways:
They died to hold their way of life in the coming, darkening days.


Not long ago the Young Pretender had advanced Culloden's field,
But beaten back, was forced to flee, with Flora MacDonald as his shield.
And as he hied she wiled the guards to veil her parlous game;
And still today the Scots pass on the dance that bears her name.


Ah, mourning for the Bonnie Prince, who from the Isle of Skye had flown,
And for the dreams that vanished with him...One lone drone.


The coming year of '46 was looming bleak and grey;
Those who'd dared oppose the Crown would now be made to pay.
Different methods would suffice to swallow up their neighbor land; A final blow to all resistance, all the kilts would soon be banned.
For nigh to forty years the clans would suffer from this news,
Forced to feel like Englishmen, they'd don the hated trews*
But is there any force to break a spirit sighing to be free?
In secret, Scotland would preserve her own identity.
It cannot be denied that in oppression fearless hearts are made
And out of gloom and dreary dark their colors rise that will not fade.


Alas for all the passive hearts that never strive to see the sun!
They let their lifeblood slip away, they drown the ship they stand upon.


This night the flame was kindled hot in every man upon that hill
A helpless fire, to be sure, within the forge of Scotland's will.
The English tempest forward swept, a hurricane too strong to weather
Every day their numbers swelled, and trampled down the dying heather.
Off they marched through glen and loch and through the furrowed farming towns
Confiscating sword and gun, and seizing traitors' homes and grounds.
Yet one ridge they had not crossed, one village they had yet to claim
Thither they were thrusting now, a small battalion off the main.
Resistance in the end was futile, but to watch them burn their homes
Was a price they would not pay, bellowed out the wailing drones.


Confronted by this tartaned bulwark bound to stay their English tread
And haunted by the ghostly bagpipe now the redcoats paused in dread.
But at the Captain's barking order up they rose and forth they charged
Their bayonets were thrust aside by fiercely wielded blade and targe*.
Through the night, a furious whirl of flying kilt and scarlet thread!
The hours darkened, as the moon at last withdrew her face and fled.
The field was lit by musket sparks, the diving claymores flashed and hissed
The air was choked by fire and smoke all swirling with the ebbing mist.
None, though straining, in the blackness knew the way the tide would tend:
Scotland boasted virile hearts, but always England had the men...


When at last the darkness broke, like waves upon the rocky shore,
The softly golden hue revealed what came to pass upon the moor.
A night's destruction sprawling there, a mute mélange of kilt and coat
The morning's silence yet unbroken even by a sparrow's note.
Stifled pressed the lifeless air, the whirling winds of war had flown. Then rising from the silence like the dawn...One lonely drone.


The crimson sun still circles now that watched each bitter struggle fall,
The valiant men who held their ground are but a portrait on the wall.
But can it ever be forgot, that at the price of limb and life
The things we love become the dearer when they're bought and paid in strife?
Today because of nameless champions, I myself will have the chance
To carry on tradition by performing Scottish dance.
Head held high with Scots of old, I feel the pride they kept their own
And listen for the cue I wait for... One Lone Drone.


© 2011 Kristen Dostie. All Rights Reserved.



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