Below a freezing Highland fog,
Chilled to the bone by driving rain,
My face set hard against the wind,
And the thought of sudden death and pain.
God, grant me strength to fight again,
While my kinsmen battle, ever near;
May the Claymore sing it's ancient song -
Let us show them what it means to fear!
Show them terror, give them hell,
Spilled blood will make them understand,
That Scotland's sons will not forgive
This trespass on our native land.
Our cause is noble, right and just -
The Clans will fight to their last breath.
But the ranks of cannon, sword and pike,
Mean little more than certain death.
Exhausted, starved, we stand and wait
The raised flags and the battle call,
And a thousand screaming voices as
We face cavalry and cannonball.
I will not fear the clash of steel,
Or the dreadful whine of rifle fire,
But waiting for the call to start,
I know this day makes me a liar.
Because, I said I would return,
That I would hold my child once more,
But in my heart I know I'm lost,
All that awaits this butcher's floor.
Now the order comes around at last,
And brutal, futile death looms large.
Goodbye my brothers; farewell, my son.
The last stand of the Clansmen! Charge!