The parchment lays before me 
Upon a table scarred and stained.
The import of my decision etched 
In my expression, dark and pained. 

My trembling hand resists me,
 Muscles twitching beneath the skin.
 My pride, my lands, my honor it be
 All sacrificed to save my kin. 

Taxes bleed us near to death,
 Our customs they ban as heathen. 
No kilt, no pipes, our history gone,
Their greed be their only reason. 

 My heart begs me run and far
From these people whose hearts be cold,
But the thought of their swift reprisal,
kills any thought of acts so bold. 

The children and the old ones 
They'll seek out first to punish me.
 My own shame is what they ask to take
 For our natural right to be free. 

Yet as the ink takes its hold
 Musket fire rings throughout the glen.
 How vain a sacrifice I have made
To demons I mistook for men.   

* * * * *

   In 1746, the English declared that the wearing of the kilt was prohibited and punishable by death. So, too, was the use of Tartan and the gathering of any clans - all Highland culture was effectively wiped out of existence.

© Karli Shanklin. All rights reserved!