Ae Day in June
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: None.
Description: This poem was written on the 200th anniversary of Waterloo as a tribute to the Scots who fought in the battle. It's seen through the eyes of a young Gordon Highlander, who ran with the Scots Greys shouting “Scotland Forever!”
Swearwords: None.
Description: This poem was written on the 200th anniversary of Waterloo as a tribute to the Scots who fought in the battle. It's seen through the eyes of a young Gordon Highlander, who ran with the Scots Greys shouting “Scotland Forever!”
Fit’s
a fermin’ loon frae Huntley,
Tae dae wi’ the wars wi’ France?
A’ should have been at the Hirin’ Fair!
Insteed o’ “The Gordons will advance!”
We were drookit aw’ the nicht,
Cauld an’ cramped wi’ weary limbs.
A few found some slaistered sleep,
Ithirs prayed wi’ psalms an’ hymns.
Boney brought up aw’ his guns,
Fin the groond, at last, dried oot.
We stood in line an’ gawpit,
Jist mair targets fir the shoot!
Bit Nosey bid us aw’ lie doon,
Tae shield us frae their fire.
Strafed by strays an’ ricochets,
Oor corpses ay’ piled higher!
Atap the hill o’ Mont St Jean,
We’d fired fell mony roonds.
We couldni’ see the enemy.
Nor hear their battle soonds!
It's bite the cartridge, prime the pan,
Frizen closed, then pooder pour,
Spit the ball an’ ram it hame,
Wi’ yir een aw’ red an’ sore.
Return the rod, half cock the dog,
Musket raised, nae need tae aim,
Dog fu’ cock, fire oan command,
Recoils enough tae shoodir maim!
Noo it's “ The Gordons will fix bayonets”
Then, “ The Gordons will advance”
Fin we’d clear the musket smoke,
We jined the bluidy dance!
Afore us three French columns,
We're advancin’ up or hill.
We fired a witherin’ volley
Then charged tae complete the kill.
Owner oor pipes an’ slogans,
We heard the bugles soond,
Oor Heavy Horse were comin’,
Their hooves fell shook the groond!
They appeared like Gods among us,
Their horses huge an’ Grey,
Giants in black bearskins,
Oor chiels went wild an’ fey.
We gripped tae their stirrup leathers,
An’ ran gin we could fly.
“Scotland forever!” A voice proclaimed,
We aw’ took up the cry!
In yon moment we were invincible,
Oor triumph wis assured,
Bit the horses soon oot paced us,
The French columns were obscured.
The crash o’ horse oan human flesh,
We felt doon tae oor verra bones,
In its wake, jist devastation,
Amid fearfu’ screams an’ moans!
We dressed oor ranks an’ waited,
Bit the Horse it didna’ wheel,
Insteed they keepit up the charge,
A wave o’ flesh an’ steel.
We saw a muckle sergeant,
Wi’ an Eagle in his hand.
As they bore their prize awa’,
“Volley fire!” Wis oor command.
The Frenchies were still reelin’,
Fin oor shot tore though their ranks,
Like us, they were bit so’girs,
Bayonet an’ ba’, their only thanks!
A knelt aside a young French chiel,
Nae aulder than masel’,
He wis greetin’, fir his mithir,
Tae tak’ him frae this hell.
A bayonet ends aw’ sufferin’,
O’ anguish, shame an’ pain.
A rifled through his pockets,
Bried an’ sausage wis ma gain!
Tears A’ve shed fir thon loon,
Uptae this verra day.
The slaughter an’ futility,
In ma mind, they still display!
Oor Horse had lost their heids,
“Oan tae Paris!” The limmer’ craw,
Bit their mounts’ wind wis spent,
Tae the Lancers they wid fa’!
The Scots Greys were magnificent!
Ye maun bear in mind of course,
Wi’ their Bearskins an’ their Sabres,
Aw’ the brains are in the hoarse!
A bedraggled few returned.
Their mounts’ heids hingin’ low,
Their comrades lay upoan the field,
Aw’ slaughtered by the foe.
A wee while we were immortal,
Scots, united, proud an’ fair,
“Scotland forever!” Wis their cry,
Noo, they’ll see her never mair!
Roger Ceann Maol Beag
Tae dae wi’ the wars wi’ France?
A’ should have been at the Hirin’ Fair!
Insteed o’ “The Gordons will advance!”
We were drookit aw’ the nicht,
Cauld an’ cramped wi’ weary limbs.
A few found some slaistered sleep,
Ithirs prayed wi’ psalms an’ hymns.
Boney brought up aw’ his guns,
Fin the groond, at last, dried oot.
We stood in line an’ gawpit,
Jist mair targets fir the shoot!
Bit Nosey bid us aw’ lie doon,
Tae shield us frae their fire.
Strafed by strays an’ ricochets,
Oor corpses ay’ piled higher!
Atap the hill o’ Mont St Jean,
We’d fired fell mony roonds.
We couldni’ see the enemy.
Nor hear their battle soonds!
It's bite the cartridge, prime the pan,
Frizen closed, then pooder pour,
Spit the ball an’ ram it hame,
Wi’ yir een aw’ red an’ sore.
Return the rod, half cock the dog,
Musket raised, nae need tae aim,
Dog fu’ cock, fire oan command,
Recoils enough tae shoodir maim!
Noo it's “ The Gordons will fix bayonets”
Then, “ The Gordons will advance”
Fin we’d clear the musket smoke,
We jined the bluidy dance!
Afore us three French columns,
We're advancin’ up or hill.
We fired a witherin’ volley
Then charged tae complete the kill.
Owner oor pipes an’ slogans,
We heard the bugles soond,
Oor Heavy Horse were comin’,
Their hooves fell shook the groond!
They appeared like Gods among us,
Their horses huge an’ Grey,
Giants in black bearskins,
Oor chiels went wild an’ fey.
We gripped tae their stirrup leathers,
An’ ran gin we could fly.
“Scotland forever!” A voice proclaimed,
We aw’ took up the cry!
In yon moment we were invincible,
Oor triumph wis assured,
Bit the horses soon oot paced us,
The French columns were obscured.
The crash o’ horse oan human flesh,
We felt doon tae oor verra bones,
In its wake, jist devastation,
Amid fearfu’ screams an’ moans!
We dressed oor ranks an’ waited,
Bit the Horse it didna’ wheel,
Insteed they keepit up the charge,
A wave o’ flesh an’ steel.
We saw a muckle sergeant,
Wi’ an Eagle in his hand.
As they bore their prize awa’,
“Volley fire!” Wis oor command.
The Frenchies were still reelin’,
Fin oor shot tore though their ranks,
Like us, they were bit so’girs,
Bayonet an’ ba’, their only thanks!
A knelt aside a young French chiel,
Nae aulder than masel’,
He wis greetin’, fir his mithir,
Tae tak’ him frae this hell.
A bayonet ends aw’ sufferin’,
O’ anguish, shame an’ pain.
A rifled through his pockets,
Bried an’ sausage wis ma gain!
Tears A’ve shed fir thon loon,
Uptae this verra day.
The slaughter an’ futility,
In ma mind, they still display!
Oor Horse had lost their heids,
“Oan tae Paris!” The limmer’ craw,
Bit their mounts’ wind wis spent,
Tae the Lancers they wid fa’!
The Scots Greys were magnificent!
Ye maun bear in mind of course,
Wi’ their Bearskins an’ their Sabres,
Aw’ the brains are in the hoarse!
A bedraggled few returned.
Their mounts’ heids hingin’ low,
Their comrades lay upoan the field,
Aw’ slaughtered by the foe.
A wee while we were immortal,
Scots, united, proud an’ fair,
“Scotland forever!” Wis their cry,
Noo, they’ll see her never mair!
Roger Ceann Maol Beag
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!