Ma Bannockburn
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A poem in rhyming couplets, telling one Douglas pikeman's recollections of the Battle of Bannockburn.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: A poem in rhyming couplets, telling one Douglas pikeman's recollections of the Battle of Bannockburn.
We merchit up frae Douglasdale,
Men an’ Laddies, strang an’ hale,
Left oor weeman, bairns an’ hames,
Tae jine the tail o’ Guid Sir James.
We drilled thegither wi’ oor pikes,
Shiltroms formed o’ deadly spikes.
“Horses wouldni’ be sae blate,
Despite their riders, heels an’ hate,
Tae charge a wa’ o’ brislin’ spears,!”
But A’ canny say, that quelled ma fears!
When the English cherged it didni’ matter,
Ma bits were fu’ an’ no’ wi’ watter!
Oor lines held fast, Ma life wis spared,
Tae tell the truth that’s aw’ A’ cared!
A’ saw the King fecht wi’ De Bohun,
Cheered, when the Bruce cut him doon!
We stood tae arms intae nicht,
Weary bodies in’ failin’ licht.
The grund, oor bed, nae beer or mead,
Your erms as pillas fir your heid’
Some said we’d “fecht again next day,”
Some said we’d “Ower the hills, away!”
It widni’ matter whit we felt,
We’d hae tae dae whit we were telt!
But Goad! It came a fell surprise,
When the order came for us tae rise.
The Ermy wis gie ta’en aback,
When Bruce proclaimed, “We would attack!
We took a knee an’ said a prayer,
Ma he’rt wis poundin’ fast an’ sair!
Sir Jamie ordered oor advance,
It wis a glaury, slaistered dance!
Through runnels, dubs an’ cakit mud,
Wi’ churnin’ bowels an’ boilin’ blood!
We caught the English oan the hop,
Oor pike’s advance, they, couldni’ stop!
A’ ken we foucht the English hoarse,
But in battle, reason, you devorce!
It wis step an’ jab an’ ower again,
An endless Hell o’ death an’ pain!
An’ step an’ jab an’ drive them back,
Wi’ nerves stretched, as oan a rack!
An’ step an’ jab as lang’s you might,
Your feet in blood an’ guts an’ shite!
Your no’ aware o’ a freend has fa’n,
Jist step an’ jab ay’ oan an’ oan!
They say oor horse, their archers routed,
An’ frae oor camp, an Ermy sprouted.
Aw’ A’ saw, as life wis spent,
Foes uncounted came an’ went!
They say English Edward ran awa,
An’ left his men tae fecht or fa’,
Sae step an’ jab tae hem them in,
Nae respite in yon battle’s din!
Step an’ jab through hellish dream,
While men an’ horses writhe an’ scream.
It’s step an’ jab without an’ end,
Lives tae tak’ an’ bodies rend!
They can talk o’ Glory aw’ they like,
There’s nane, wi’ gut wrapped roond a pike!
At last the pressure seemed tae ease,
A’ sank, exhausted, tae ma knees,
A’ boaked an’ grat jist like a bairn,
You maun be alive, tae be disparin’!
The English fled, we’d won the field,
A gie few Lords we forced tae yield!
Twa gowden spurs were in ma purse!
A’ suppose it could hae been mich worse!
They say we “foucht fir King Rob’s croon,
Agin’ the men wha’d pu’ it doon!”
“It wis for Scotland that we stood!”
But in truth, o’ which, A’m no’ prood,
A’ didni’ fetch, oor land tae free,
But tae stoap some bugger killin’ me!
Roger Ceann Maol Beag
Men an’ Laddies, strang an’ hale,
Left oor weeman, bairns an’ hames,
Tae jine the tail o’ Guid Sir James.
We drilled thegither wi’ oor pikes,
Shiltroms formed o’ deadly spikes.
“Horses wouldni’ be sae blate,
Despite their riders, heels an’ hate,
Tae charge a wa’ o’ brislin’ spears,!”
But A’ canny say, that quelled ma fears!
When the English cherged it didni’ matter,
Ma bits were fu’ an’ no’ wi’ watter!
Oor lines held fast, Ma life wis spared,
Tae tell the truth that’s aw’ A’ cared!
A’ saw the King fecht wi’ De Bohun,
Cheered, when the Bruce cut him doon!
We stood tae arms intae nicht,
Weary bodies in’ failin’ licht.
The grund, oor bed, nae beer or mead,
Your erms as pillas fir your heid’
Some said we’d “fecht again next day,”
Some said we’d “Ower the hills, away!”
It widni’ matter whit we felt,
We’d hae tae dae whit we were telt!
But Goad! It came a fell surprise,
When the order came for us tae rise.
The Ermy wis gie ta’en aback,
When Bruce proclaimed, “We would attack!
We took a knee an’ said a prayer,
Ma he’rt wis poundin’ fast an’ sair!
Sir Jamie ordered oor advance,
It wis a glaury, slaistered dance!
Through runnels, dubs an’ cakit mud,
Wi’ churnin’ bowels an’ boilin’ blood!
We caught the English oan the hop,
Oor pike’s advance, they, couldni’ stop!
A’ ken we foucht the English hoarse,
But in battle, reason, you devorce!
It wis step an’ jab an’ ower again,
An endless Hell o’ death an’ pain!
An’ step an’ jab an’ drive them back,
Wi’ nerves stretched, as oan a rack!
An’ step an’ jab as lang’s you might,
Your feet in blood an’ guts an’ shite!
Your no’ aware o’ a freend has fa’n,
Jist step an’ jab ay’ oan an’ oan!
They say oor horse, their archers routed,
An’ frae oor camp, an Ermy sprouted.
Aw’ A’ saw, as life wis spent,
Foes uncounted came an’ went!
They say English Edward ran awa,
An’ left his men tae fecht or fa’,
Sae step an’ jab tae hem them in,
Nae respite in yon battle’s din!
Step an’ jab through hellish dream,
While men an’ horses writhe an’ scream.
It’s step an’ jab without an’ end,
Lives tae tak’ an’ bodies rend!
They can talk o’ Glory aw’ they like,
There’s nane, wi’ gut wrapped roond a pike!
At last the pressure seemed tae ease,
A’ sank, exhausted, tae ma knees,
A’ boaked an’ grat jist like a bairn,
You maun be alive, tae be disparin’!
The English fled, we’d won the field,
A gie few Lords we forced tae yield!
Twa gowden spurs were in ma purse!
A’ suppose it could hae been mich worse!
They say we “foucht fir King Rob’s croon,
Agin’ the men wha’d pu’ it doon!”
“It wis for Scotland that we stood!”
But in truth, o’ which, A’m no’ prood,
A’ didni’ fetch, oor land tae free,
But tae stoap some bugger killin’ me!
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!