Wallace

As Wallace lay on wood and blood, His own, his care he did not heed, Thoughts of moors and springtime flood, Purple glens, the heather's bud, The truth he knew had been his deed. The court had called him traitor thee, Sentenced him, like pawn, an object, Against all England, no dignity, A traitor to Edward? He was never his subject. Again, he thought of heather's flower, At peace, in quiet, he will pass, When Edwards’ finished his devour, With end coming and lest his power, Scotland’s brave again to mass. Again, to rise, cause future graves, To tell the truth, freedom is what’s best, Sons never live like slaves, Clans will conquer all but knaves, At the future King’s bequest. To his freedom he now resigns, Marching to heaven, regrets not one, As tall as he stood, in his times, Clans surround all in his mind, Venture to the light, to the Son. Death and Victory