The Dead at Culloden
by Anne Carola Edmond
Bravely we fought, as men will always do.
Now our green tombs are moistened by the dew.
Our graves are nameless. Only on the moor
Where rose the mighty shout 'claymore, claymore,'
And for our Prince we dared to fight and die,
Grey stones upraise their silence to the sky.
One word on each is carved: it stands for all
Of that name who, obedient to the call
For King and Faith, and at their Chief's first word,
Took from the thatch the long-secreted sword
And, caring not for politics, or aught
Save that his son, for whom their sires had fought
Was trusting to their oft-proved loyalty,
Rose as one man and vowed their fealty.
Read the proud names upon the weathered stones:
Camerons, Grahams, here repose our bones.
Next to our kin we sleep, both rich and poor
United by our deaths upon this moor.
We ask no other fate. Men know our worth
Who love the cause for which we were called forth.