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Mountain
March of Montrose A
poem on a battle between the Marquis of Montrose and the Campbells in
17th century Scotland
Rock climbing up to Cullachy Glen
Facing the ice and a screaming north wind
Across the bog of Druim Laragan
Through the blizzard went Montrose and his fighting men.
Four miles in sub-zero in four hours they made
And down through the river in cold Glen Buck
Then up Plateau Teanga with a lessening grade
A matter of duty, not one would call luck
In the sleet and the drifts all their horses collapsed
There was rest for one hour, but none dared to nap.
Up again now on blue legs that were bare
Their kilts were like iron from the frozen air.
Then six hours later in a four-mile span
Down Glen Roy's terrace to the raging Spean
Crossed one thousand five hundred, man upon man
And into the woodland's dark dangers unseen.
The advance party discovered six enemy scouts
Who were chased through the trees for what they would learn
'Til captured and dirked without pause or a doubt
"Be it so! From that foray they never returned."*
One thousand five hundred marched steadily, quiet
Through Lianachain Forest went all the king's bravest
To finally lie down in the black frozen night
O'er the camp of the foe on the side of Ben Nevis.
The fog lifted early on a still Sunday morn.
One thousand five hundred stood ready, unseen
Till the enemy below them did sound an alarm
And five thousand Campbells went running in green.
Montrose unfurled the Red Lion from his belt
And flown from a lance it blazed quite like the sun.
The red and the yellow made the Campbell hearts melt
Though the defenders, with cannon, were three to their one.
The Highlanders rushed from the slopes with a cheer
Through a volley of shot, through artillery roar,
For Montrose, MacColla and the king they held dear,
Through the ranks with the axe and heavy claymore.
One thousand five hundred Scots rushed from the mount,
One thousand five hundred dead Campbells in an hour,
Just twelve of the loyal succumbed, by the count
And the rest of the Campbells swam, from their power
In the blood-red Loch Linnhe to the galley with oars
Of Archibald the Grim, making haste from the shore.
There would have been more to the terrible slaughter
But the three-day march made them too tired to bother.
There's not much more that needs to be said
But the Cameron pibroch may be quoted, afresh
To remind us of Montrose and MacColla the Red,
"Sons of dogs, come hither; I will give you flesh."
* Quote from Ian Lom McDonald of Clan McDonald, who was
on this march.
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Cast
My Heart
Longing for
Caledonia
To
the cliffs where gaitha blows
Freedom wind and rocky shoal
Caledonia strains time and sea
Drums the surf, the heart in me.
Let not my anchored passion sag
From rusting chains. The Old Red Flag
Does beckon me, as other men
To return to where I've never been.
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