Dunnichen

North we rode,
Through foothills on good trails,
Chasing our prey, deep into the mists.
We see them, pursue them.
They fall back before us, and we--
We chase them onward,
Higher and deeper,
Through mists and heather.

Proud we were;
The finest of warriors,
Accoutred in steel;
Bright swords, maille shining,
Horses stong on the plain.
Not so footsure in the foothills.
And still the track goes higher,
'"neath arching trees, narrow passes,
Walls of stone, closing in around us,
And still we pursue.

And the hillsides move as men come alive
About us, clothed in the heather,
Rude tools in their hands
And no room to turn.
It is enough for us.
At our head, Aethelfrith falls,
And with him, our hopes.
Howling death surrounding us,
Spears and rocks defeating steel.
Horses scream as stone points strike home.
Dying men driven into the Nechtmansmere,
Never to be seen again.

The Pride of Northumbria,
Broken, driven back
Behind the Roman wall.
The Pursuers, pursued
By the devil Picts.
They lured us in
And cast us down.
How few we remain
to bear the tale.