Pibroch

Returning from an embassage gone wrong,
Receiving for our pains but haughty words,
Our pride insulted, we took recompense
To soothe the certain anger of our Laird;
No more than was our due: we are not thieves,
But warriors setting our accounts to right.
Thus had our fathers taught us from our youth,
And thus had all our ways been ever so.
A raid for raid, a balancing of strength;
Strong hands and arms to carry sword and targe;
Strong deeds to earn the music of a bard;
To ease the pangs of winter in our glens,
And teach our sons the way a man makes war.
Yet ere we reached the borders of our lands,
Disaster came upon us unawares.
Our enemies united, and in strength,
With naked swords to bar our passage home.
Too much for our small numbers, we were forced
To leave behind our rightful spoils of war
To flee in desperation for our lives.
Pursuit hot on our heels, we sought ahead
The saving sanctity of Holy Ground,
A hallowed kirk where we could shelter in
And wait the intercession of the priest,
Who would convey us to our homes again.
But we had not accounted for our foes,
Who would not be dissuaded from their prey.
As we took pause to rest within the kirk,
We heard the doors and windows hammered shut.
The orders given, brush piled up the sides,
Thatch and wooden eaves above our heads,
Wooden walls and paneling around,
And we were trapped inside to meet our fate.
We heard the licking of the fire without,
Smelled the smoke that promised us our doom.
We cried out to our God in our despair,
But God could spare no miracle for us.
The fire burned till naught was left but stone,
Burnt black and cracked with fire and with hate;
Holy ground unhallowed by our deaths,
And we remain encased within these rocks,
Waiting for a mercy that won't come.
You who pass this way may hear our cries.
We speak in voices carried on the wind.
Though centuries have passed since we were slain,
We still remember Strathmore, and we mourn.