Braveheart

Braveheart

In the mist‑kissed glens of the Scottish highlands,
where the lochs reflect a pale, stubborn dawn,
whispers of a name rise over crags and cairns—
William, the brow of a kingless clan.

With a saltire stitched across his breast,
he stole from tyrants what they tore out of kings,
for the love of the green land, the low‑lying moor,
and the cry of the wild, unspooled song.

The Laird’s banner unfurled from Hill of Fare,
pale‑black, like the night before the clash;
the artillery thundered, but the Scots found their might in the heart,
in the beat of drums that swelled like cannon fire.

It was not the grandsires’ hoop or the baron’s guile,
but the plough‑handed, peat‑stained folk who lifted their iron‑bound ladders,
and so he carved the season of winter—
through forests to the sea, he told the tale of a
favourite story, whispered by the mists on the marshes.

Down in the vale, cows mooed beneath the dream of a child who slept,
his dice of pride rolled across the battlefield,
and the veteran, in his blood‑soaked coat of arms,
knew that arrogance of empire could not shake the flag of a loner.

The word ‘courage’ to him was a single line in his verse,
he sang it in the mountain wind, and the air filled with a golden glow.
When the drums ceased, and the rain fell on his beard,
the hero walked to his purpose, left a relic coffee‑brown.

Braveheart was not merely a legend or a tale held in a forgotten brass-plate;
It was, as the country says, a poem split across all the eulogised rivers,
that your heart will be brave when the flag of freedom flutters – No small handful of grit, no sad lament, no Aussie.
It was on the medal of the past that his spirit found hope, and the Bard of Glasgow smiled, casting a glint on the world.

It was a miracle that he made the thought that our land’s heart is black, Even now, when we raise a proper cup – the village, the city clock –
the direction and chance are any of the, the places that preserve the proper activist.

So we gather the new-cast aspirational! In the dark nights, we make the collective creed, keep the lance and stay, turn swords to dinosaurs, jewellery – never at the Cape!