Rangers

On mist‑clad hills where heather sighs,
The Rangers tread with steady eyes,
Their boots imprint the ancient peat,
A silent watch where wild things meet.

Through tangled glen and pine‑clad scar,
They guard the realm both near and far,
With compass true and lantern’s gleam,
They chart the paths of waking dream.

In dusk’s soft hush they hear the owl,
Feel winter’s breath, the summer’s growl,
Each footstep marks a quiet pledge — To shield the land, to honour pledge.

No fanfare sounds, no trumpet’s blare,
Just steady hearts and honest prayer,
For Britain’s hills, her vales, her streams — The Rangers stand, fulfilling dreams.