No more the deathly sleet in famished mouths;
No more the bloom of cannon,
The shrapnel whimpered flesh,
The crack of bones.
No more the pink dither
On their Prince’s lips.
No more the massive girth of Cumberland
Looming to command his skinned mountains,
The royal slaughter in his glens;
No more the searching voices
That dared not find their sons.
Now they rest here
Clanned beneath
These cairns, these fading stones,
Moored to memory
And the bouquet of roses
Left here some days ago,
Still vivid, still holding its colour.