by Diane M. Davis
She wove a captivating tale
Of long ago
filled with proud memories
that were dressed in tartans
of green and blue.
Like fine lines
of white and red
drawn through the fabric
that clothed my ancestors-
I discovered threads
connecting us
with a family we never knew.
Laying out the family tartan
she gave me a swatch,
placing in my hand
a history of noble men and women
and a piece of my soul.
by l.hansen
As the day dawned cold
on Drummossie Muir
half-starved and tired
the Highlanders rose
A word from their Prince
An' the battle they joined
Though the weapons were few
And the fight was ill planned
They stood and they fought
They fell and they died
Their blood soaked the ground
Of Culloden's moors
Though the rout was complete
Though the Duke's men had won
More blood would be shed
Before all 'twas done
The men who lay dying
were tortured and worse
The killers among them,
they showed no remorse.
No tartans or pipers
were left on the moor
A culture was murdered
on that April morn.
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