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I think not myself a king,
Nor a nobleman of Scotland's historic castles still grand.
Yet through grand Scottish hospitality am granted to feel nothing less,
Than as a royal guest of a magical realm of kings no less.
Thy honor is as my sword, I swore it to always be True.
For it is because of thee makes my heart and pen forever bold for you.
It was told and even sung in many ballads of minstrels and bards long ago,
That many a hearts are lost in battles won or lost on foreign ground so
far from home.
Yet I fear not even deaths mighty hand to take my life amidst the worst
battles fray.
Because if it was meant to be, on no sweeter heather heath that grand day
could I be.
My heart to thee was given long ago,
To keep safe behind the treasure room doors of my ancestral home.
For in my royal heartland castle there is but one true treasure,
I hold above all that I know to be most precious and dear.
Scotland, kingdom adorn in an emerald gown, jeweled with heather and
thistle crown,
Scotland 'Tis where my heart will forever after always be found. |
