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The Mists o' Time ©

I Findlay
Newcastle, England

Through the mists they come wi' swords held high,
voices raised in battle cry,
the Highlanders bold charge doon the brae,
to strike fear and hell into their awaiting prey,
targe held tight and dirk in hand, on they come, come what may,
gaining speed all the time, faster yet they begin to charge,
through the shot from the enemy's guns,
leepin' ow'er bog and grass, faster yet they seem to fly,
the clans charge on till sword on musket and dirk through flesh
they come in fast and come in hard
the enemy disnae stand a chance, they strike doon yin, and then another
on they go through the lot, they round again and in as quick,
the enemy sees the chance to flee,
then with their dead and the spoils o' war,
the Highlanders bold
disappear fae sight back into the mists upon the hill,
back through the mists o' time...

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