The Jacobite Rose Scottish

The Jacobite Rose Falling , the conscience of mankind , at ease . As soaring souls reign over our nomadic skies , Our gardens tiered as the Jacobite roses bloom , Roaming hearts trapped in the bitter English breeze. Our house now majestic sits , below the Gallows Hill, Where once waited the jeering crowds ,watched for miles , The Duke of Cumberland , a sweet and bitter pill. Our house cradles souls , behind, the homeless doves , Where the ashen black fire pit , greets the falling skies , And Jacobites hearts dipped in their mother's tears Unadorned where beauty died , a mothers love remains. Whilst Waiting the cheering crowds, stretched for miles , As the Hexham hangman , William Stout Prepares the noose , without favour, fear or smile. Our house did not exist on 18th October 1746 Where the Jacobites were dragged horse drawn On a hurdle through the ancient streets. Our hearts did not exist , when a burning pit was made , Cut down alive , from the Gallows , flesh ripped , Mirrored a million fears , death beckoning, Their innards savagely rent, burning , Spirits raised to the heavens , loves waiting lips. Our house Victorian stands , swathed in sweet citrus breeze , Where the souls and spirits of Jacobites stroll in belted plaid , Through streaming rays whispering in ethereal beauty, Where lives were freed and memories still remain . Our house graciously awaits for summers cloaked in green , Tranquil , unnoticed in slumber rests , within our hearts The breathing memory of fallen men , clutching the Jacobite Rose . In memory to the 19 Jacobite souls executed for high treason on Gallows Hill.