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.
Copyright ©
Daniel Caplin
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