Dedicated to the memory of Major Patrick Ferguson, soldier of Britain and son of Scotland, who was killed at the Battle of King’s Mountain, October 7, 1780.

***

Ferguson, lying beneath cold stones,

Gray with lichen clinging,

Do you yearn for the sounds of home?

Can you hear me singing?

Ocean sighs;

Seagulls cry

as you sleep…

~

Ferguson, lying beneath hard sod,

Dark with raindrops seeping,

Have you made your peace with God?

Was your mother weeping?

Screams of war;

Wounds and scars

Lanced full-deep…

~

Ferguson, lying in old rawhide,

Flesh and sinews binding,

Do you regret your burning pride?

Did it prove too blinding?

Riding high,

Swords defy

The red sun…

~

Ferguson, lying with Red-haired Sal,

Broken bones now mingling,

Did the Tory women wail?

Were the vultures singing?

World gone mad;

Strike the flag

As they run…

~

Ferguson, lying in Highland plaid,

Sure-shot metal tearing,

Did you watch the world drain red

As the coat you’re wearing?

Silenced song

Dragged along

To its end…

~

Ferguson, lying on mount of kings,

Now to dust returning,

How stands the boast of earthly things?

Was this the price of learning?

Stripped to bones,

Skin from soul

Has been rent…

~

Ferguson, lying beyond command

Of a monarch’s fury,

Does it matter from where you stand

If I’m Whig or Tory?

Friend and foe

Lying low,

Life-blood spent…

~

Ferguson, buried where once you blew

On your silver whistle,

Dream of the land that once birthed you,

Crowned with gorse and thistle.

Mourn the cost:

Britain’s loss,

Scotia’s son…

~

Ferguson, lying with heart grown cold

And the spirit winging,

The shot ne’er fired was made of gold,

And the fiddle’s singing.

Moments pass,

Now your last…

What’s the sum?