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?