Summoned To King George’s Army
Marching, marching in a row
Through thicket and bracken, by forest and lake
Ordered redcoats by your side
Neath skies and stars so unfamiliar
In a land that is not your own.
King George’s men came marching through,
Left in their wake the wails of children.
They sought to crush a way of life
With stones all scattered, fields left burning
And naught to do but bury the dead,
Endure an age of grief and sorrow,
Then search for roads unbloodied to wander.
Robbed, bereft of all held dear,
Naught left but doff the kilt and homespun
Pressed into King George’s crimson and white.
Now serve the hated foreign King.
Pocket the Judas purse and shoulder musket,
Learn to eat a soldier’s rations.
March stride for stride to the drumhead’s beat
And learn the ways of England’s scorn.
Formed up in serried ranks at dockside,
And marched aboard to fight in wars
Against foreign flags and foreign people.
Sailing from Bristol’s maritime shore
Across the seas, so far from the home.
Now sanctify this foreign soil
With blood and memories of home
And all of those loved ones left unburied
Crushed beneath the marching boots
In King George’s wake beyond the sea.
