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.

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