The Mosstroopers R.S.Craig
A
very Atmospheric poem that captures the horror of Border Warfare. Mosstrooper
was a term given to Border outlaws in the 17th century who were basically
Reivers who refused to lay down their arms.
The lonely birds are screaming,
The autumn light is low,
The Border hills are dreaming
Of their battles long ago.
By moor and moss and river,
To the swish of swathed grass,
And burnside reeds aquiver,
The dead mosstroopers pass.
The dim light shows their faces,
So grim and white and wan,
Through well remembered places
They seek the foe till dawn.
Their lips are set for battle,
Their eyes are fierce and bright,
Their horses’ bridles rattle
In the silence of the night.
The autumn winds are sighing
And moaning where they ride,
They greet the dead and dying
And never one beside.
Where lonely graves are scattered,
And ruined castles stand,
The holy cross is shattered
By the red unchristened hand.
For them no dreamless sleeping,
The earth gives up her dead,
The secrets in her keeping
Flit spectral overhead,
The moonbeams tip their lances,
Their horses stir the grass,
Amid the fairy dances
The dead mosstroopers pass.
The watching shepherds fear them,
They dread the crash of spears,
The lonely cattle hear them
When lost to human ears.
They meet by ground unhallowed,
They part at break of day,
Where never man has followed,
They pass in mist away.