Boots in the hallway leashes on the hooks

the smell of broth as it simmers and cooks,

John McTavish man about the moor

rubs his hands after closing the door. 

 

Up at the house the fire made up

our gracious Queen is laid a - bed

the family attend to witness the pause

of a ritual stretching across the borders

to lands of bondage, of freedom gained.

 

Sunlight peeps behind the drapes

all duties suspended on this special day. 

John Brown's voice will never be stilled

his ghost is restless in the glen

where soon the stags will be rutting again

 

and now he sees the stoic sadness

recalls his love for a life like this

when Empire reigned and Scotland dreamed,

meanwhile Windsor's fortress walls

bear witness to when duty calls

while Her Majesty both gentle and wise

small and still perfect, quietly dies.