Battle of Branxton Moor
   9th of September 1513
by Sharmagne Leland-St.John

Near Flodden Hill, inside Henry’s border,
the open upland gnashed her teeth;
then swallowed up 6000 souls.
Here died our king himself, with fifty chiefs

When the bloody battle ended,
laid low by ceorls and Anglo-Saxons,
their corpses strewn upon the ground;
lay a dozen earls and thirteen barons

In the mottled, speckled glen,
the Flo’ers of Scotland scattered, slain.
The fortresses along the Tweed
could not call them back again.

The tattered tartans
of their men-folk, proudly worn.
Upon the moody Scottish Moors,
6000 widows left to mourn.

In the mottled, speckled glen,
the Flo’ers of Scotland scattered, slain.
The fortresses along the Tweed
could not call them back again.

The glen with water meadow
marked out by hoary tree,
hemmed the graves of those who fell,
in the quest to keep us free.

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