Monarch Of The Glen (Pibroch)

Come gather round, gentlemen, and bring your twelve bore,
There's deer in the forests and grouse on the moor,
And maybe by midnight you can warm up your bones,
With a malt in your hand and fresh meat to devour.

As the grey mists of sunrise retreat to the loch,
The fair game awaits with its mournful pibroch,
Hush now, ye hunters, don't spoil the fun,
Keep stealth in your step and a cap on your gun.

The monarch stands proud in his splendorous realm,
A silent silhouette amid the bracken and fern
That hides the foundations of a derelict farm,
Where once lived a family, now ghostly and gone.

Your playground's a wilderness of beauty to behold,
A park to be treasured and not to be sold,
A place you can go when you need to unwind,
From the shite in the city that you left behind.

And you think you're so regal in your Lairdly attire,
Passed down by ancestry through eviction and fire.
Desperate and hungry and prone to defeat,
Migration was rife as you emptied the streets.

People for sheep, an economic ruse,
Send the lamb to the slaughter before he learns the truth,
The nation depends on your wealthy estate,
So clear out the scoundrels before it's too late.

And for your promotion they gave you a pew,
And a kingly right to veto what's new,
And you can hold your head high, you're a rich enough man,
As you watch from your granite while they crawl through the sand.

The monarch stands proud, I hope you are too,
Get him square in your sights, squeeze gently and shoot,
You'll be feasting tonight on a platter of grouse,
While the ghosts lick the bones that your servants throw out.

So unfurl your standard and give praise to your style,
But watch your glass jaw doesn't break as you smile,
For I can see through your crass, arrogant eyes,
As you dine on the proceeds of ignorance and lies.

May the venison rot in the belly of its host,
Then maybe you'll feel the pain of the ghosts
Whose lands you stole to fill your sporran with gold,
Like the malt in your hand that fires your soul.