The exiled Scot Is never free From the attachment To the land of their birth The heart can love Anywhere in the world, But the exiled soul Yearns for home The call of home, once a whisper Becomes louder every day I am not going home to die I am going home to live
The Saltire and Lion Rampant Flutter in the cool summer breeze, As we march to the slow drum Underneath the sunlit trees. We are here to honour The passing of one of our own, A good and honourable friend Who has departed for home. He has taken the low road* And will be in Scotland …
Ronnie's Blog 