Persisting Triumph

As I made my way through mire and bog
I thought of how that mighty Macree.
would cause the tremors in even Satan's dog
that Phaentom of the lowland lay.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

Pray your prayers to heaven above,
pray God's hounds shall be at their heel.
Your prayers will be answered, they given the shove
be in this world er next, not for choice to seal.

While the darkness befalls that cold Northlund,
you'll find a glimmer o'er the East
in pale morn's light,
and with this advance, through bog and through peat.

So follow that morn,
from West to East.
Trust in your lead,
who'll keep at bay the beast.

Death's unfriendly hand
may soon deliver,
that knell from the North
that pales soul to shiver.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

In regalia they are dressed,
in family coat they are wrapped,
this brave contingent
upon whom in all hope is trapped.

So wear that jewel with honor,
and tartan kilt so bright,
your clandaugh your birth-right
your broad sword the requite.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

With blade in air, thy hand delivers
the cut unto archer, arrow and quiver
While heart beats like drum assunder
Your life-force delivers sullen death and plunder.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

Into that eye, ice glance and glimmer
charge forward you, stabbing evil this sinner
Letting that blood from him now flow
Coloring crimson the river feeding soil for sow.

Press forward, press forward,
while boot is mired in knee-depth peat,
press forward, yo! press forward ho!
for us there'll be no cowan's retreat.

And into that morn, we'll pass like the Saint
travelling onward to bosom from this availing fog.
Into that eye's warm light sheilding heart from faint,
we'll travel to long home from this lowland's hell-bog.

Pressing forward, pressing forward,
one boot mired, knee-depth peat,
I press forward, upward and onward
for me there'll be no coward's retreat.