This is a short poem about one of the many exploits of Bruce McCowan, who just happens to be an ancestor of mine.

The Warrior's blade saw many foes
upon that fateful day
When all was lost and hope had fled
The warrior made the way

The wolves of the mountains crossed the glen
Their dark intentions to kill and plunder
we were out numbered, no hope there was
No where to cope, no place to wander

The devil's dogs, or so they seemed,
Pressed us to our best
But out of the mist the hero rose
Rose and met the test

Out of the mist a figure appeared
rising like a giant spruce
Out of the mist appeared a figure
No one save the mighty Bruce

The savage cry and the righteous blade
Banished them to hell
With courage so strong and bravery that's rare
God knows he'll never fail

The legend will continue throughout the age
Of mighty Bruce and his glorious rage
A story to warn the dogs from hell
Never ever cross the dale

But Bruce's tale will not end here
For travel he must across the sea
Find he must what no one can fear
Find he must his destiny

Bruce the mighty, you know your way home
Where the grass is green, near the ocean's foam
Follow your dreams to whatever end
Know how to kill, but learn how to mend