The Ghosts Of Glamis Poem by Roy Ballard

I went to Glamis. I'd time to share
with friends at arms commanding there.
The towers are high; the bridge is wide;
the trees nearby march side by side.

They let me pass; the sword I wore,
though made of glass, was honoured more
in Highland tracts, in lands of flood
and cataracts, than noble blood.

Where roses grew a clansman stood;
I never knew nor understood
how he came there with step so light,
from empty air to broad daylight.

This gallowglass gave me a grin
and then the pass that let me in.
They say the ghost is not the one
who stirs you most but common-run.

Within its holy place I sat
but found no face to wonder at
so left for air till, frail but braw,
an aged pair outside I saw.

Some small requests the old man made
such as on guests might have been laid.
Upon the spot I took his list
and like a Scot I held my tryst.

I held my tryst like any Scot;
soon met again he knew me not.
What sprite was this with power no more
to mind a face he lately saw?

How could he dwell on earth at all
with new acquaintance past recall?
The last-post blew with notes that bled
for these poor ghosts, alive or dead.