Guess I get to wear the shining armour now,Or t-shirts with jeans,Or an over the top gown;It doesn't really matter so long as I'm doing the saving of me.
I'm at war with love and all the things it should be,All the standards I lifted from well sprung fairytales and failed to imprint on the maps of life.I've stained my hand with pretty paint and received a gruesome picture,So I've taken to sulking at the mishap,Because, no one warned me how messy love will be.
I have a funny way of showing it,My lips turn down when they should be up;Rather than nourish, I starveBecause thinner limbs with bulging lips are the fad.I never let my tears touch the ground but muffle them,Stifling my body's right to raze.It's never me I reach for, it's always someone else or something new,Something that shines but dims in my grasp.Tell me I'm wrong, that all that neglect was because I was coming home to me;The only time I looked at me was when I caught me unawares from the depths of parked car windows.Who will blame me for thinking I didn't love me enough.
When you offer me your love,Do not offer it halfway and insist I see the glass half full,I am not a reservoir.Do not tell me to walk on coals to meet you;To brave the tides, taking the first step by blind faith,I cannot do that, my box of excuses has reached its limit.If I cannot see your love, shinning on the darkest nightsThen do not offer it to me at all.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.Many a banner spread,Flutters above your head,Many a crest that is famous in story.Mount and make ready then,Sons of the mountain glen,Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Youth of delight! come hitherAnd see the opening morn,Image of Truth new-born.Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,Dark disputes and artful teazing.Folly is an endless maze;Tangled roots perplex her ways;How many have fallen there!They stumble all night over bones of the dead;And feel--they know not what but care;And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,A leaping clay hill lost among the trees,The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrushCaught in a drowsy hushAnd stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.Ah little road, brown as my race is brown,Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!