Robert The Bruce

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Through the south gate of the city,
The Bruce rides into town,
The bright and keane-eyed jewell,
Hughes head invites the crown.
“Oh, kneel!” a coppell of bishops cry,
As he rides the last few moyles,
We grant to you the kingship
And the wealth of North Sea oils.”



Nine, I make it.

Source: https://footballpoets.org/poems/robert-the-bruce/