Cumberlands Culloden.

"Scotland"s soul will be mine."

So thought the Young Pretender

on that grey dreich day.

"Scotland"s soul be ours."

The Clans stared off down the

wind swept heather.

Below the English bayonet and musket

were a plenty,

here upon their land on mass.

Barely midday,

the battle cries went high in to the wind,

kilts swirled as sodden feet try to run

over boggy marshland,

straight in to English gun.

Highland Scots aplenty, forigners a naw

there was many a battle shout,

for all the mighty Clans knew

it was do or die.

The peat bogs were the downfall

hardly time to reach their lines,

hardly time to swing a claymore

till the musket shot held sport.

The battle it was brutal

it lasted but an hour.

The Scots they were undone.

The Bonnie lad escaped

and the Butcher earned his name,

the killing time began...

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