Author Information
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...
