 |
Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms |
|
|
|
This is the story in verse of a mighty battle in 1746 that lasted less than an hour
On Culloden Moor, close to the Scottish city of Inverness in the Eastern Highlands,
Where the English army of King George had come to put down a rebellion against English
rule led by the young Pretender to the Scottish throne, Charles Edward Stuart.
The author wrote this after visiting the battlefield and studying the mass grave markers of
those gallant, if poorly equipped, clansmen who died before the British guns and cavalry.
This is dedicated to their memory, and to his own kinsmen who died among them.
Culloden is a tract of moor six miles from Inverness,
A haunted place that Scots remember well.
For it brings back recollections with a heartfelt bitterness
Of that final desperate battle where a thousand clansmen fell.
Charles Edward Stuart, of royal blood, laid claim to
Scotland’s throne,
(Though many Scots believed his claim was spurious)
The Jacobites supported him, and hailed him as their own
They rose against the English twice, and both times were
victorious.
Now Scotland had with England been united ‘neath the rule
Of the Hanoverian Crown for forty years,
And the German King, grown wearisome of being played the fool,
Dispatched an army to put down the mutineers.
Nine thousand soldiers, with the Duke of Cumberland
commanding,
Encamped at Nairn with spirits high that morn,
To celebrate his birthday, whilst the Highlanders were banding
Eight miles away across the moor, half-starved, footsore and
worn.
They numbered some five thousand men, all trusted, tried and
true.
In clans and families, they stood and waited.
From some clans there were hundreds, from others there were
few,
But all by dedication to a noble cause related.
There were Camerons, MacDonalds, Gordons, Stewarts and
MacLeans,
There were Murrays, Ogilvies, MacCalls and Frasers.
There were Farquharsons and Fletchers, MacLarens and MacBains,
And Forbes and Hays and Forsters armed with claymores sharp as
razors.
There were Livingstones, McKinnons, MacLachlans and MacCraes,
There were Chisholmes, Oliphants and there were Drummonds,
And old MacDonnell, chief of Keppoch, in the twilight of his
days,
All gathered there together at the Bonnie Prince’s summons.
Throughout the long dark night upon the cold, damp moor they
lay,
Bereft of food and sleep to wait the dawning
Of what, for many gallant souls would be their dying day,
But scarce a man among them feared the coming of the morning.
As dawn’s grey light came stealing over mist-enshrouded
heather,
From the distance came the rattling of a drum,
And the gaunt and hungry Scots unsheathed their claymores from
the leather
And formed in battle-order for the bloody fray to come.
Then up across the moorland, first the heads and then the
shoulders
Of the scarlet-tuniced English came in sight,
Approaching ever nearer, with the measured tread of soldiers
Fully drilled and skilled in killing, with their bayonets
gleaming bright.
The highlanders were drawn up in a wide-spaced double rank
And behind them a small troop of cavalry.
Whilst before them in their serried lines, with dragoons on
each flank,
Stood the Hanoverian army, backed by field artillery.
With a deafening crash of thunder, eighteen field guns fired
as one,
And great gaps appeared among the ranks of Scots.
The battle of Culloden Moor in earnest had begun
And Highlanders with targs and swords faced English
musket-shots.
As the cannon fire ripped through them, like the old Grim
Reaper’s Scythe,
The Scots at first were stunned and robbed of breath,
But as Comrades fell around them, their anger came alive
And they broke their ranks and charged the foe – to Victory or
Death!
The enemy awaited them in ordered ranks of threes,
First rank kneeling, second crouching, third upright,
And their rapid volley-firing felled the Highlanders like
trees
As they ran toward them wildly in a bid to close the fight.
On the left, the Scots were halted and flung back in great
confusion
Whilst Cumberland’s dragoons attacked their rear.
But they bravely stood their ground against this cavalry
intrusion
And sold their lives for Scotland – but the price they asked
was dear!
On the right they battled through the lines with energy and
strength
And drove on through the open breach in hordes
But the English soldiers’ muskets kept the swordsmen at arm’s
length
And they thrust their bayonets upward as the clansmen raised
their swords.
Though the Scots fought with great courage, they were weary
and untrained,
Whilst the Englishmen were fresh and well-equipped
With guns and ammunition, and their leaden bullets rained
On the clansmen, and upon the heather Scotland’s lifeblood
dripped.
Outnumbered and outflanked, the Scots fell backward in
retreat,
Pursued by Hanoverians in full spate,
While the would-be King of Scotland, recognising his defeat,
Fled safe away - and left his brave supporters to their fate!
Oh, the carnage that took place upon that dark and dreadful
moor!
Oh, the feats of futile Scottish bravery!
Oh, the thousand lives the clansmen gave, before they would
endure
The Hanoverian prison hulks or yokes of slavery!
The Hanoverian army, with their victory inflamed,
Rampaged the land with slaughter, rape and pillage,
Whilst Highland crofters had to stand, all helpless and
ashamed,
As Englishmen and renegades burned every croft and village!
A thousand gallant Scots were caught who fought upon that day,
Denounced by traitors. (Long live their ill fame!)
They were to Edinburgh brought and with their heads did pay.
And George of England banned the kilt, and thus did Scotland
shame!
Long did Scotland suffer desperate hunger and privations
And many insults had she to endure
In the name of "Bonnie Charlie" and his lofty aspirations
That ended in such tragedy upon Culloden Moor!
Gearald MacDonald Forster
© Gerry Forster 2002