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Post by CactusJack on Apr 17, 2011 8:13:22 GMT -6
In 1968,My brother-in-law Jim Grady spent 6 months in Europe. He spent a month with relative in Ireland, and then went to Scotland. He spent a day at the Battleground of Culloden. His thoughts on the battle stayed with him for years. Finally when Jim retired in 2000 he started writing this poem. However he never finished it until 2008. It's a long poem so I'll break it up in to segments. THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN April 16, 1746 THE LAST GATHERING OF THE CLANS By Jim Grady
PROLOGUE
Now is the time to gather ‘round my friends For by telling the truth, we may hope to make amends To a generation of Scots who fought and died; And History’s written by the victors and the English have lied.
Charles Stuart, the Bonny Prince, had returned at last, With the help of the Clans, to regain the glories past. From James VI of Scotland, his bloodline was intact, His claim to England’s throne, not just claim but a fact.
And away in the South, in London Town, King George, from Hanover, and his nobles gathered ‘round, “Ill news in the kingdom, Sire, Charles Stuart’s in the North. He speaks again of war and messengers have gone forth.
With his eyes on the throne and rage in his heart, King George feared the worst, his kingdom torn apart. And summoning his general who knelt with bowed head, Then thundered King George, his face mottled and red.
“God gave me this crown, God gave me this throne, God gave me this kingdom to rule as my own. God watches from heaven while I sit here below. His hands on my shoulder. God Himself told me so.”
“Now, go ye north to the highlands, those traitors to find. Go ye north into Scotland, one kingdom to bind. Go ye north into battle with my colors on high Treason abounds in the north and every traitor shall die.”
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Post by CactusJack on Apr 17, 2011 8:13:58 GMT -6
And in early spring, the English army marched north to battle in the Scottish Highlands. It was a very familiar road they traveled.
I
T’was a glorious spring as the Redcoats marched north. The earth was groaning and swelling as life burst forth. From every river and stream, the waters were pouring. But high overhead, the vultures were soaring;
Awaiting their turn after battle.
II
Cumberland, “The Butcher,” rode in the front. The King’s own clenched fist, he was keen for the hunt, They’ll die where I find them and mercy I’ll have not. T’is a fine day to kill me a traitorous Scot.”
Marching north, ever north, toward Scotland
III
The villagers lined every road as the army marched by. An endless ribbon of red that stretched to the sky. In each town, maidens called and children were playing. So they picked up their pace and bragged of their slaying.
IV
In the Highlands to the north, hope battled with despair. As every wife and mother knew, when talk of freedom filled the air, That freedom is a heady wine when it comes into season. But to King George in the south, t’was not wine, it was treason.
And treason meant death for a Highlander.
V
“Oh, Malcolm, my darling, do not leave us to fight. You’re lambs in the field and there are wolves in the night. “You’ve only your broadsword. They’ve a vast army force. They’ve cannon and grapeshot and muskets and horse.
We’re Scots and they’ll show us no mercy.”
VI
“I’ll nae find your body nor bury your bones, Your spirit will linger midst the fields and the stones. They’re proven in battle and they’ll slaughter our clan. They’ll leave not a woman, nor child nor man.
And we’ll starve and we’ll die in the Highlands.”
VII
“This sword was my father’s and his father’s before that. It’s used to kill Englishmen, t’is a fine noble act. It’s been bloodied in battle, in vain would they break it. If King George wants this sword, let him come here and take it.
I’ve naught but this sword and my honor.”
VIII
I cannot bide long when I must come at his beck. His sword’s at my throat, his boot’s on my neck. He taxes my joy, he taxes my sorrow. He taxes my bread for today and tomorrow.
But I’ll fight a free man for Prince Charlie.”
IX
Spring comes late to the Highlands, the nights were yet cold. Frost awaited each sunset in saffron and gold. At first march in the morning, there was ice under heel. But none was as cold as the cold English steel.
Seeking warm blood in battle.
X
So the armies drew near, but one night remaining. For the Clans, death with honor or their freedom thus gaining. But a thousand unnamable terrors were reigning. And the night was cold and the moon was waning.
And the Scots called that place, Culloden
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Post by CactusJack on Apr 17, 2011 8:15:45 GMT -6
THE BATTLE
XI
An abomination is war. Its one aim is to kill. For the Redcoats with cannon, t’was practice, a drill. Their orders their favorite, to “fire at will.” To fire and reload and fire and kill. And kill.
On the day of the slaughter at Culloden
XII
Once again in cruel battle, Scot’s hopes were ground under. In the sleet and the rain and the cannon’s fierce thunder. Once again, after battle, Highland soil ran red, With the blood of Scot martyrs, the maimed and the dead.
After the battle of Culloden
XIII
And in a sudden April storm, fate came certain and fast. For 2,000 Scots, that spring was their last. No honor, no freedom, their lives thus forsaking To die. Aye…death was there for the taking.
On the day of the battle for freedom.
XIV
And late in the day, when the mists arise, Came the moans and the groans and the deathly sighs. But the loudest sounds were the carrion bird’s cries. And the sunset was blood red in steel gray skies.
On the night of the slaughter a Culloden.
XV
The fallen were buried. No blessings were said. Row upon row, no names o’er their head. With life ended, their destiny called them to their eternal home, In rows, endless rows, in the cold Scottish loam.
All the Scots who were killed at Culloden.
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Post by CactusJack on Apr 17, 2011 8:16:40 GMT -6
HE AFTERMATH
XVI
Harsh terms for the clans when the killing was done. Never again to gather as one. Never again the tartan to wear. Oppression, starvation, and new taxes to bear. Never and forever, Freedom’s song to sing. And to bow humbly and forever to the Englishman’s king.
History’s fate for the losers at Culloden.
EPILOGUE
XVII
The Clan’s great quest was freedom. They reckoned not the cost. A fearsome price for freedom… They gave their lives and lost.
And the roll call of Clan dead Is the echo of Scot’s past. And the waste of lives not led Unto eternity shall last.
And now…each April, in Culloden, When there’s a waning crescent moon, You may hear the call to battle, And the bagpipes stirring tune.
And you might watch the ghostly warriors Slowly rise, in rows, and stand. You see…the pipes are calling, Laddie, It’s a gathering of the Clans.
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