Uprisin' an' Doonfa'
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Historical
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Bliadhn 'a Phrionnsa? Mo thoin! – The year of the Prince? My Arse! Remembering the butchery of Culloden in prose and verse.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: Bliadhn 'a Phrionnsa? Mo thoin! – The year of the Prince? My Arse! Remembering the butchery of Culloden in prose and verse.
Ten meenits, ten bluidy meenits ago! A wis ‘hale, wi’ ma blood pumpin’ an’ A had a future! Noo’, A cannae feel ma legs, let alane move the buggers! A hae a future bit yin that's nae langer than a 17” bayonet!
We had stood ranked, as we had sae mony times afore. Aw’ the ithir times, the enemy had run when we chairged shoutin’ oor clan slogans, Tippermuir, Prestonpans an’ Falkirk! This time we stood, in the sleet, as lang as we could thole their canonade. Oor wee fower pounders fired a few volleys, then buggered off. Their canon fired constantly. Fortunately the grund didnae allow them tae graze their ba’s sae they would skim aff an’ plough through oor ranks. They had tae aim straight at us, sae mony ba’s flew high bit some fun’ their gory marks! Big “Gaddy” Angus, wha never spoke, showed me exactly whit wis oan his mind, when a Government ba’ neatly took aff his heid an’ sprayed me wi’ blood an’ brains! It must hae been deflected doon ‘cause it took Tamas, in the next row, in the chest then smashed Young Hector’s drum an’ gelded the pair wee bugger!
Onythin’ wis better than this, some o’ Clan Chattan, tae oor left, sterted tae chairge. Despite Young Loch Eil an’ his brother’s shouts tae “Hold your ground!” Oor fear, frustration an’ anger wis released in a furious, futile an’ useless chairge! As we ran taewards the Government lines their gunners chinged frae roond shot tae canister, a bag o’ pistol ba’s which spread oot in a cone, takin’ mony victims each shot. They were aided in their slaughter by oor ranks bein’ compressed by clansmen, comin’ frae oor left, squeezin’ ower tae avoid the bog tae their front.
Thon erse, O’Suliven, the Prince’s Quartermaister, widnae be telt aboot this field bein’ aw’ wrang fir us! Even oor lines were wrang wi’ the left flank haein’ further tae run than us an’ a bluidy bog atween the twa flanks!! By Christ there’d been a wheen o’ “no’ listenin’” goin’ oan, ever since thon day Clans Cameron an’ Stewart merched tae Glenfinnan!
Ma Bethan wis aw' a biz when she heard that the Prince had sent a message tae Achnacarry, askin’ Lochiel tae rise fir him an’ his faither. It wis“Oh! Donal, ye hae tae go an’ tak’ back oor King’s throne!” Aye, richt, as if we’d ony choice! When the Chief decided tae go, his factors wid hae made gie short work o’ ony faim'ly wha didnae send a faither or a son tae swell the Clan’s ranks! When we got tae the meetin’ point, we were “Mon Braves!” A wee laddie, wi’ a haun’ fu’ o’ followers, greeted us in an accent sae thick an’ laced wi’ drink, maist o’ us couldnae understan’ a word he said. We soon fun’ oot that “Mon braves” meant “cannon fodder”, expected tae fecht an’ die tae achieve his goals, then bugger off back tae oor hills an’ oot o’ his wy’! Dr Archie, Locheil’s brother, telt us how he widnae listen tae sense, efter Prestonpans, he wanted England, Scotland wis just a means tae that end! Oh, he promised French troops landin’ tae join us an’ loyal Englishmen flockin’ tae oor colours! Nae French materialised an’ the English locals looked oan us as invaders an’ A cannae say A blamed them! When at last Lord Murray an’ the Clan Chiefs had had enough an’ forced a retreat frae Derby, he treated us aw’ as betrayers an’ traitors! His arrogance, impervious tae ony word o’ sense!
We’d been sent, efter the cock up o’ no’ followin’ up the victory at Falkirk, tae lay siege tae Fort William. Oh, the temptation tae desert! Then we were ca’d tae Inverness, only tae be sent, cauld tired an’ hungry, tae jine in a nicht attack oan Cumberland’s camp, wha, evidently, had been celebratin’ his birthday. We were tae be guided by McPherson’s, weel oor twa members o’ the Clan o’ Cats, must hae been at the back o’ the queue when nicht vision an’ stealth wis beinin’ gie’n oot! We trudged through bog, dub, burn runnels an’ aw’ manner o’ slaisterin’ grund for bluidy hoors! We didnae get within fower miles o’ the Government camp afore the ‘hale attack wis ca’d off! When we got back tae Drumossie, it wis tae find oot that O’-bluidy-Sulliven wis unweel an’ ower busy bein’ leeched, that he hadnae the time tae arrange food for the wet, cauld, exhausted an’ starvin’ troops!
Sae there we chairged, oan the right flank, bein’ withered by Government ba’, oor lines squeezed by the movement o’ clansmen frae the left, makin’ as perfect a target as ony artillery man could wish. In sheer frustration we stopped, far ower early, an’ let off a volley frae oor pieces, which we then discarded. We chairged wi’ targe, sword an’ dirk. Cannister sprayin’ us withoot mercy, then at aboot 60 paces the Redcoats fired a volley. Boadies fell aw’where bit we pressed oor chairge hame. A wis pushed back in the ranks, by the crush, an’ only got as far as the abandoned Government guns. A never came tae grips wi’ ony Redcoat! We broke the first Government regiment in front o’ us bit oor chairge had stalled. Murray wis tryin’ tae get mair troops tae help fir a flankin’ move. There wis nae time, the Government second rank opened fire wi’ cannon an’ musket. Suddenly, the stupidity o’ the ‘hale bluidy thing seemed tae dawn oan us aw’, we were bein’ slaughtered fir bugger aw’! Fir an ungratefu’, in-bred, arrogant, drunken waster! We broke, tryin’ tae get awa’ frae their fire. On the retreat, we were raked by fire frae a battalion o’, ”Cruchan” cryin’, Campbells frae ahint the wa’ that had bounded oor right flank. A ran, desperate tae be clear o’ this hell, when a ba’ took me in the knee, as A stopped anithir ba’ hit me in the back. A dropped bit as A lay there, A couldnae believe that A felt nae pain! Then A fun’ oot why, A couldnae move ma legs. A saw Dr Archie helpin’ Locheil bit there wis nae help fir me!
A must hae passed oot, openin’ ma een, A saw naethin’ but bodies lyin’ still, crawlin’ or moanin’ in pain. Red sodgers were lootin’ (as if ony o’ us had onythin’, still oan us, worth stealin’) an’ bayonetin’ survivors. Ma een darkened again, an’ aw’ the disillusionment, frustrations, fear, privations an’ pure bluidy idiocy o’ the campaign flashed through ma brain, till, at last, A settled in the succour o’ Beth’s airms. As A raised ma heid frae her breest an’ looked intae her kind, weel ken’t face, ma een re-opened an’ A saw white. No’ an angel bit the gaiters o’ a trooper, A looked up saw his red coat bit the sleet bleared ma een sae A couldnae see his face bit A could see the descendin’ tip o’ his bayo…………………….
We had stood ranked, as we had sae mony times afore. Aw’ the ithir times, the enemy had run when we chairged shoutin’ oor clan slogans, Tippermuir, Prestonpans an’ Falkirk! This time we stood, in the sleet, as lang as we could thole their canonade. Oor wee fower pounders fired a few volleys, then buggered off. Their canon fired constantly. Fortunately the grund didnae allow them tae graze their ba’s sae they would skim aff an’ plough through oor ranks. They had tae aim straight at us, sae mony ba’s flew high bit some fun’ their gory marks! Big “Gaddy” Angus, wha never spoke, showed me exactly whit wis oan his mind, when a Government ba’ neatly took aff his heid an’ sprayed me wi’ blood an’ brains! It must hae been deflected doon ‘cause it took Tamas, in the next row, in the chest then smashed Young Hector’s drum an’ gelded the pair wee bugger!
Onythin’ wis better than this, some o’ Clan Chattan, tae oor left, sterted tae chairge. Despite Young Loch Eil an’ his brother’s shouts tae “Hold your ground!” Oor fear, frustration an’ anger wis released in a furious, futile an’ useless chairge! As we ran taewards the Government lines their gunners chinged frae roond shot tae canister, a bag o’ pistol ba’s which spread oot in a cone, takin’ mony victims each shot. They were aided in their slaughter by oor ranks bein’ compressed by clansmen, comin’ frae oor left, squeezin’ ower tae avoid the bog tae their front.
Thon erse, O’Suliven, the Prince’s Quartermaister, widnae be telt aboot this field bein’ aw’ wrang fir us! Even oor lines were wrang wi’ the left flank haein’ further tae run than us an’ a bluidy bog atween the twa flanks!! By Christ there’d been a wheen o’ “no’ listenin’” goin’ oan, ever since thon day Clans Cameron an’ Stewart merched tae Glenfinnan!
Ma Bethan wis aw' a biz when she heard that the Prince had sent a message tae Achnacarry, askin’ Lochiel tae rise fir him an’ his faither. It wis“Oh! Donal, ye hae tae go an’ tak’ back oor King’s throne!” Aye, richt, as if we’d ony choice! When the Chief decided tae go, his factors wid hae made gie short work o’ ony faim'ly wha didnae send a faither or a son tae swell the Clan’s ranks! When we got tae the meetin’ point, we were “Mon Braves!” A wee laddie, wi’ a haun’ fu’ o’ followers, greeted us in an accent sae thick an’ laced wi’ drink, maist o’ us couldnae understan’ a word he said. We soon fun’ oot that “Mon braves” meant “cannon fodder”, expected tae fecht an’ die tae achieve his goals, then bugger off back tae oor hills an’ oot o’ his wy’! Dr Archie, Locheil’s brother, telt us how he widnae listen tae sense, efter Prestonpans, he wanted England, Scotland wis just a means tae that end! Oh, he promised French troops landin’ tae join us an’ loyal Englishmen flockin’ tae oor colours! Nae French materialised an’ the English locals looked oan us as invaders an’ A cannae say A blamed them! When at last Lord Murray an’ the Clan Chiefs had had enough an’ forced a retreat frae Derby, he treated us aw’ as betrayers an’ traitors! His arrogance, impervious tae ony word o’ sense!
We’d been sent, efter the cock up o’ no’ followin’ up the victory at Falkirk, tae lay siege tae Fort William. Oh, the temptation tae desert! Then we were ca’d tae Inverness, only tae be sent, cauld tired an’ hungry, tae jine in a nicht attack oan Cumberland’s camp, wha, evidently, had been celebratin’ his birthday. We were tae be guided by McPherson’s, weel oor twa members o’ the Clan o’ Cats, must hae been at the back o’ the queue when nicht vision an’ stealth wis beinin’ gie’n oot! We trudged through bog, dub, burn runnels an’ aw’ manner o’ slaisterin’ grund for bluidy hoors! We didnae get within fower miles o’ the Government camp afore the ‘hale attack wis ca’d off! When we got back tae Drumossie, it wis tae find oot that O’-bluidy-Sulliven wis unweel an’ ower busy bein’ leeched, that he hadnae the time tae arrange food for the wet, cauld, exhausted an’ starvin’ troops!
Sae there we chairged, oan the right flank, bein’ withered by Government ba’, oor lines squeezed by the movement o’ clansmen frae the left, makin’ as perfect a target as ony artillery man could wish. In sheer frustration we stopped, far ower early, an’ let off a volley frae oor pieces, which we then discarded. We chairged wi’ targe, sword an’ dirk. Cannister sprayin’ us withoot mercy, then at aboot 60 paces the Redcoats fired a volley. Boadies fell aw’where bit we pressed oor chairge hame. A wis pushed back in the ranks, by the crush, an’ only got as far as the abandoned Government guns. A never came tae grips wi’ ony Redcoat! We broke the first Government regiment in front o’ us bit oor chairge had stalled. Murray wis tryin’ tae get mair troops tae help fir a flankin’ move. There wis nae time, the Government second rank opened fire wi’ cannon an’ musket. Suddenly, the stupidity o’ the ‘hale bluidy thing seemed tae dawn oan us aw’, we were bein’ slaughtered fir bugger aw’! Fir an ungratefu’, in-bred, arrogant, drunken waster! We broke, tryin’ tae get awa’ frae their fire. On the retreat, we were raked by fire frae a battalion o’, ”Cruchan” cryin’, Campbells frae ahint the wa’ that had bounded oor right flank. A ran, desperate tae be clear o’ this hell, when a ba’ took me in the knee, as A stopped anithir ba’ hit me in the back. A dropped bit as A lay there, A couldnae believe that A felt nae pain! Then A fun’ oot why, A couldnae move ma legs. A saw Dr Archie helpin’ Locheil bit there wis nae help fir me!
A must hae passed oot, openin’ ma een, A saw naethin’ but bodies lyin’ still, crawlin’ or moanin’ in pain. Red sodgers were lootin’ (as if ony o’ us had onythin’, still oan us, worth stealin’) an’ bayonetin’ survivors. Ma een darkened again, an’ aw’ the disillusionment, frustrations, fear, privations an’ pure bluidy idiocy o’ the campaign flashed through ma brain, till, at last, A settled in the succour o’ Beth’s airms. As A raised ma heid frae her breest an’ looked intae her kind, weel ken’t face, ma een re-opened an’ A saw white. No’ an angel bit the gaiters o’ a trooper, A looked up saw his red coat bit the sleet bleared ma een sae A couldnae see his face bit A could see the descendin’ tip o’ his bayo…………………….
Culloden
Tune:- Bonnie Gallowa'
Under April's weeping skies,
blood an' sleet baith blear my eyes,
this musket ball, my only prize,
wae for Alba!
I mind yon, long-gone, summer's day,
oor clansmen, marshalled, in array,
Camerons marchin', tae the frae,
aw' for Alba!
Lochaber rang wi', gallant, cheers.
My sweetheart, Beth's face stained wi' tears,
her heart, baith filled wi' pride an' fears,
aw' for Alba!
We cleansed the English, frae oor land,
for the Prince, we made oor stand,
but southern throne, was his demand,
wae for Alba!
Though, we suffered nae defeat,
frae Derby, made oor lang retreat,
starvin' men on' blistered feet,
wae for Alba!
On dark Drumossie Muir we fought,
one mair victory we sought,
but Stuart's cause, is dearly bought,
wae for Alba!
Locheil lead the Cameron charge,
the English lines, tae hack an' barge,
but bayonets, overcame the targe,
wae for Alba!
Oh! had fate, been on, oor side,
the Clans, that, could hae turned the tide,
lie slaughtered, aw' for Stuart pride,
wae for Alba!
As my life, now, drains away,
for my country I maun pray,
but wi' the seer' eyes ,I say,
wae for Alba!
I see, oor culture's shattered pride,
I see, oor clansmen scattered wide,
oor Nation, intae bondage slide,
wae for Alba!
I look at death, now, in the face,
tae die, in battle's, nae disgrace,
as bayonets come, tae bring me grace,
wae for Alba!
I see, the face, o' my ain Beth,
but at this hour o' my death,
pray wi' my last conscious breath,
God Bless Alba!
Tune:- Bonnie Gallowa'
Under April's weeping skies,
blood an' sleet baith blear my eyes,
this musket ball, my only prize,
wae for Alba!
I mind yon, long-gone, summer's day,
oor clansmen, marshalled, in array,
Camerons marchin', tae the frae,
aw' for Alba!
Lochaber rang wi', gallant, cheers.
My sweetheart, Beth's face stained wi' tears,
her heart, baith filled wi' pride an' fears,
aw' for Alba!
We cleansed the English, frae oor land,
for the Prince, we made oor stand,
but southern throne, was his demand,
wae for Alba!
Though, we suffered nae defeat,
frae Derby, made oor lang retreat,
starvin' men on' blistered feet,
wae for Alba!
On dark Drumossie Muir we fought,
one mair victory we sought,
but Stuart's cause, is dearly bought,
wae for Alba!
Locheil lead the Cameron charge,
the English lines, tae hack an' barge,
but bayonets, overcame the targe,
wae for Alba!
Oh! had fate, been on, oor side,
the Clans, that, could hae turned the tide,
lie slaughtered, aw' for Stuart pride,
wae for Alba!
As my life, now, drains away,
for my country I maun pray,
but wi' the seer' eyes ,I say,
wae for Alba!
I see, oor culture's shattered pride,
I see, oor clansmen scattered wide,
oor Nation, intae bondage slide,
wae for Alba!
I look at death, now, in the face,
tae die, in battle's, nae disgrace,
as bayonets come, tae bring me grace,
wae for Alba!
I see, the face, o' my ain Beth,
but at this hour o' my death,
pray wi' my last conscious breath,
God Bless Alba!
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!