Long had been the toil, tiny had been the spoils. For the march south had been a curse, the march back north had been much worse. But it is my right had cried the prince those long days ago, but now what would the Jacobites' think if he'd been lost in some fierce snow? But no, fate played a different card, and soon many'a life would that prince disregard. For this prince had been a selfish sod, caring not for others whilst he was on the trod, perhaps this little boy had thought he'd been sent by the almighty god?
But that has little meaning today, but for many families who lost their rightful way. For many'a Man was butchered that day, made to pay for that rats prolonged stay. It was on the boggy marsh they made their stand, they fought till the last loyal man. Hark they cried, claymore they sighed , but alas our kilted men in all their honour died.
But as they looked on before the dawn, at their battle lines they had drawn. One would see the pale Scottish sky, perhaps a single tear trickling down a lone Jacobites' whitened eye.