Poor Charlie and the 45

Lured across the water with promises of glory,

Could barely speak the language,

More at home with French or Polish tongues

And what little English he comprehended

Was bastardized by these highland rogues.

Weather alone would give the poor weak lad

Much cause to reconsider his decision

To attempt to seize the mantle of his forebears.

Crossing the water to Alba’s shore,

Greeted by an army, not half of what was promised,

Brandishing spears and broadswords.

Convinced this pampered weak-ish lad,

Little skilled in military strategies or tactics

Was to be their King, restoring the Stuart line.

They followed from Eriskay to Edinburgh

Driving south with dreams to seize the Crown,

Then driven back again to take a stand

On the bloody bog of Culloden.

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