The Jacobite Uprising of 1747
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In seventeen ‘undred and forty six, at Culloden I hear tell
There’s many a Highland man and brave, in bloody battle fell

They died for cause o’ Charlie Stuart, who to the throne laid claim
But King George said “’Ands off, it’s mine!”, and mud were Charlie’s name

But Charlie weren’t for givin’ up – ‘e thought it were a cinch
‘E got on t’ phone to t’ King o’ France – “Canst pick me up in t’ Minch?”

They ‘auled young Charlie Stuart on board – ‘e weren’t a pretty sight
‘E’d seaweed danglin’ off ‘is wig, and ladders in ‘is tights

‘E brought some lass called Flora too – as tall as she were wide
‘E slipped the bosun ‘alf a crown, to shove ‘er over t’ side

They took ‘im back to Gay Paris, and there ‘e tried to rest
Surrounded by mesdemoiselles; but anger plagued ‘is breast

“Why can’t I be King and all?” ‘e cried for all to ‘ear
“They’ll not find better bloke ‘n me – I’ll try again next year!”
“This time I’ll not do things by ‘alves; I’ll plan it in advance
And if I take an army too, I might stand better chance.”

‘E gathered twenty thousand men, the finest in the land
Each armed wi’ pair o’ wellies, ‘and Swiss Army Knife in ‘and

In seventeen ‘undred forty seven, Charlie Stuart set sail
It were rainin’off the coast o’ France, and blowin’ ‘alf a gale

They ‘eaded straight for t’ Isle o’ Skye, and landed at high tide
And camped upon Glenbrittle’s strand, beneath the mountainside

They came at length to Sliggy Can, and march they could no more
Their legs was gettin’ jelly-like, and their feet was ‘awfy sore

Charlie’s army took their ease, all seated on the ground
Said t’ lads; “We’re all off down the pub – and ‘appen it’s your round!”

The man at t’ door said “No yer don’t – we’ll ‘ave no boots in ‘ere!”
So round they went to t’ public bar, followin’ t’ smell o’ beer

The place were full o’ climbers though; a boisterous brigade.
Said Charlie; “Twenty thousand pints! – and mine’s a lemonade.”

The climbers laughed at Charlie’s wig, and fun at ‘im did poke
They tied ‘im up in prussik loops, and thought it quite a joke

On t’ evenin’ o’ the second day, to Broadford Town they came
Charles were much the worse for wear – and ‘is men was much the same

In Tourist Information Booth they bivied safe from ‘arm
Wi’ fire o’ Ordnance Survey maps to keep their tootsies warm

But Charlie stayed up late that night, a-pacin’ up and down
‘E chewed ‘is nails and picked ‘is nose, and wore a worried frown

‘E were just on t’ point o’ turnin’ in, when a figure ‘e did see
‘Twas Flora, shufflin’ up the street, and whistlin’ out o’ key

Of a sudden, she caught sight o’ ‘im; “Ee, Charlie Lad!” she cried
Yon lass were even wider now – and Charlie, ‘e knew why....

As day were dawnin’ bright and clear, they came to t’ waterside
The ferry lay at anchor there, a floatin’ on the tide

The boatman’s name were Jock MacBrayne, a rogue wi’ shifty stare
E’d run the ferry forty year, and never missed a fare

‘E eyed up Charlie Stewart’s lot, and rubbed ‘is ‘ands wi’ glee
‘Twas fivepence each to cross to Kyle for all ‘is men and ‘e

“Twenty thousand fivepences” MacBrayne said, “Let me see –
That means yer’ll owe a thousand quid – excludin’ VAT!”

“A thousand quid!” exclaimed the Prince, “My purse won’t run to that!”
“Yer’d best ‘ave whip-round then” says Jock, “In yonder frilly ‘at!”

“Damn yer ferry boat!” said Charles, “We’ll walk across instead.
Is’t deep out there?” and Jock says “Aye, it’s ‘appen o’er your ‘ead!”

“Water’s cold this time o’ year, there’s icebergs out to sea,
And t’ sharks is gettin’ ‘ungry too, for meaty lads like thee!”

Charlie’s plight were sorry one; ‘e shed a bitter tear
A thousand miles from France e’d come, and all were ended ‘ere

‘Is glorious quest o’ “Britain’s” crown, wi’ all its power and fame
A-thwarted by a ferryman by name o’ Jock MacBrayne

MacBrayne still plies the Scottish seas, though now ‘e’s fairly old
‘E rules the Outer ‘Ebrides wi silver and wi gold

‘Is ferries carry sheep and goats and climbers by the score
And ‘appen ‘e’ll be sailing on from now till evermore

So now you know the tale in full, ‘ow dreams o’ Stewart died
By graspin’ ‘ands o’ Jock MacBrayne, upon the Isle o’ Skye