Upon the moor where morning’s mist did cling,
Brave hearts arrayed ’neath tartan, cold and proud,
Did charge for faith, for kin, for rightful king,
While fate assembled darkly in a cloud.
The lion roared with Hanoverian might,
Steel cracked on steel, and blood sank in the peat;
Yet still they stood, though crushed by weight and right,
Their final breath both bitter and elite.
No altar left, no Mass, no Gaelic song—
The sword made still what prayer could not defend.
Though history crowns the side deemed bold and strong,
We know too well which cause met nobler end.
So mourn the moor, where hopes once brightly shone:
For at Culloden, aye—the wrong side won.