Jacobitism

Jacobitism was a political movement that supported the restoration of the senior line of the House of Stuart to the British throne. The name derives from the first name of James II of England, which is rendered in Latin as Jacobus. When James went into exile after the November 1688 Glorious Revolution, the Parliament of England decided that he had abandoned the English throne, which they offered to his Protestant daughter Mary II of England, and her husband William III. In April, the Scottish Convention held that James "forfeited" the throne of Scotland by his actions, listed in the Articles of Grievances.

In fiction

 * To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him, I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime, Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep, Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting place I asked, an early grave. Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see, By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
 * Lord Macaulay, "Epitaph on a Jacobite" (wr. 1845; pub. 1860)


 * The old men sat with hats pulled down, Their claret cups before them: Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes,  The tavern lamps shone o’er them, As a brimming bowl, with crystal fill’d,  Came borne by the landlord’s daughter, Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose,  That grew best over the water.Then all leap’d up, and join’d their hands  With hearty clasp and greeting, The brimming cups, outstretch’d by all,  Over the wide bowl meeting. “A health,” they cried, “to the witching eyes  Of Kate, the landlord’s daughter! But don’t forget the white, white rose  That grows best over the water.”Each others’ cups they touch’d all round,  The last red drop outpouring; Then with a cry that warm’d the blood,  One heart-born chorus roaring— “Let the glass go round, to pretty Kate,  The landlord’s black-eyed daughter. But never forget the white, white rose  That grows best over the water.”Then hats flew up and swords sprang out,  And lusty rang the chorus— “Never,” they cried, “while Scots are Scots,  And the broad Frith’s before us.” A ruby ring the glasses shine  As they toast the landlord’s daughter, Because she wore the white, white rose  That grew best over the water.A poet cried, “Our thistle’s brave,  With all its stings and prickles; The shamrock with its holy leaf  Is spar’d by Irish sickles. But bumpers round, for what are these  To Kate, the landlord’s daughter, Who wears at her bosom the rose as white,  That grows best over the water?”They dash’d the glasses at the wall,  No lip might touch them after; The toast had sanctified the cups  That smash’d against the rafter; Then chairs thrown back, they up again,  To toast the landlord’s daughter. But never forgot the white, white rose  That grew best over the water.
 * George Walter Thornbury, "The White Rose over the Water" in Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads, Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. (1857)


 * He tripp’d up the steps with a bow and a smile, Offering snuff to the chaplain the while, A rose at his button-hole that afternoon— ’Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.Then shrugging his shoulders he look’d at the man With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.He look’d at the mob, as they roar’d, with a stare, And took snuff again with a cynical air. “I’m happy to give but a moment’s delight To the flower of my country agog for a sight.”Then he look’d at the block, and with scented cravat Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat, Kiss’d his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd, Then smiling, turn’d round to the headsman and bow’d.“God save King James!” he cried bravely and shrill, And the cry reach’d the houses at foot of the hill, “My friend, with the axe, à votre service,” he said; And ran his white thumb ’long the edge of the blade.When the multitude hissed he stood firm as a rock; Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block, He kiss’d a white rose, in a moment ’twas red With the life of the bravest of any that bled.
 * George Walter Thornbury, "The Jacobite on Tower Hill" in Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads, Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. (1857)


 * Speed bonnie boat like a bird on the wing, Onward, the sailors cry. Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye.Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, Thunderclaps rend the air, Baffled, our foes stand by the shore, Follow they will not dare.Many’s the lad fought on that day, Well the claymore could wield, When the night came, silently lay Dead in Culloden’s field.Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep, Ocean’s a royal bed. Rock’d in the deep Flora will keep Watch o’er your weary head.Burned are our homes, exile and death, Scattered the loyal men. Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath, Charlie will come again.
 * Sir Harold Edwin Boulton, 2nd Bt, Songs of the North (1884)


 * Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day  Over the sea to Skye.Mull was astern, Rum on the port,  Eigg on the starboard bow; Glory of youth glowed in his soul;  Where is that glory now?Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,  Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day  Over the sea to Skye.Give me again all that was there,  Give me the sun that shone! Give me the eyes, give me the soul,  Give me the lad that’s gone!Sing me a song of a lad that is gone,  Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day  Over the sea to Skye.Billow and breeze, islands and seas,  Mountains of rain and sun, All that was good, all that was fair,  All that was me is gone.
 * Robert Louis Stevenson, Songs of Travel and Other Verses (1896)