At Swarkestone
It is, often said that Bonnie Prince Charlie got as far as Derby in his invasion of 1745. In fact he reached Swarkestone, some nine miles further south.
J. G. Collingwood, The River Trent
He turned back here. Anyone would. After The long romantic journey from the North To be faced with this. A so what? sort of place, A place, that, like a mirror, makes you see.
A scrubby ridge, impassive river, and beyond, The flats of middle England. History waited To absorb him. Parliaments, dynasties, empires Lay beyond these turnip fields. Not what he wanted.
He could have done it. The German Royals Had packed their bags, there was a run On the Bank of England, London stood open as jelly.
Nobody could have stopped him. This place did.
And the hurricane that blew his cause from Moidart In a bluster of kilts and claymores and bright red hair Faded at Swarkestone as they turned their backs, Withdrawing into battle, slaughter, song.
U. A. Fanthorpe
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