Because, y'see, there's this fine pair o'Irish lads who perform under the name of Men of Worth (though they joke that they have, in fact, become Men of Girth). And while they're as fine a pair o'lads as ever you'll hear, I must purge teh Eeevul of das Earwürm from mah BRANE. Because if "Roses of Prince Charlie" runs through my head one more time this morning, I may have to travel across the water mysel', find the grave o' the Pretender frae Oe'r the Water, and PISS ON IT.
I hold the Pretender more or less single-handedly responsible for setting in motion the destruction of the Highland clans and the Scouring of the Glens. Discuss.
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And let's not get into the Campbells...
I STILL regard this whole thing as the last hurrah of the English Civil War and the Curse of Mary Queen of Scots. (Actually, the last of the Curse of Mary played out in the Russian Revolution, but that's another story...)
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"Campbells? Guid soup, laddie. -- Oh, ye didnae mean those Campbells?"