David Watt's Buckles
Humour and Hardship in Wartime Scotland
On a cold January day in 1746, just after the thunder of battle had quieted over Falkirk, David Watt—innkeeper, staunch Jacobite, and civic character—found himself in an encounter that was as humiliating as it was absurd. The Jacobite army had won the Second Battle of Falkirk, but the victory brought with it a wave of hungry, tired, and unruly soldiers spilling into town. Among them was a small band of Highlanders, battle-worn and opportunistic, who set their sights on Watt’s most prized possession at the moment: his brand-new shoes, adorned with glinting silver buckles.
Dragged from the doorway of his own inn, Watt was plopped down unceremoniously onto the cobbled street and promptly relieved of his footwear. His cries of loyalty—“I’m one of you!”—did little to dissuade the raiders. One of them, pausing to admire the glimmering buckles, quipped dryly, “Sae muckle ta better. She’ll no grumble to change a progue for ta prince’s guid.”
That reply, heavy with Highland irony and delivered with a smirk, would echo in Watt’s memory longer than the chill of the cobblestones. It was more than theft—it was theatre. A tragicomic moment etched into local lore, and, according to some, the incident that finally dulled Watt’s enthusiasm for the Stuart cause.
War on the Doorstep
Watt's ordeal was far from unique. Across the Scottish Lowlands, the Jacobite advance brought war straight to the hearth. Highland soldiers, despite often being romanticized as noble warriors, were deeply affected by the hardships of campaign life—long marches, insufficient supplies, freezing conditions, and minimal pay. For many, “foraging” from locals was less about malice and more about survival.
In the case of Falkirk, the town’s relative sympathy for the Jacobites (a sentiment partly fostered by local connections to key Jacobite families) did not shield its citizens from the demands of the army. Local homes, barns, and inns became makeshift barracks and dining halls. Animals, food stores, and firewood were requisitioned without apology. And as in Watt’s case, valuables—especially portable ones like boots, cloaks, and watches—were fair game.
This kind of tension—between supporting a cause and suffering under its agents—was a common thread in Jacobite-era Scotland. Loyalty to “the Prince” could be sincere, but it was often tested when it came with a personal price.
Laughter in the Mud
What makes Watt’s story so memorable, however, isn’t the theft itself—it’s the spirit of the exchange. The Highlander’s reply, delivered with tongue firmly in cheek, highlights a uniquely Scottish resilience: the ability to laugh even in adversity, to frame suffering in terms of wit. It’s this gallows humour that often sustained both civilians and soldiers during the Jacobite campaigns.
The Highlanders were no strangers to desperation. Their sarcasm masked real hunger and fatigue, and their plundering often veered between necessity and opportunity. The comment about the prince's "guid" wasn’t just an excuse—it was a subtle criticism of a movement that demanded loyalty without always providing protection.
David Watt, for his part, became an unwitting symbol of this contradiction. Here was a man who cheered for the Jacobite cause, perhaps hosted its officers, and raised a dram to its victories—only to find himself shoeless in the street, mocked by the very army he supported. That his faith was shaken speaks volumes about the human cost of rebellion, where grand ideals often stumbled over daily survival.
The Lasting Echoes
More than two centuries later, the tale of David Watt’s buckles still lingers in the historical imagination. It serves as a reminder that wars are not won or lost solely by generals, but also by civilians trying to navigate shifting allegiances and unpredictable consequences. It reminds us that support for a political movement—no matter how noble it may seem—can become complicated when it comes crashing through your front door.
In a broader sense, the incident encapsulates the emotional landscape of wartime Scotland. It highlights the strain between romantic loyalty and real-world hardship. And it gives us a rare glimpse into the everyday lives affected by the Jacobite uprising—not through battlefield reports, but through one man, two silver buckles, and a pair of fast hands.
In the end, David Watt’s loss was not just of property, but of belief. And his story, told with humour and a touch of irony, lives on not because it changed the course of history, but because it reveals the kind of small, personal moment that history so often forgets. A moment where hardship and humour collided—and left a pair of bare feet to carry the tale.
Adapted From: Nimmo, W. (1880). The history of Stirlingshire (New ed., Rev. and continued to the present time by W. M. Stirling, Vols. 1–2). Edinburgh: William Blackwood and Sons.
