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Title: Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers and Other Poems
Author: Aytoun, W. E. (William Edmondstoune), 1813-1865
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers and Other Poems" ***

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Earl of Eglinton and Winton,






_This Volume is a verbatim reprint of the first edition_ (1849).






The great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9th of September, 1513.
The defeat of the Scottish army, mainly owing to the fantastic ideas of
chivalry entertained by James IV., and his refusal to avail himself of
the natural advantages of his position, was by far the most disastrous
of any recounted in the history of the northern wars. The whole strength
of the kingdom, both Lowland and Highland, was assembled, and the
contest was one of the sternest and most desperate upon record.

For several hours the issue seemed doubtful. On the left the Scots
obtained a decided advantage; on the right wing they were broken and
overthrown; and at last the whole weight of the battle was brought into
the centre, where King James and the Earl of Surrey commanded in person.
The determined valour of James, imprudent as it was, had the effect of
rousing to a pitch of desperation the courage of the meanest soldiers;
and the ground becoming soft and slippery from blood, they pulled off
their boots and shoes, and secured a firmer footing by fighting in their

"It is owned," says Abercromby, "that both parties did wonders, but none
on either side performed more than the King himself. He was again told
that by coming to handy blows he could do no more than another man,
whereas, by keeping the post due to his station, he might be worth many
thousands. Yet he would not only fight in person, but also on foot; for
he no sooner saw that body of the English give way which was defeated by
the Earl of Huntley, but he alighted from his horse, and commanded his
guard of noblemen and gentlemen to do the like and follow him. He had at
first abundance of success; but at length the Lord Thomas Howard and Sir
Edward Stanley, who had defeated their opposites, coming in with the
Lord Dacre's horse, and surrounding the King's battalion on all sides,
the Scots were so distressed that, for their last defence, they cast
themselves into a ring; and being resolved to die nobly with their
sovereign, who scorned to ask quarter, were altogether cut off. So say
the English writers, and I am apt to believe that they are in the

The battle was maintained with desperate fury until nightfall. At the
close, according to Mr. Tytler, "Surrey was uncertain of the result of
the battle: the remains of the enemy's centre still held the field;
Home, with his Borderers, still hovered on the left; and the commander
wisely allowed neither pursuit nor plunder, but drew off his men, and
kept a strict watch during the night. When the morning broke, the
Scottish artillery were seen standing deserted on the side of the hill;
their defenders had disappeared; and the Earl ordered thanks to be given
for a victory which was no longer doubtful. Yet, even after all this, a
body of the Scots appeared unbroken upon a hill, and were about to
charge the Lord-Admiral, when they were compelled to leave their
position by a discharge of the English ordnance.

"The loss of the Scots in this fatal battle amounted to about ten
thousand men. Of these, a great proportion were of high rank; the
remainder being composed of the gentry, the farmers, and landed
yeomanry, who disdained to fly when their sovereign and his nobles lay
stretched in heaps around them." Besides King James, there fell at
Flodden the Archbishop of St. Andrew's, thirteen earls, two bishops, two
abbots, fifteen lords and chiefs of clans, and five peers' eldest sons,
besides La Motte the French ambassador, and the secretary of the King.
The same historian adds--"The names of the gentry who fell are too
numerous for recapitulation, since there were few families of note in
Scotland which did not lose one relative or another, whilst some houses
had to weep the death of all. It is from this cause that the sensations
of sorrow and national lamentation occasioned by the defeat were
peculiarly poignant and lasting--so that to this day few Scotsmen can
hear the name of Flodden without a shudder of gloomy regret."

The loss to Edinburgh on this occasion was peculiarly great. All the
magistrates and able-bodied citizens had followed their King to Flodden,
whence very few of them returned. The office of Provost or chief
magistrate of the capital was at that time an object of ambition, and
was conferred only upon persons of high rank and station. There seems to
be some uncertainty whether the holder of this dignity at the time of
the battle of Flodden was Sir Alexander Lauder, ancestor of the
Fountainhall family, who was elected in 1511, or that great historical
personage, Archibald Earl of Angus, better known as Archibald
Bell-the-Cat, who was chosen in 1513, the year of the battle. Both of
them were at Flodden. The name of Sir Alexander Lauder appears upon the
list of the slain; Angus was one of the survivors, but his son, George,
Master of Angus, fell fighting gallantly by the side of King James. The
city records of Edinburgh, which commence about this period, are not
clear upon the point, and I am rather inclined to think that the Earl of
Angus was elected to supply the place of Lauder. But although the actual
magistrates were absent, they had formally nominated deputies in their
stead. I find, on referring to the city records, that "George of Tours"
had been appointed to officiate in the absence of the Provost, and that
four other persons were selected to discharge the office of bailies
until the magistrates should return.

It is impossible to describe the consternation which pervaded the whole
of Scotland when the intelligence of the defeat became known. In
Edinburgh it was excessive. Mr. Arnot, in the history of that city,

"The news of their overthrow in the field of Flodden reached Edinburgh
on the day after the battle, and overwhelmed the inhabitants with grief
and confusion. The streets were crowded with women seeking intelligence
about their friends, clamouring and weeping. Those who officiated in
absence of the magistrates proved themselves worthy of the trust. They
issued a proclamation, ordering all the inhabitants to assemble in
military array for defence of the city, on the tolling of the bell; and
commanding, 'that all women, and especially strangers, do repair to
their work, and not be seen upon the street _clamorand and cryand_; and
that women of the better sort do repair to the church and offer up
prayers, at the stated hours, for our Sovereign Lord and his army, and
the townsmen who are with the army.'"

Indeed the council records bear ample evidence of the emergency of that
occasion. Throughout the earlier pages, the word "Flowdoun" frequently
occurs on the margin, in reference to various hurried orders for arming
and defence; and there can be no doubt that, had the English forces
attempted to follow up their victory, and attack the Scottish capital,
the citizens would have resisted to the last. But it soon became
apparent that the loss sustained by the English was so severe, that
Surrey was in no condition to avail himself of the opportunity; and in
fact, shortly afterwards, he was compelled to disband his army.

The references to the city banner, contained in the following poem, may
require a word of explanation. It is a standard still held in great
honour and reverence by the burghers of Edinburgh, having been presented
to them by James the Third, in return for their loyal service in 1482.
This banner, along with that of the Earl Marischal, still conspicuous in
the Library of the Faculty of Advocates, was honourably brought back
from Flodden, and certainly never could have been displayed in a more
memorable field. Maitland says, with reference to this very interesting
relic of antiquity,--

"As a perpetual remembrance of the loyalty and bravery of the
Edinburghers on the aforesaid occasion, the King granted them a banner
or standard, with a power to display the same in defence of their king,
country, and their own rights. This flag is kept by the Convener of the
Trades; at whose appearance therewith, it is said that not only the
artificers of Edinburgh are obliged to repair to it, but all the
artisans or craftsmen within Scotland are bound to follow it, and fight
under the Convener of Edinburgh as aforesaid."

No event in Scottish history ever took a more lasting hold of the public
mind than the "woeful fight" of Flodden; and, even now, the songs and
traditions which are current on the Border recall the memory of a
contest unsullied by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and



  News of battle!--news of battle!
    Hark! 'tis ringing down the street:
  And the archways and the pavement
    Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
  News of battle? Who hath brought it?
    News of triumph? Who should bring
  Tidings from our noble army,
    Greetings from our gallant King?
  All last night we watched the beacons
    Blazing on the hills afar,
  Each one bearing, as it kindled,
    Message of the opened war.
  All night long the northern streamers
    Shot across the trembling sky:
  Fearful lights, that never beckon
    Save when kings or heroes die.


  News of battle! Who hath brought it?
    All are thronging to the gate;
  "Warder--warder! open quickly!
    Man--is this a time to wait?"
  And the heavy gates are opened:
    Then a murmur long and loud,
  And a cry of fear and wonder
    Bursts from out the bending crowd.
  For they see in battered harness
    Only one hard-stricken man,
  And his weary steed is wounded,
    And his cheek is pale and wan.
  Spearless hangs a bloody banner
    In his weak and drooping hand--
  God! can that be Randolph Murray,
    Captain of the city band?


  Round him crush the people, crying,
    "Tell us all--oh, tell us true!
  Where are they who went to battle,
    Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
  Where are they, our brothers--children?
    Have they met the English foe?
  Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
    Is it weal, or is it woe?"
  Like a corpse the grisly warrior
    Looks from out his helm of steel;
  But no word he speaks in answer,
    Only with his armèd heel
  Chides his weary steed, and onward
    Up the city streets they ride;
  Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
    Shrieking, praying by his side.
  "By the God that made thee, Randolph!
    Tell us what mischance hath come!"
  Then he lifts his riven banner,
    And the asker's voice is dumb.


  The elders of the city
    Have met within their hall--
  The men whom good King James had charged
    To watch the tower and wall.
  "Your hands are weak with age," he said,
    "Your hearts are stout and true;
  So bide ye in the Maiden Town,
    While others fight for you.
  My trumpet from the Border-side
    Shall send a blast so clear,
  That all who wait within the gate
    That stirring sound may hear.
  Or, if it be the will of heaven
    That back I never come,
  And if, instead of Scottish shouts,
    Ye hear the English drum,--
  Then let the warning bells ring out,
    Then gird you to the fray,
  Then man the walls like burghers stout,
    And fight while fight you may.
  'T were better that in fiery flame
    The roofs should thunder down,
  Than that the foot of foreign foe
    Should trample in the town!"


  Then in came Randolph Murray,--
    His step was slow and weak,
  And, as he doffed his dinted helm,
    The tears ran down his cheek:
  They fell upon his corslet,
    And on his mailèd hand,
  As he gazed around him wistfully,
    Leaning sorely on his brand.
  And none who then beheld him
    But straight were smote with fear,
  For a bolder and a sterner man
    Had never couched a spear.
  They knew so sad a messenger
    Some ghastly news must bring:
  And all of them were fathers,
    And their sons were with the King.


  And up then rose the Provost--
    A brave old man was he,
  Of ancient name and knightly fame,
    And chivalrous degree.
  He ruled our city like a Lord
  Who brooked no equal here,
    And ever for the townsmen's rights
  Stood up 'gainst prince and peer.
    And he had seen the Scottish host
  March from the Borough-muir,
    With music-storm and clamorous shout
  And all the din that thunders out,
    When youth's of victory sure.
  But yet a dearer thought had he,
    For, with a father's pride,
  He saw his last remaining son
    Go forth by Randolph's side,
  With casque on head and spur on heel,
    All keen to do and dare;
  And proudly did that gallant boy
    Dunedin's banner bear.
  Oh, woeful now was the old man's look,
    And he spake right heavily--
  "Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
    However sharp they be!
  Woe is written on thy visage,
    Death is looking from thy face:
  Speak, though it be of overthrow--
    It cannot be disgrace!"


  Right bitter was the agony
    That wrung the soldier proud:
  Thrice did he strive to answer,
    And thrice he groaned aloud.
  Then he gave the riven banner
    To the old man's shaking hand,
  Saying--"That is all I bring ye
    From the bravest of the land!
  Ay! ye may look upon it--
    It was guarded well and long,
  By your brothers and your children,
    By the valiant and the strong.
  One by one they fell around it,
    As the archers laid them low,
  Grimly dying, still unconquered,
    With their faces to the foe.
  Ay! ye well may look upon it--
    There is more than honour there,
  Else, be sure, I had not brought it
    From the field of dark despair.
  Never yet was royal banner
    Steeped in such a costly dye;
  It hath lain upon a bosom
    Where no other shroud shall lie.
  Sirs! I charge you keep it holy,
    Keep it as a sacred thing,
  For the stain you see upon it
    Was the life-blood of your King!"


  Woe, woe, and lamentation!
    What a piteous cry was there!
  Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
    Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
  Through the streets the death-word rushes,
    Spreading terror, sweeping on--
  "Jesu Christ! our King has fallen--
    O great God, King James is gone!
  Holy Mother Mary, shield us,
    Thou who erst did lose thy Son!
  O the blackest day for Scotland
    That she ever knew before!
  O our King--the good, the noble,
    Shall we see him never more?
  Woe to us and woe to Scotland,
    O our sons, our sons and men!
  Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
    Surely some will come again!"
  Till the oak that fell last winter
    Shall uprear its shattered stem--
  Wives and mothers of Dunedin--
    Ye may look in vain for them!


  But within the Council Chamber
    All was silent as the grave,
  Whilst the tempest of their sorrow
    Shook the bosoms of the brave.
  Well indeed might they be shaken
    With the weight of such a blow:
  He was gone--their prince, their idol,
    Whom they loved and worshipped so!
  Like a knell of death and judgment
    Rung from heaven by angel hand,
  Fell the words of desolation
    On the elders of the land.
  Hoary heads were bowed and trembling,
    Withered hands were clasped and wrung:
  God had left the old and feeble,
    He had ta'en away the young.


  Then the Provost he uprose,
    And his lip was ashen white,
  But a flush was on his brow,
    And his eye was full of light.
  "Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray,
    Like a soldier stout and true;
  Thou hast done a deed of daring
    Had been perilled but by few.
  For thou hast not shamed to face us,
    Nor to speak thy ghastly tale,
  Standing--thou, a knight and captain--
    Here, alive within thy mail!
  Now, as my God shall judge me,
    I hold it braver done,
  Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,
    And died above my son!
  Thou needst not tell it: he is dead.
    God help us all this day!
  But speak--how fought the citizens
    Within the furious fray?
  For, by the might of Mary,
    'T were something still to tell
  That no Scottish foot went backward
    When the Royal Lion fell!"


  "No one failed him! He is keeping
    Royal state and semblance still;
  Knight and noble lie around him,
    Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
  Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
    Whom ye sent with prayers away,
  Not a single man departed
    From his monarch yesterday.
  Had you seen them, O my masters!
    When the night began to fall,
  And the English spearmen gathered
    Round a grim and ghastly wall!
  As the wolves in winter circle
    Round the leaguer on the heath,
  So the greedy foe glared upward,
    Panting still for blood and death.
  But a rampart rose before them,
    Which the boldest dared not scale;
  Every stone a Scottish body,
    Every step a corpse in mail!
  And behind it lay our monarch
    Clenching still his shivered sword:
  By his side Montrose and Athole,
    At his feet a southern lord.
  All so thick they lay together,
    When the stars lit up the sky,
  That I knew not who were stricken,
    Or who yet remained to die,
  Few there were when Surrey halted,
    And his wearied host withdrew;
  None but dying men around me,
    When the English trumpet blew.
  Then I stooped, and took the banner,
    As ye see it, from his breast,
  And I closed our hero's eyelids,
    And I left him to his rest.
  In the mountains growled the thunder,
    As I leaped the woeful wall,
  And the heavy clouds were settling
    Over Flodden, like a pall."


  So he ended. And the others
    Cared not any answer then;
  Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow,
    Sitting anguish-struck, like men
  Who have seen the roaring torrent
    Sweep their happy homes away,
  And yet linger by the margin,
    Staring idly on the spray.
  But, without, the maddening tumult
    Waxes ever more and more,
  And the crowd of wailing women
    Gather round the Council door.
  Every dusky spire is ringing
    With a dull and hollow knell,
  And the Miserere's singing
    To the tolling of the bell.
  Through the streets the burghers hurry,
    Spreading terror as they go;
  And the rampart's thronged with watchers
    For the coming of the foe.
  From each mountain-top a pillar
    Streams into the torpid air,
  Bearing token from the Border
    That the English host is there.
  All without is flight and terror,
    All within is woe and fear--
  God protect thee, Maiden City,
    For thy latest hour is near!


  No! not yet, thou high Dunedin!
    Shalt thou totter to thy fall;
  Though thy bravest and thy strongest
    Are not there to man the wall.
  No, not yet! the ancient spirit
    Of our fathers hath not gone;
  Take it to thee as a buckler
    Better far than steel or stone.
  Oh, remember those who perished
    For thy birthright at the time
  When to be a Scot was treason,
    And to side with Wallace, crime!
  Have they not a voice among us,
    Whilst their hallowed dust is here?
  Hear ye not a summons sounding
    From each buried warrior's bier?
  "Up!"--they say--"and keep the freedom
    Which we won you long ago:
  Up! and keep our graves unsullied
    From the insults of the foe!
  Up! and if ye cannot save them,
    Come to us in blood and fire:
  Midst the crash of falling turrets,
    Let the last of Scots expire!"


  Still the bells are tolling fiercely,
    And the cry comes louder in;
  Mothers wailing for their children,
    Sisters for their slaughtered kin.
  All is terror and disorder,
    Till the Provost rises up,
  Calm, as though he had not tasted
    Of the fell and bitter cup.
  All so stately from his sorrow,
    Rose the old undaunted Chief,
  That you had not deemed, to see him,
    His was more than common grief.
  "Rouse ye, Sirs!" he said; "we may not
    Longer mourn for what is done:
  If our King be taken from us,
    We are left to guard his son.
  We have sworn to keep the city
    From the foe, whate'er they be,
  And the oath that we have taken
    Never shall be broke by me.
  Death is nearer to us, brethren,
    Than it seemed to those who died,
  Fighting yesterday at Flodden,
    By their lord and master's side.
  Let us meet it then in patience,
    Not in terror or in fear;
  Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,
    Let our souls be steadfast here.
  Up, and rouse ye! Time is fleeting,
    And we yet have much to do;
  Up! and haste ye through the city,
    Stir the burghers stout and true!
  Gather all our scattered people,
    Fling the banner out once more,--
  Randolph Murray! do thou bear it,
    As it erst was borne before:
  Never Scottish heart will leave it,
    When they see their monarch's gore!"


  "Let them cease that dismal knelling!
    It is time enough to ring,
  When the fortress-strength of Scotland
    Stoops to ruin like its King.
  Let the bells be kept for warning,
    Not for terror or alarm;
  When they next are heard to thunder,
    Let each man and stripling arm.
  Bid the women leave their wailing,--
    Do they think that woeful strain,
  From the bloody heaps of Flodden
    Can redeem their dearest slain?
  Bid them cease,--or rather hasten
    To the churches, every one;
  There to pray to Mary Mother,
    And to her anointed Son,
  That the thunderbolt above us
    May not fall in ruin yet;
  That in fire, and blood, and rapine,
    Scotland's glory may not set.
  Let them pray,--for never women
    Stood in need of such a prayer!
  England's yeomen shall not find them
    Clinging to the altars there.
  No! if we are doomed to perish,
    Man and maiden, let us fall;
  And a common gulf of ruin
    Open wide to whelm us all!
  Never shall the ruthless spoiler
    Lay his hot insulting hand
  On the sisters of our heroes,
    Whilst we bear a torch or brand!
  Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers,
    But when next ye hear the bell
  Sounding forth the sullen summons
    That may be our funeral knell,
  Once more let us meet together,
    Once more see each other's face;
  Then, like men that need not tremble,
    Go to our appointed place.
  God, our Father, will not fail us
    In that last tremendous hour,--
  If all other bulwarks crumble,
    HE will be our strength and tower:
  Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
    And the walls go crashing down,
  Though the roar of conflagration
    Bellow o'er the sinking town;
  There is yet one place of shelter,
    Where the foeman cannot come,
  Where the summons never sounded
    Of the trumpet or the drum.
  There again we'll meet our children,
    Who, on Flodden's trampled sod,
  For their king and for their country
    Rendered up their souls to God.
  There shall we find rest and refuge,
    With our dear departed brave;
  And the ashes of the city
    Be our universal grave!"


The most poetical chronicler would find it impossible to render the
incidents of Montrose's brilliant career more picturesque than the
reality. Among the devoted champions who, during the wildest and most
stormy period of our history, maintained the cause of Church and King,
"the Great Marquis" undoubtedly is entitled to the foremost place. Even
party malevolence, by no means extinct at the present day, has been
unable to detract from the eulogy pronounced upon him by the famous
Cardinal de Retz, the friend of Condé and Turenne, when he thus summed
up his character:--"Montrose, a Scottish nobleman, head of the house of
Grahame--the only man in the world that has ever realised to me the
ideas of certain heroes, whom we now discover nowhere but in the lives
of Plutarch--has sustained in his own country the cause of the King his
master, with a greatness of soul that has not found its equal in our

But the success of the victorious leader and patriot is almost thrown
into the shade by the noble magnanimity and Christian heroism of the man
in the hour of defeat and death. Without wishing, in any degree, to
revive a controversy long maintained by writers of opposite political
and polemical opinions, it may fairly be stated that Scottish history
does not present us with a tragedy of parallel interest. That the
execution of Montrose was the natural, nay, the inevitable, consequence
of his capture, may be freely admitted even by the fiercest partisan of
the cause for which he staked his life. In those times, neither party
was disposed to lenity; and Montrose was far too conspicuous a
character, and too dangerous a man, to be forgiven. But the ignominious
and savage treatment which he received at the hands of those whose
station and descent should at least have taught them to respect
misfortune, has left an indelible stain upon the memory of the
Covenanting chiefs, and more especially upon that of Argyle.

The perfect serenity of the man in the hour of trial and death, the
courage and magnanimity which he displayed to the last, have been dwelt
upon with admiration by writers of every class. He heard his sentence
delivered without any apparent emotion, and afterwards told the
magistrates who waited upon him in prison, "that he was much indebted to
the Parliament for the great honour they had decreed him"; adding, "that
he was prouder to have his head placed upon the top of the prison, than
if they had decreed a golden statue to be erected to him in the
market-place, or that his picture should be hung in the King's
bedchamber." He said, "he thanked them for their care to preserve the
remembrance of his loyalty, by transmitting such monuments to the
different parts of the kingdom; and only wished that he had flesh enough
to have sent a piece to every city in Christendom, as a token of his
unshaken love and fidelity to his king and country." On the night before
his execution, he inscribed the following lines with a diamond on the
window of his jail:--

  "Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
  Then, open all my veins, that I may swim
  To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake;
  Then place my parboiled head upon a stake--
  Scatter my ashes--strew them in the air:
  Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are,
  I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
  And confident thou'lt raise me with the just."

After the Restoration, the dust _was_ recovered, the scattered remnants
collected, and the bones of the hero conveyed to their final
resting-place by a numerous assemblage of gentlemen of his family and

There is no ingredient of fiction in the historical incidents recorded
in the following ballad. The indignities that were heaped upon Montrose
during his procession through Edinburgh, his appearance before the
Estates, and his last passage to the scaffold, as well as his undaunted
bearing, have all been spoken to by eyewitnesses of the scene. A graphic
and vivid sketch of the whole will be found in Mr. Mark Napier's
volume, _The Life and Times of Montrose_--a work as chivalrous in its
tone as the _Chronicles_ of Froissart, and abounding in original and
most interesting materials; but, in order to satisfy all scruple, the
authorities for each fact are given in the shape of notes. The ballad
may be considered as a narrative of the transactions, related by an aged
Highlander, who had followed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to his
grandson, shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie.



  Come hither, Evan Cameron!
    Come, stand beside my knee--
  I hear the river roaring down
    Towards the wintry sea.
  There's shouting on the mountain side,
    There's war within the blast--
  Old faces look upon me,
    Old forms go trooping past.
  I hear the pibroch wailing
    Amidst the din of fight,
  And my dim spirit wakes again
    Upon the verge of night!


  'Twas I that led the Highland host
    Through wild Lochaber's snows,
  What time the plaided clans came down
    To battle with Montrose.
  I've told thee how the Southrons fell
    Beneath the broad claymore,
  And how we smote the Campbell clan
    By Inverlochy's shore.
  I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
    And tamed the Lindsay's pride;
  But never have I told thee yet
    How the Great Marquis died!


  A traitor sold him to his foes;
    O deed of deathless shame!
  I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
    With one of Assynt's name--
  Be it upon the mountain's side,
    Or yet within the glen,
  Stand he in martial gear alone,
    Or backed by armèd men--
  Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
    Who wronged thy sire's renown;
  Remember of what blood thou art,
    And strike the caitiff down!


  They brought him to the Watergate,
    Hard bound with hempen span,
  As though they held a lion there,
    And not a 'fenceless man.
  They set him high upon a cart--
    The hangman rode below--
  They drew his hands behind his back,
    And bared his noble brow.
  Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
    They cheered the common throng,
  And blew the note with yell and shout,
    And bade him pass along.


  It would have made a brave man's heart
    Grow sad and sick that day,
  To watch the keen malignant eyes
    Bent down on that array.
  There stood the Whig west-country lords
    In balcony and bow,
  There sat their gaunt and withered dames,
    And their daughters all a-row;
  And every open window
    Was full as full might be,
  With black-robed Covenanting carles,
    That goodly sport to see!


  But when he came, though pale and wan,
    He looked so great and high,
  So noble was his manly front,
    So calm his steadfast eye;--
  The rabble rout forebore to shout,
    And each man held his breath,
  For well they knew the hero's soul
    Was face to face with death.
  And then a mournful shudder
    Through all the people crept,
  And some that came to scoff at him,
    Now turn'd aside and wept.


  But onwards--always onwards,
    In silence and in gloom,
  The dreary pageant laboured,
    Till it reach'd the house of doom:
  Then first a woman's voice was heard
    In jeer and laughter loud,
  And an angry cry and a hiss arose
    From the heart of the tossing crowd:
  Then, as the Græme looked upwards,
    He met the ugly smile
  Of him who sold his King for gold--
    The master-fiend Argyle!


  The Marquis gazed a moment,
    And nothing did he say,
  But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,
    And he turned his eyes away.
  The painted harlot by his side,
    She shook through every limb,
  For a roar like thunder swept the street,
    And hands were clenched at him,
  And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
    "Back, coward, from thy place!
  For seven long years thou hast not dared
    To look him in the face."


  Had I been there with sword in hand,
    And fifty Camerons by,
  That day through high Dunedin's streets,
    Had pealed the slogan cry.
  Not all their troops of trampling horse,
    Nor might of mailèd men--
  Not all the rebels of the south
    Had borne us backwards then!
  Once more his foot on Highland heath
    Had trod as free as air,
  Or I, and all who bore my name,
    Been laid around him there!


  It might not be. They placed him next
    Within the solemn hall,
  Where once the Scottish Kings were throned
    Amidst their nobles all.
  But there was dust of vulgar feet
    On that polluted floor,
  And perjured traitors filled the place
    Where good men sate before.
  With savage glee came Warristoun
    To read the murderous doom,
  And then uprose the great Montrose
    In the middle of the room.


  "Now by my faith as belted knight,
    And by the name I bear,
  And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
    That waves above us there--
  Yea, by a greater, mightier oath--
    And oh, that such should be!--
  By that dark stream of royal blood
    That lies 'twixt you and me--
  I have not sought in battle-field
    A wreath of such renown,
  Nor dared I hope, on my dying day,
    To win the martyr's crown!"


  "There is a chamber far away
    Where sleep the good and brave,
  But a better place ye have named for me
    Than by my father's grave.
  For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
    This hand hath always striven,
  And ye raise it up for a witness still
    In the eye of earth and heaven.
  Then nail my head on yonder tower--
    Give every town a limb--
  And God who made shall gather them:
    I go from you to Him!"


  The morning dawned full darkly,
    The rain came flashing down,
  And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
    Lit up the gloomy town:
  The heavens were thundering out their wrath,
    The fatal hour was come;
  Yet ever sounded sullenly
    The trumpet and the drum.
  There was madness on the earth below,
    And anger in the sky,
  And young and old, and rich and poor,
    Came forth to see him die.


  Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
    How dismal 't is to see
  The great tall spectral skeleton,
    The ladder, and the tree!
  Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms--
    The bells begin to toll--
  He is coming! he is coming!
    God's mercy on his soul!
  One last long peal of thunder--
    The clouds are cleared away,
  And the glorious sun once more looks down
    Amidst the dazzling day.


  He is coming! he is coming!
    Like a bridegroom from his room,
  Came the hero from his prison
    To the scaffold and the doom.
  There was glory on his forehead,
    There was lustre in his eye,
  And he never walked to battle
    More proudly than to die:
  There was colour in his visage,
    Though the cheeks of all were wan,
  And they marvelled as they saw him pass,
    That great and goodly man!


  He mounted up the scaffold,
    And he turned him to the crowd;
  But they dared not trust the people,
    So he might not speak aloud.
  But he looked upon the heavens,
    And they were clear and blue,
  And in the liquid ether
    The eye of God shone through:
  Yet a black and murky battlement
    Lay resting on the hill,
  As though the thunder slept within--
    All else was calm and still.


  The grim Geneva ministers
    With anxious scowl drew near,
  As you have seen the ravens flock
    Around the dying deer.
  He would not deign them word nor sign,
    But alone he bent the knee;
  And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
    Beneath the gallows-tree.
  Then radiant and serene he rose,
    And cast his cloak away:
  For he had ta'en his latest look
    Of earth, and sun, and day.


  A beam of light fell o'er him,
    Like a glory round the shriven,
  And he climbed the lofty ladder
    As it were the path to heaven.
  Then came a flash from out the cloud,
    And a stunning thunder roll,
  And no man dared to look aloft,
    For fear was on every soul.
  There was another heavy sound,
    A hush and then a groan;
  And darkness swept across the sky--
    The work of death was done!



"_A traitor sold him to his foes_,"--p. 36.

"The contemporary historian of the Earls of Sutherland records, that
(after the defeat of Invercarron) Montrose and Kinnoul 'wandered up the
river Kyle the whole ensuing night, and the next day, and the third day
also, without any food or sustenance, and at last came within the
country of Assynt. The Earl of Kinnoul, being faint for lack of meat,
and not able to travel any further, was left there among the mountains,
where it was supposed he perished. Montrose had almost famished, but
that he fortuned in his misery to light upon a small cottage in that
wilderness, where he was supplied with some milk and bread.' Not even
the iron frame of Montrose could endure a prolonged existence under such
circumstances. He gave himself up to Macleod of Assynt, a former
adherent, from whom he had reason to expect assistance in consideration
of that circumstance, and, indeed, from the dictates of honourable
feeling and common humanity. As the Argyle faction had sold the King, so
this Highlander rendered his own name infamous by selling the hero to
the Covenanters, for which 'duty to the public' he was rewarded with
four hundred bolls of meal."--NAPIER'S _Life of Montrose_.

"_They brought him to the Watergate_,"--p. 36.

"_Friday, 17th May_.--Act ordaining James Grahame to be brought from the
Watergate on a cart, bareheaded, the hangman in his livery, covered,
riding on the horse that draws the cart--the prisoner to be bound to the
cart with a rope--to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, and from thence to be
brought to the Parliament House, and there, in the place of delinquents,
on his knees, to receive his sentence--viz., to be hanged on a gibbet at
the Cross of Edinburgh, with his book and declaration tied on a rope
about his neck, and there to hang for the space of three hours until he
be dead; and thereafter to be cut down by the hangman, his head, hands,
and legs to be cut off, and distributed as follows--viz., his head to be
affixed on an iron pin, and set on the pinnacle of the west gavel of the
new prison of Edinburgh; one hand to be set on the port of Perth, the
other on the port of Stirling; one leg and foot on the port of Aberdeen,
the other on the port of Glasgow. If at his death penitent, and relaxed
from excommunication, then the trunk of his body to be interred, by
pioneers, in the Greyfriars; otherwise, to be interred in the
Boroughmuir, by the hangman's men, under the gallows."--BALFOUR'S _Notes
of Parliament_.

It is needless to remark that this inhuman sentence was executed to the
letter. In order that the exposure might be more complete, the cart was
constructed with a high chair in the centre, having holes behind,
through which the ropes that fastened him were drawn. The author of the
_Wigton Papers_, recently published by the Maitland Club, says, "The
reason of his being tied to the cart was in hope that the people would
have stoned him, and that he might not be able by his hands to save his
face." His hat was then pulled off by the hangman and the procession

  "_But when he came, though pale and wan,
      He looked so great and high_,"--p. 37.

"In all the way, there appeared in him such majesty, courage,
modesty--and even somewhat more than natural--that those common women
who had lost their husbands and children in his wars, and who were hired
to stone him, were upon the sight of him so astonished and moved, that
their intended curses turned into tears and prayers; so that next day
_all the ministers preached against them for not stoning and reviling
him."--Wigton Papers._

  "_Then first a woman's voice was heard
      In jeer and laughter loud_,"--p. 38.

"It is remarkable that, of the many thousand beholders, the Lady Jean
Gordon, Countess of Haddington, did (alone) publicly insult and laugh at
him; which being perceived by a gentleman in the street, he cried up to
her, that it became her better to sit upon the cart for her
adulteries."--_Wigton Papers_. This infamous woman was the third
daughter of Huntly, and the niece of Argyle. It will hardly be credited
that she was the sister of that gallant Lord Gordon, who fell fighting
by the side of Montrose, only five years before, at the battle of

  "_For seven long years thou hast not dared
      To look him in the face_,"--p. 39.

"The Lord Lorn and his new lady were also sitting on a balcony, joyful
spectators; and the cart being stopped when it came before the lodging
where the Chancellor, Argyle, and Warristoun sat--that they might have
time to insult--he, suspecting the business, turned his face towards
them, whereupon they presently crept in at the windows; which being
perceived by an Englishman, he cried up, it was no wonder they started
aside at his look, for they durst not look him in the face these seven
years bygone."--_Wigton Papers_.

  "_With savage glee came Warristoun,
      To read the murderous doom_,"--p. 40.

Archibald Johnston of Warristoun. This man, who was the inveterate enemy
of Montrose, and who carried the most selfish spirit into every intrigue
of his party, received the punishment of his treasons about eleven years
afterwards. It may be instructive to learn how he met his doom. The
following extract is from the MSS. of Sir George Mackenzie:--"The
Chancellor and others waited to examine him; he fell upon his face,
roaring, and with tears entreated they would pity a poor creature who
had forgot all that was in the Bible. This moved all the spectators with
a deep melancholy; and the Chancellor, reflecting upon the man's great
parts, former esteem, and the great share he had in all the late
revolutions, could not deny some tears to the frailty of silly mankind.
At his examination, he pretended he had lost so much blood by the
unskilfulness of his chirurgeons, that he lost his memory with his
blood; and I really believe that his courage had been drawn out with it.
Within a few days he was brought before the parliament, where he
discovered nothing but much weakness, running up and down upon his
knees, begging mercy; but the parliament ordained his former sentence to
be put to execution, and accordingly he was executed at the Cross of

  "_And God who made shall gather them:
      I go from you to Him_!"--p. 41.

"He said he was much beholden to the parliament for the honour they had
put on him; 'for,' says he, 'I think it a greater honour to have my head
standing on the port of this town, for this quarrel, than to have my
picture in the king's bedchamber. I am beholden to you that, lest my
loyalty should be forgotten, ye have appointed five of your most eminent
towns to bear witness of it to posterity.'"--_Wigton Papers_.

  "_He is coming! he is coming!
      Like a bridegroom from his room_,"--p. 42.

"In his downgoing from the Tolbooth to the place of execution, he was
very richly clad in fine scarlet, laid over with rich silver lace, his
hat in his hand, his bands and cuffs exceeding rich, his delicate white
gloves on his hands, his stockings of incarnate silk, and his shoes with
their ribbands on his feet; and sarks provided for him with pearling
about, above ten pund the elne. All these were provided for him by his
friends, and a pretty cassock put on upon him, upon the scaffold,
wherein he was hanged. To be short, nothing was here deficient to honour
his poor carcase, more beseeming a bridegroom than a criminal going to
the gallows."--NICHOLL'S _Diary_.

  "_The grim Geneva ministers
      With anxious scowl drew near_,"--p. 43.

The Presbyterian ministers beset Montrose both in prison and on the
scaffold. The following extracts are from the diary of the Rev. Robert
Traill, one of the persons who were appointed by the commission of the
kirk "to deal with him:"--"By a warrant from the kirk, we staid a while
with him about his soul's condition. But we found him continuing in his
old pride, and taking very ill what was spoken to him, saying, 'I pray
you, gentlemen, let me die in peace.' It was answered, that he might die
in true peace, being reconciled to the Lord and to His kirk."--"We
returned to the commission, and did show unto them what had passed
amongst us. They, seeing that for the present he was not desiring
relaxation from his censure of excommunication, did appoint Mr. Mungo
Law and me to attend on the morrow on the scaffold, at the time of his
execution, that, in case he should desire to be relaxed from his
excommunication, we should be allowed to give it unto him in the name of
the kirk, and to pray with him, and for him, _that what is loosed on
earth might be loosed in heaven_." But this pious intention, which may
appear somewhat strange to the modern Calvinist, when the prevailing
theories of the kirk regarding the efficacy of absolution are
considered, was not destined to be fulfilled. Mr. Traill goes on to say,
"But he did not at all desire to be relaxed from his excommunication in
the name of the kirk, _yea, did not look towards that place on the
scaffold where we stood_; only he drew apart some of the magistrates,
and spake a while with them, and then went up the ladder, in his red
scarlet cassock, in a very stately manner."

  "_And he climbed the lofty ladder
      As it were the path to heaven_,"--p. 43.

"He was very earnest that he might have the liberty to keep on his hat;
it was denied: he requested he might have the privilege to keep his
cloak about him--neither could that be granted. Then, with a most
undaunted courage, he went up to the top of that prodigious
gibbet."--"The whole people gave a general groan; and it was very
observable, that even those who, at his first appearance, had bitterly
inveighed against him, could not now abstain from tears."--_Montrose


Hector Boece, in his very delightful, though somewhat apocryphal
Chronicles of Scotland, tells us, that "quhen Schir James Dowglas was
chosin as maist worthy of all Scotland to pass with King Robertis hart
to the Holy Land, he put it in ane cais of gold, with arromitike and
precious unyementis; and tuke with him Schir William Sinclare and Schir
Robert Logan, with mony othir nobilmen, to the haly graif; quhare he
buryit the said hart, with maist reverence and solempnitie that could be

But no contemporary historian bears out the statement of the old canon
of Aberdeen. Froissart, Fordun, and Barbour all agree that the
devotional pilgrimage of the Good Sir James was not destined to be
accomplished, and that the heart of Scotland's greatest king and hero
was brought back to the land of his nativity. Mr. Tytler, in few words,
has so graphically recounted the leading events of this expedition, that
I do not hesitate to adopt his narrative:--

"As soon as the season of the year permitted, Douglas, having the heart
of his beloved master under his charge, set sail from Scotland,
accompanied by a splendid retinue, and anchored off Sluys in Flanders,
at this time the great seaport of the Netherlands. His object was to
find out companions with whom he might travel to Jerusalem; but he
declined landing, and for twelve days received all visitors on board his
ship with a state almost kingly.

"At Sluys he heard that Alonzo, the King of Leon and Castile, was
carrying on war with Osmyn, the Moorish governor of Grenada. The
religious mission which he had embraced, and the vows he had taken
before leaving Scotland, induced Douglas to consider Alonzo's cause as a
holy warfare; and, before proceeding to Jerusalem, he first determined
to visit Spain, and to signalise his prowess against the Saracens. But
his first field against the Infidels proved fatal to him who, in the
long English war, had seen seventy battles. The circumstances of his
death were striking and characteristic. In an action near Theba, on the
borders of Andalusia, the Moorish cavalry were defeated; and, after
their camp had been taken, Douglas, with his companions, engaged too
eagerly in the pursuit, and, being separated from the main body of the
Spanish army, a strong division of the Moors rallied and surrounded
them. The Scottish knight endeavoured to cut his way through the
Infidels, and in all probability would have succeeded, had he not again
turned to rescue Sir William Saint Clair of Roslin, whom he saw in
jeopardy. In attempting this, he was inextricably involved with the
enemy. Taking from his neck the casket which contained the heart of
Bruce, he cast it before him, and exclaimed with a loud voice, 'Now pass
onward as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!' The
action and the sentiment were heroic, and they were the last words and
deed of a heroic life, for Douglas fell, overpowered by his enemies; and
three of his knights, and many of his companions, were slain along with
their master. On the succeeding day, the body and the casket were both
found on the field, and by his surviving friends conveyed to Scotland.
The heart of Bruce was deposited at Melrose, and the body of the 'Good
Sir James'--the name by which he is affectionately remembered by his
countrymen--was consigned to the cemetery of his fathers in the parish
church of Douglas."

A nobler death on the field of battle is not recorded in the annals of
chivalry. In memory of this expedition, the Douglases have ever since
carried the armorial bearings of the Bloody Heart surmounted by the
Crown; and a similar distinction is borne by another family. Sir Simon
of Lee, a distinguished companion of Douglas, was the person on whom,
after the fall of his leader, the custody of the heart devolved. Hence
the name of Lockhart, and their effigy, the Heart within a Fetterlock.


  It was upon an April morn,
    While yet the frost lay hoar,
  We heard Lord James's bugle-horn
    Sound by the rocky shore.

  Then down we went, a hundred knights,
    All in our dark array,
  And flung our armour in the ships
    That rode within the bay.

  We spoke not as the shore grew less,
    But gazed in silence back,
  Where the long billows swept away
    The foam behind our track.

  And aye the purple hues decay'd
    Upon the fading hill,
  And but one heart in all that ship
    Was tranquil, cold, and still.

  The good Lord Douglas walk'd the deck,
    And oh, his brow was wan!
  Unlike the flush it used to wear
    When in the battle van.--

  "Come hither, come hither, my trusty knight,
    Sir Simon of the Lee;
  There is a freit lies near my soul
    I fain would tell to thee.

  "Thou know'st the words King Robert spoke
    Upon his dying day,
  How he bade me take his noble heart
    And carry it far away;

  "And lay it in the holy soil
    Where once the Saviour trod,
  Since he might not bear the blessed Cross,
    Nor strike one blow for God.

  "Last night as in my bed I lay,
    I dream'd a dreary dream:--
  Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
    In the moonlight's quivering beam.

  "His robe was of the azure dye,
    Snow-white his scatter'd hairs,
  And even such a cross he bore
    As good Saint Andrew bears.

  "'Why go you forth, Lord James,' he said,
    'With spear and belted brand?
  Why do you take its dearest pledge
    From this our Scottish land?

  "'The sultry breeze of Galilee
    Creeps through its groves of palm,
  The olives on the Holy Mount
    Stand glittering in the calm.

  "'But 'tis not there that Scotland's heart
    Shall rest by God's decree,
  Till the great angel calls the dead
    To rise from earth and sea!

  "'Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede!
    That heart shall pass once more
  In fiery fight against the foe,
    As it was wont of yore.

  "'And it shall pass beneath the Cross,
    And save King Robert's vow,
  But other hands shall bear it back,
    Not, James of Douglas, thou!'

  "Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray,
    Sir Simon of the Lee--
  For truer friend had never man
    Than thou hast been to me--

  "If ne'er upon the Holy Land
    'Tis mine in life to tread,
  Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth
    The relics of her dead."

  The tear was in Sir Simon's eye
    As he wrung the warrior's hand--
  "Betide me weal, betide me woe,
    I'll hold by thy command.

  "But if in battle front, Lord James,
    'Tis ours once more to ride,
  No force of man, nor craft of fiend,
    Shall cleave me from thy side!"

  And aye we sail'd, and aye we sail'd,
    Across the weary sea,
  Until one morn the coast of Spain
    Rose grimly on our lee.

  And as we rounded to the port,
    Beneath the watch-tower's wall,
  We heard the clash of the atabals,
    And the trumpet's wavering call.

  "Why sounds yon Eastern music here
    So wantonly and long,
  And whose the crowd of armèd men
    That round yon standard throng?"

  "The Moors have come from Africa
    To spoil and waste and slay,
  And King Alonzo of Castile
    Must fight with them to-day."

  "Now shame it were," cried good Lord James,
    "Shall never be said of me,
  That I and mine have turn'd aside,
    From the Cross in jeopardie!

  "Have down, have down, my merry men all--
    Have down unto the plain;
  We'll let the Scottish lion loose
    Within the fields of Spain!"

  "Now welcome to me, noble lord,
    Thou and thy stalwart power;
  Dear is the sight of a Christian knight
    Who comes in such an hour!

  "Is it for bond or faith ye come,
    Or yet for golden fee?
  Or bring ye France's lilies here,
    Or the flower of Burgundie?"

  "God greet thee well, thou valiant King,
    Thee and thy belted peers--
  Sir James of Douglas am I called,
    And these are Scottish spears.

  "We do not fight for bond or plight,
    Not yet for golden fee;
  But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
    Who died upon the tree.

  "We bring our great King Robert's heart
    Across the weltering wave,
  To lay it in the holy soil
    Hard by the Saviour's grave.

  "True pilgrims we, by land or sea,
    Where danger bars the way;
  And therefore are we here, Lord King,
    To ride with thee this day!"

  The King has bent his stately head,
    And the tears were in his eyne--
  "God's blessing on thee, noble knight,
    For this brave thought of thine!

  "I know thy name full well, Lord James,
    And honour'd may I be,
  That those who fought beside the Bruce
    Should fight this day for me!

  "Take thou the leading of the van,
    And charge the Moors amain;
  There is not such a lance as thine
    In all the host of Spain!"

  The Douglas turned towards us then,
    O but his glance was high!--
  "There is not one of all my men
    But is as bold as I.

  "There is not one of all my knights
    But bears as true a spear--
  Then onwards! Scottish gentlemen,
    And think--King Robert's here!"

  The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
    The arrows flashed like flame,
  As spur in side, and spear in rest,
    Against the foe we came.

  And many a bearded Saracen
    Went down, both horse and man;
  For through their ranks we rode like corn,
    So furiously we ran!

  But in behind our path they closed,
    Though fain to let us through,
  For they were forty thousand men,
    And we were wondrous few.

  We might not see a lance's length,
    So dense was their array,
  But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
    Still held them hard at bay.

  "Make in! make in!" Lord Douglas cried,
    "Make in, my brethren dear!
  Sir William of Saint Clair is down;
    We may not leave him here!"

  But thicker, thicker, grew the swarm,
    And sharper shot the rain,
  And the horses reared amid the press,
    But they would not charge again.

  "Now Jesu help thee," said Lord James,
    "Thou kind and true St Clair!
  An' if I may not bring thee off,
    I'll die beside thee there!"

  Then in his stirrups up he stood,
    So lionlike and bold,
  And held the precious heart aloft
    All in its case of gold.

  He flung it from him, far ahead,
    And never spake he more,
  But--"Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart,
    As thou wert wont of yore!"

  The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
    And heavier still the stour,
  Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
    And swept away the Moor.

  "Now praised be God, the day is won!
    They fly o'er flood and fell--
  Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
    Good knight, that fought so well?"

  "Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!" he said,
    "And leave the dead to me,
  For I must keep the dreariest watch
    That ever I shall dree!

  "There lies, beside his master's heart,
    The Douglas, stark and grim;
  And woe is me I should be here,
    Not side by side with him!

  "The world grows cold, my arm is old,
    And thin my lyart hair,
  And all that I loved best on earth
    Is stretch'd before me there.

  "O Bothwell banks! that bloom so bright,
    Beneath the sun of May,
  The heaviest cloud that ever blew
    Is bound for you this day.

  "And, Scotland, thou may'st veil thy head
    In sorrow and in pain;
  The sorest stroke upon thy brow
    Hath fallen this day in Spain!

  "We'll bear them back unto our ship,
    We'll bear them o'er the sea,
  And lay them in the hallowed earth,
    Within our own countrie.

  "And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,
    For this I tell thee sure,
  The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
    Shall never bear the Moor!"

  The King he lighted from his horse,
    He flung his brand away,
  And took the Douglas by the hand,
    So stately as he lay.

  "God give thee rest, thou valiant soul,
    That fought so well for Spain;
  I'd rather half my land were gone,
    So thou wert here again!"

  We bore the good Lord James away,
    And the priceless heart he bore,
  And heavily we steer'd our ship
    Towards the Scottish shore.

  No welcome greeted our return,
    Nor clang of martial tread,
  But all were dumb and hushed as death
    Before the mighty dead.

  We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
    The heart in fair Melrose;
  And woeful men were we that day--
    God grant their souls repose!


It is very much to be regretted that no competent person has as yet
undertaken the task of compiling a full and authentic biography of Lord
Viscount Dundee. His memory has consequently been left at the mercy of
misrepresentation and malignity; and the pen of romance has been freely
employed to portray, as a bloody assassin, one of the most accomplished
men and gallant soldiers of his age.

It was the misfortune of Claverhouse to have lived in so troublous an
age and country. The religious differences of Scotland were then at
their greatest height, and there is hardly any act of atrocity and
rebellion which had not been committed by the insurgents. The royal
authority was openly and publicly disowned in the western districts: the
Archbishop of St. Andrew's, after more than one hairbreadth escape, was
waylaid, and barbarously murdered by an armed gang of fanatics on Magus
Muir; and his daughter was wounded and maltreated while interceding for
the old man's life. The country was infested by banditti, who took every
possible opportunity of shooting down and massacring any of the
straggling soldiery: the clergy were attacked and driven from their
houses; so that, throughout a considerable portion of Scotland, there
was no security either for property or for life. It is now the fashion
to praise and magnify the Covenanters as the most innocent and
persecuted of men; but those who are so ready with their sympathy,
rarely take the pains to satisfy themselves, by reference to the annals
of the time, of the true character of those men whom they blindly
venerate as martyrs. They forget, in their zeal for religious freedom,
that even the purest and holiest of causes may be sullied and disgraced
by the deeds of its upholders, and that a wild and frantic profession of
faith is not always a test of genuine piety. It is not in the slightest
degree necessary to discuss whether the royal prerogative was at that
time arbitrarily used, or whether the religious freedom of the nation
was unduly curtailed. Both points may be, and indeed are, admitted,--for
it is impossible to vindicate the policy of the measures adopted by the
two last monarchs of the house of Stuart; but neither admission will
clear the Covenanters from the stain of deliberate cruelty.

After the battle of Philiphaugh, the royalist prisoners were butchered
in cold blood, under the superintendence of a clerical emissary, who
stood by rubbing his hands, and exclaiming--"The wark gangs bonnily on!"
Were I to transcribe from the pamphlets before me the list of the
murders which were perpetrated by the country people on the soldiery,
officers, and gentlemen of loyal principles, during the reign of Charles
II., I believe that no candid person would be surprised at the severe
retaliation which was made. It must be remembered that the country was
then under military law, and that the strongest orders had been issued
by the Government to the officers in command of the troops, to use every
means in their power for the effectual repression of the disturbances.
The necessity of such orders will become apparent, when we reflect that,
besides the open actions at Aird's Moss and Drumclog, the city of
Glasgow was attacked, and the royal forces compelled for a time to fall
back upon Stirling.

Under such circumstances it is no wonder if the soldiery were severe in
their reprisals. Innocent blood may no doubt have been shed, and in some
cases even wantonly; for when rebellion has grown into civil war, and
the ordinary course of the law is put in abeyance, it is always
impossible to restrain military license. But it is most unfair to lay
the whole odium of such acts upon those who were in command, and to
dishonour the fair name of gentlemen, by attributing to them personally
the commission of deeds of which they were absolutely ignorant. To this
day the peasantry of the western districts of Scotland entertain the
idea that Claverhouse was a sort of fiend in human shape, tall,
muscular, and hideous in aspect, secured by infernal spells from the
chance of perishing by any ordinary weapon, and mounted upon a huge
black horse, the especial gift of Beelzebub! On this charger it is
supposed that he could ride up precipices as easily as he could traverse
the level ground--that he was constantly accompanied by a body of
desperadoes, vulgarly known by such euphonious titles as "Hell's Tam,"
and "the De'il's Jock," and that his whole time was occupied, day and
night, in hunting Covenanters upon the hills! Almost every rebel who was
taken in arms and shot, is supposed to have met his death from the
individual pistol of Claverhouse; and the tales which, from time to
time, have been written by such ingenious persons as the late Mr. Gait
and the Ettrick Shepherd have quietly been assumed as facts, and added
to the store of our traditionary knowledge. It is in vain to hint that
the chief commanders of the forces in Scotland could have found little
leisure, even had they possessed the taste, for pursuing single
insurgents. Such suggestions are an insult to martyrology; and many a
parish of the west would be indignant were it averred that the tenant of
its gray stone had suffered by a meaner hand.

When we look at the portrait of Claverhouse, and survey the calm,
melancholy, and beautiful features of the devoted soldier, it appears
almost incredible that he should ever have suffered under such an
overwhelming load of misrepresentation. But when--discarding modern
historians, who in too many instances do not seem to entertain the
slightest scruple in dealing with the memory of the dead--we turn to the
writings of his contemporaries who knew the man, his character appears
in a very different light. They describe him as one who was stainless in
his honour, pure in his faith, wise in council, resolute in action, and
utterly free from that selfishness which disgraced the Scottish
statesmen of the time. No one dares question his loyalty, for he sealed
that confession with his blood; and it is universally admitted, that
with him fell the last hopes of the reinstatement of the house of

I may perhaps be permitted here, in the absence of a better chronicler,
to mention a few particulars of his life, which, I believe, are
comparatively unknown. John Graham of Claverhouse was a cadet of the
family of Fintrie, connected by intermarriage with the blood-royal of
Scotland. After completing his studies at the University of St.
Andrew's, he entered, as was the national custom for gentlemen of good
birth and limited means, into foreign service, served some time in
France as a volunteer, and afterwards went to Holland. He very soon
received a commission, as a cornet in a regiment of horse-guards, from
the Prince of Orange, nephew of Charles II. and James VII., and who
afterwards married the Princess Mary. His manner at that time is thus
described:--"He was then ane esquire, under the title of John Graham of
Claverhouse; but the vivacity of his parts, and the delicacy and justice
of his understanding and judgment, joyned with a certain vigour of mind
and activity of body, distinguished him in such a manner from all others
of his rank, that though he lived in a superior character, yet he
acquired the love and esteem of all his equals, as well as of those who
had the advantage of him in dignity and estate."

By one of those singular accidents which we occasionally meet with in
history, Graham, afterwards destined to become his most formidable
opponent, saved the life of the Prince of Orange at the battle of St.
Neff. The Prince's horse had been killed, and he himself was in the
grasp of the enemy, when the young cornet rode to his rescue, freed him
from his assailants, and mounted him on his own steed. For this service
he received a captain's commission, and the promise of the first
regiment that should fall vacant.

But even in early life William of Orange was not famous for keeping his
promises. Some years afterwards, a vacancy in one of the Scottish
regiments in the Prince's service occurred, and Claverhouse, relying
upon the previous assurance, preferred his claim. It was disregarded,
and Mr. Collier, afterwards Earl of Portmore, was appointed over his
head. It would seem that Graham had suspected some foul play on the
part of this gentleman, for, shortly after, they accidentally met and
had an angry altercation. This circumstance having come to the ears of
the Prince, he sent for Captain Graham, and administered a sharp rebuke.
I give the remainder of this incident in the words of the old writer,
because it must be considered a very remarkable one, as illustrating the
fiery spirit and dauntless independence of Claverhouse.

"The Captain answered, that he was indeed in the wrong, since it was
more his Highness's business to have resented that quarrel than his;
because Mr. Collier had less injured him in disappointing him of the
regiment, than he had done his Highness in making him break his word.
'Then,' replied the Prince in an angry tone, 'I make you full
reparation, for I bestow on you what is more valuable than a regiment
when I give you your right arm!' The Captain subjoined, that since his
Highness had the goodness to give him his liberty, he resolved to employ
himself elsewhere, for he would not longer serve a Prince that had
broken his word.

"The Captain, having thus thrown up his commission, was preparing in
haste for his voyage, when a messenger arrived from the Prince, with two
hundred guineas for the horse on which he had saved his life. The
Captain sent the horse, but ordered the gold to be distributed among the
grooms of the Prince's stables. It is said, however, that his Highness
had the generosity to write to the King and the Duke, recommending him
as a fine gentleman and a brave officer, fit for any office, civil or

On his arrival in Britain he was well received by the court, and
immediately appointed to a high military command in Scotland. It would
be beyond the scope of the present paper to enter minutely into the
details of his service during the stormy period when Scotland was
certainly misgoverned, and when there was little unity, but much
disorder in the land. In whatever point of view we regard the history of
those times, the aspect is a mournful one indeed. Church and State never
was a popular cry in Scotland, and the peculiar religious tendencies
which had been exhibited by a large portion of the nation, at the time
of the Reformation, rendered the return of tranquillity hopeless until
the hierarchy was displaced, and a humbler form of church government,
more suited to the feelings of the people, substituted in its stead.

Three years after the accession of James VII. Claverhouse was raised to
the peerage, by the title of Lord Viscount Dundee. He was major-general,
and second in command of the royal forces, when the Prince of Orange
landed, and earnestly entreated King James to be allowed to march
against him, offering to stake his head on the successful result of the
enterprize. There is little doubt, from the great popularity of Lord
Dundee with the army, that, had such consent been given, William would
have found more than a match in his old officer; but the King seemed
absolutely infatuated, and refused to allow a drop of blood to be shed
in his quarrel, though the great bulk of the population of England were
clearly and enthusiastically in his favour. One of the most gifted of
our modern poets, the Honourable George Sydney Smythe, has beautifully
illustrated this event.

  "Then out spake gallant Claverhouse, and his soul thrilled wild and high,
  And he showed the King his subjects, and he prayed him not to fly.
  O never yet was captain so dauntless as Dundee!
  He has sworn to chase the Hollander back to his Zuyder-Zee."

But though James quitted his kingdom, the stern loyalty of Dundee was
nothing moved. Alone, and without escort, he traversed England, and
presented himself at the Convention of Estates, then assembled at
Edinburgh for the purpose of receiving the message from the Prince of
Orange. The meeting was a very strange one. Many of the nobility and
former members of the Scottish Parliament absolutely declined attending
it, some on the ground that it was not a legal assembly, having been
summoned by the Prince of Orange, and others because, in such a total
disruption of order, they judged it safest to abstain from taking any
prominent part. This gave an immense ascendency to the Revolution party,
who further proceeded to strengthen their position by inviting to
Edinburgh large bodies of the armed population of the west. After
defending for several days the cause of his master with as much
eloquence as vigour, Dundee, finding that the majority of the Convention
were resolved to offer the crown of Scotland to the Prince, and having
moreover received sure information that some of the wild fanatic Whigs,
with Daniel Ker of Kersland at their head, had formed a plot for his
assassination, quitted Edinburgh with about fifty horsemen, and, after a
short interview--celebrated by Sir Walter Scott in one of his grandest
ballads--with the Duke of Gordon at the Castle Rock, directed his steps
towards the north. After a short stay at his house of Duddope, during
which he received, by order of the Council, who were thoroughly alarmed
at his absence, a summons through a Lyon herald to return to Edinburgh
under pain of high treason, he passed into the Gordon country, where he
was joined by the Earl of Dunfermline with a small party of about sixty
horse. His retreat was timeous, for General Mackay, who commanded for
the Prince of Orange, had despatched a strong force, with instructions
to make him prisoner. From this time, until the day of his death, he
allowed himself no repose. Imitating the example, and inheriting the
enthusiasm of his great predecessor Montrose, he invoked the loyalty of
the clans to assist him in the struggle for legitimacy--and he did not
appeal to them in vain. His name was a spell to rouse the ardent spirits
of the mountaineers; and not the Great Marquis himself, in the height of
his renown, was more sincerely welcomed and more fondly loved than "Ian
dhu nan Cath,"--Dark John of the Battles,--the name by which Lord Dundee
is still remembered in Highland song. In the mean time the Convention,
terrified at their danger, and dreading a Highland inroad, had
despatched Mackay, a military officer of great experience, with a
considerable body of troops, to quell the threatened insurrection. He
was encountered by Dundee, and compelled to evacuate the high country
and fall back upon the Lowlands, where he subsequently received
reinforcements, and again marched northward. The Highland host was
assembled at Blair, though not in great force, when the news of Mackay's
advance arrived; and a council of the chiefs and officers was summoned,
to determine whether it would be most advisable to fall back upon the
glens and wild fastnesses of the Highlands, or to meet the enemy at
once, though with a force far inferior to his.

Most of the old officers, who had been trained in the foreign wars, were
of the former opinion--"alleging that it was neither prudent nor
cautious to risk an engagement against an army of disciplined men, that
exceeded theirs in numbers by more than a half." But both Glengarry and
Locheill, to the great satisfaction of the General, maintained the
contrary view, and argued that neither hunger nor fatigue were so likely
to depress the Highlanders, as a retreat when the enemy was in view. The
account of the discussion is so interesting, and so characteristic of
Dundee, that I shall take leave to quote its termination in the words of
Drummond of Balhaldy:

"An advice so hardy and resolute could not miss to please the generous
Dundee. His looks seemed to heighten with an air of delight and
satisfaction all the while Locheill was speaking. He told his council
that they had heard his sentiments from the mouth of a person who had
formed his judgment upon infallible proofs drawn from a long experience,
and an intimate acquaintance with the persons and subject he spoke of.
Not one in the company offering to contradict their general, it was
unanimously agreed to fight.

"When the news of this vigorous resolution spread through the army,
nothing was heard but acclamations of joy, which exceedingly pleased
their gallant general; but before the council broke up, Locheill begged
to be heard for a few words. 'My Lord' said he, 'I have just now
declared, in the presence of this honourable company, that I was
resolved to give an implicit obedience to all your Lordship's commands;
but I humbly beg leave, in name of these gentlemen, to give the word of
command for this one time. It is the voice of your council, and their
orders are, that you do not engage personally. Your Lordship's business
is to have an eye on all parts, and to issue out your commands as you
shall think proper; it is ours to execute them with promptitude and
courage. On your Lordship depends the fate, not only of this little
brave army, but also of our king and country. If your Lordship deny us
this reasonable demand, for my own part I declare, that neither I, nor
any I am concerned in, shall draw a sword on this important occasion,
whatever construction shall be put upon the matter.'

"Locheill was seconded in this by the whole council; but Dundee begged
leave to be heard in his turn. 'Gentlemen,' said he, 'as I am absolutely
convinced, and have had repeated proofs, of your zeal for the king's
service, and of your affection to me as his general and your friend, so
I am fully sensible that my engaging personally this day may be of some
loss if I shall chance to be killed. But I beg leave of you, however, to
allow me to give one _shear-darg_ (that is, one harvest-day's work) to
the king, my master, that I may have an opportunity of convincing the
brave clans, that I can hazard my life in that service as freely as the
meanest of them. Ye know their temper, gentlemen; and if they do not
think I have personal courage enough, they will not esteem me hereafter,
nor obey my commands with cheerfulness. Allow me this single favour, and
I here promise, upon my honour, never again to risk my person while I
have that of commanding you.'

"The council, finding him inflexible, broke up, and the army marched
directly towards the Pass of Killiecrankie."

Those who have visited that romantic spot need not be reminded of its
peculiar features, for these, once seen, must dwell for ever in the
memory. The lower part of the Pass is a stupendous mountain-chasm,
scooped out by the waters of the Garry, which here descend in a
succession of roaring cataracts and pools. The old road, which ran
almost parallel to the river and close upon its edge, was extremely
narrow, and wound its way beneath a wall of enormous crags, surmounted
by a natural forest of birch, oak, and pine. An army cooped up in that
gloomy ravine would have as little chance of escape from the onset of an
enterprising partisan corps, as had the Bavarian troops when attacked by
the Tyrolese in the steep defiles of the Inn. General Mackay, however,
had made his arrangements with consummate tact and skill, and had
calculated his time so well, that he was enabled to clear the Pass
before the Highlanders could reach it from the other side. Advancing
upwards, the passage becomes gradually broader, until, just below the
House of Urrard, there is a considerable width of meadow-land. It was
here that Mackay took up his position, and arrayed his troops, on
observing that the heights above were occupied by the army of Dundee.

The forces of the latter scarcely amounted to one-third of those of his
antagonist, which were drawn up in line without any reserve. He was
therefore compelled, in making his dispositions, to leave considerable
gaps in his own line, which gave Mackay a further advantage. The right
of Dundee's army was formed of the M'Lean, Glengarry, and Clanranald
regiments, along with some Irish levies. In the centre was Dundee
himself, at the head of a small and ill-equipped body of cavalry,
composed of Lowland gentlemen and their followers, and about forty of
his old troopers. The Camerons and Skyemen, under the command of
Locheill and Sir Donald Macdonald of Sleat, were stationed on the left.
During the time occupied by these dispositions, a brisk cannonade was
opened by Mackay's artillery, which materially increased the impatience
of the Highlanders to come to close quarters. At last the word was given
to advance, and the whole line rushed forward with the terrific
impetuosity peculiar to a charge of the clans. They received the fire of
the regular troops without flinching, reserved their own until they were
close at hand, poured in a murderous volley, and then, throwing away
their firelocks, attacked the enemy with the broadsword.

The victory was almost instantaneous, but it was bought at a terrible
price. Through some mistake or misunderstanding, a portion of the
cavalry, instead of following their general, who had charged directly
for the guns, executed a manoeuvre which threw them into disorder; and,
when last seen in the battle, Dundee, accompanied only by the Earl of
Dunfermline and about sixteen gentlemen, was entering into the cloud of
smoke, standing up in his stirrups, and waving to the others to come
on. It was in this attitude that he appears to have received his
death-wound. On returning from the pursuit, the Highlanders found him
dying on the field.

It would he difficult to point out another instance in which the
maintenance of a great cause depended solely upon the life of a single
man. Whilst Dundee survived, Scotland at least was not lost to the
Stuarts, for, shortly before the battle, he had received assurance that
the greater part of the organised troops in the north were devoted to
his person, and ready to join him; and the victory of Killiecrankie
would have been followed by a general rising of the loyal gentlemen in
the Lowlands. But with his fall the enterprise was over.

I hope I shall not be accused of exaggerating the importance of this
battle, which, according to the writer I have already quoted, was best
proved by the consternation into which the opposite party were thrown at
the first news of Mackay's defeat. "The Duke of Hamilton, commissioner
for the parliament which then sat at Edinburgh, and the rest of the
ministry, were struck with such a panic, that some of them were for
retiring into England, others into the western shires of Scotland, where
all the people, almost to a man, befriended them; nor knew they whether
to abandon the government, or to stay a few days until they saw what use
my Lord Dundee would make of his victory. They knew the rapidity of his
motions, and were convinced that he would allow them no time to
deliberate. On this account it was debated, whether such of the nobility
and gentry as were confined for adhering to their old master, should be
immediately set at liberty or more closely shut up; and though the last
was determined on, yet the greatest revolutionists among them made
private and frequent visits to these prisoners, excusing what was past,
from a fatal necessity of the times, which obliged them to give a
seeming compliance, but protesting that they always wished well to King
James, as they should soon have occasion to show when my Lord Dundee

"The next morning after the battle," says Drummond, "the Highland army
had more the air of the shattered remains of broken troops than of
conquerors; for here it was literally true that

  'The vanquished triumphed, and the victors mourned.'

The death of their brave general, and the loss of so many of their
friends, were inexhaustible fountains of grief and sorrow. They closed
the last scene of this mournful tragedy in obsequies of their lamented
general, and of the other gentlemen who fell with him, and interred them
in the church of Blair of Atholl with a real funeral solemnity, there
not being present one single person who did not participate in the
general affliction."

I close this notice of a great soldier and devoted loyalist, by
transcribing the beautiful epitaph composed by Dr. Pitcairn:--

  "Ultime Scotorum! potuit, quo sospite solo,
    Libertas patriæ salva fuisse tuæ:
  Te moriente, novos accepit Scotia cives,
    Accepitque novos, te moriente, deos.
  Illa nequit superesse tibi, tu non potes illi,
    Ergo Caledoniæ nomen inane, vale.
  Tuque vale, gentis priscæ fortissime ductor,
    Ultime Scotorum, ac ultime Grame, vale!"


  Sound the fife, and cry the slogan--
    Let the pibroch shake the air
  With its wild triumphal music,
    Worthy of the freight we bear.
  Let the ancient hills of Scotland
    Hear once more the battle-song
  Swell within their glens and valleys
    As the clansmen march along!
  Never from the field of combat,
    Never from the deadly fray,
  Was a nobler trophy carried
    Than we bring with us to-day;
  Never, since the valiant Douglas
    On his dauntless bosom bore
  Good King Robert's heart--the priceless--
    To our dear Redeemer's shore!
  Lo! we bring with us the hero--
    Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
  Crowned as best beseems a victor
    From the altar of his fame;
  Fresh and bleeding from the battle
    Whence his spirit took its flight,
  Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
    And the thunder of the fight!
  Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
    As we march o'er moor and lea!
  Is there any here will venture
    To bewail our dead Dundee?
  Let the widows of the traitors
    Weep until their eyes are dim!
  Wail ye may full well for Scotland--
    Let none dare to mourn for him!
  See! above his glorious body
    Lies the royal banner's fold--
  See! his valiant blood is mingled
    With its crimson and its gold.
  See! how calm he looks and stately,
    Like a warrior on his shield,
  Waiting till the flush of morning
    Breaks along the battle-field!
  See--Oh never more, my comrades!
    Shall we see that falcon eye
  Redden with its inward lightning,
    As the hour of fight drew nigh;
  Never shall we hear the voice that,
    Clearer than the trumpet's call,
  Bade us strike for King and Country,
    Bade us win the field or fall!
  On the heights of Killiecrankie
    Yester-morn our army lay:
  Slowly rose the mist in columns
    From the river's broken way;
  Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
    And the pass was wrapped in gloom,
  When the clansmen rose together
    From their lair amidst the broom.
  Then we belted on our tartans,
    And our bonnets down we drew,
  And we felt our broadswords' edges,
    And we proved them to be true;
  And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
    And we cried the gathering-cry,
  And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
    And we swore to do or die!
  Then our leader rode before us
    On his war-horse black as night--
  Well the Cameronian rebels
    Knew that charger in the fight!--
  And a cry of exultation
    From the bearded warriors rose;
  For we loved the house of Claver'se,
    And we thought of good Montrose.
  But he raised his hand for silence--
    "Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
  Ere the evening-star shall glisten
    On Schehallion's lofty brow,
  Either we shall rest in triumph,
    Or another of the Graemes
  Shall have died in battle-harness
    For his Country and King James!
  Think upon the Royal Martyr--
    Think of what his race endure--
  Think on him whom butchers murder'd
    On the field of Magus Muir:--
  By his sacred blood I charge ye,
    By the ruin'd hearth and shrine--
  By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
    By your injuries and mine--
  Strike this day as if the anvil
    Lay beneath your blows the while,
  Be they Covenanting traitors,
    Or the brood of false Argyle!
  Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
    Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
  Let them tell their pale Convention
    How they fared within the North.
  Let them tell that Highland honour
    Is not to be bought nor sold,
  That we scorn their Prince's anger,
    As we loathe his foreign gold.
  Strike! and when the fight is over,
    If ye look in vain for me,
  Where the dead are lying thickest,
    Search for him that was Dundee!"

  Loudly then the hills re-echoed
    With our answer to his call,
  But a deeper echo sounded
    In the bosoms of us all.
  For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
    Not a man who heard him speak
  Would that day have left the battle.
    Burning eye and flushing cheek
  Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
    And they harder drew their breath;
  For their souls were strong within them,
    Stronger than the grasp of death.
  Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
    Sounding in the pass below,
  And the distant tramp of horses,
    And the voices of the foe:
  Down we crouched amid the bracken,
    Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
  Panting like the hounds in summer,
    When they scent the stately deer.
  From the dark defile emerging,
    Next we saw the squadrons come,
  Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers
    Marching to the tuck of drum;
  Through the scattered wood of birches,
    O'er the broken ground and heath,
  Wound the long battalion slowly,
    Till they gained the field beneath;
  Then we bounded from our covert.--
    Judge how looked the Saxons then,
  When they saw the rugged mountain
    Start to life with armèd men!
  Like a tempest down the ridges,
    Swept the hurricane of steel,
  Rose the slogan of Macdonald--
    Flashed the broadsword of Locheill!
  Vainly sped the withering volley
    'Mongst the foremost of our band--
  On we poured until we met them,
    Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
  Horse and man went down like drift-wood
    When the floods are black at Yule,
  And their carcasses are whirling
    In the Garry's deepest pool.
  Horse and man went down before us--
    Living foe there tarried none
  On the field of Killiecrankie,
    When that stubborn fight was done!

  And the evening-star was shining
    On Schehallion's distant head,
  When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
    And returned to count the dead.
  There we found him, gashed and gory,
    Stretch'd upon the cumbered plain,
  As he told us where to seek him,
    In the thickest of the slain.
  And a smile was on his visage,
    For within his dying ear
  Pealed the joyful note of triumph,
    And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
  So, amidst the battle's thunder,
    Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
  In the glory of his manhood
    Passed the spirit of the Græme!
  Open wide the vaults of Athol,
    Where the bones of heroes rest--
  Open wide the hallowed portals
    To receive another guest!
  Last of Scots, and last of freemen--
    Last of all that dauntless race
  Who would rather die unsullied
    Than outlive the land's disgrace!
  O thou lion-hearted warrior!
    Reck not of the after-time:
  Honour may be deemed dishonour,
    Loyalty be called a crime.
  Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
    Of the noble and the true,
  Hands that never failed their country,
    Hearts that never baseness knew.
  Sleep!--and till the latest trumpet
    Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
  Scotland shall not boast a braver
    Chieftain than our own Dundee!


The Massacre of Glencoe is an event which neither can nor ought to be
forgotten. It was a deed of the worst treason and cruelty--a barbarous
infraction of all laws, human and divine; and it exhibits in their
foulest perfidy the true characters of the authors and abettors of the

After the battle of Killiecrankie the cause of the Scottish royalists
declined, rather from the want of a competent leader than from any
disinclination on the part of a large section of the nobility and gentry
to vindicate the right of King James. No person of adequate talents or
authority was found to supply the place of the great and gallant Lord
Dundee; for General Cannon, who succeeded in command, was not only
deficient in military skill, but did not possess the confidence, nor
understand the character of the Highland chiefs, who, with their
clansmen, constituted by far the most important section of the army.
Accordingly no enterprise of any importance was attempted; and the
disastrous issue of the battle of the Boyne led to a negotiation which
terminated in the entire disbanding of the royal forces. By this treaty,
which was expressly sanctioned by William of Orange, a full and
unreserved indemnity and pardon was granted to all of the Highlanders
who had taken arms, with a proviso that they should first subscribe the
oath of allegiance to William and Mary, before the 1st of January, 1692,
in presence of the Lords of the Scottish Council, "or of the Sheriffs or
their deputies of the respective shires wherein they lived." The letter
of William addressed to the Privy Council, and ordering proclamation to
be made to the above effect, contained also the following significant
passage:--"That ye communicate our pleasure to the Governor of
Inverlochy, and other commanders, that they be exact and diligent in
their several posts; but that they show no more zeal against the
Highlanders after their submission, _than they have ever done formerly
when these were in open rebellion_."

This enigmatical sentence, which in reality was intended, as the sequel
will show, to be interpreted in the most cruel manner, appears to have
caused some perplexity in the Council, as that body deemed it necessary
to apply for more distinct and specific instructions, which, however,
were not then issued. It had been especially stipulated by the chiefs,
as an indispensable preliminary to their treaty, that they should have
leave to communicate with King James, then residing at St. Germains, for
the purpose of obtaining his permission and warrant previous to
submitting themselves to the existing government. That article had been
sanctioned by William before the proclamation was issued, and a special
messenger was despatched to France for that purpose.

In the mean time, troops were gradually and cautiously advanced to the
confines of the Highlands, and, in some instances, actually quartered on
the inhabitants. The condition of the country was perfectly tranquil. No
disturbances whatever occurred in the north or west of Scotland;
Locheill and the other chiefs were awaiting the communication from St.
Germains, and held themselves bound in honour to remain inactive; whilst
the remainder of the royalist forces (for whom separate terms had been
made) were left unmolested at Dunkeld.

But rumours, which are too clearly traceable to the emissaries of the
new government, asserting the preparation made for an immediate landing
of King James at the head of a large body of the French, were
industriously circulated, and by many were implicitly believed. The
infamous policy which dictated such a course is now apparent. The term
of the amnesty or truce granted by the proclamation expired with the
year 1691, and all who had not taken the oath of allegiance before that
term, were to be proceeded against with the utmost severity. The
proclamation was issued upon the 29th of August: consequently, only four
months were allowed for the complete submission of the Highlands.

Not one of the chiefs subscribed until the mandate from King James
arrived. That document, which is dated from St. Germains on the 12th of
December 1691, reached Dunkeld eleven days afterwards, and,
consequently, but a very short time before the indemnity expired. The
bearer, Major Menzies, was so fatigued that he could proceed no farther
on his journey, but forwarded the mandate by an express to the commander
of the royal forces, who was then at Glengarry. It was therefore
impossible that the document could be circulated through the Highlands
within the prescribed period. Locheill, says Drummond of Balhaldy, did
not receive his copy till about thirty hours before the time was out,
and appeared before the sheriff at Inverara, where he took the oaths
upon the very day on which the indemnity expired.

That a general massacre throughout the Highlands was contemplated by the
Whig government, is a fact established by overwhelming evidence. In the
course of the subsequent investigation before the Scots Parliament,
letters were produced from Sir John Dalrymple, then Master of Stair, one
of the secretaries of state in attendance upon the court, which too
clearly indicate the intentions of William. In one of these, dated 1st
December 1694,--_a month_, be it observed, before the amnesty
expired--and addressed to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, there are the
following words:--"The winter is the only season in which we are sure
the Highlanders cannot escape us, _nor carry their wives, bairns_, and
cattle to the mountains." And in another letter, written only two days
afterwards, he says, "It is the only time that they cannot escape you,
for human constitution cannot endure to be long out of houses. _This is
the proper season to maule them, in the cold long nights_." And in
January thereafter, he informed Sir Thomas Livingston that the design
was "to destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Locheill's lands,
Keppoch's, Glengarry's, Appin, and Glencoe. I assure you," he continues,
"your power shall be full enough, _and I hope the soldiers will not
trouble the Government with prisoners_."

Locheill was more fortunate than others of his friends and neighbours.
According to Drummond,--"Major Menzies, who, upon his arrival, had
observed the whole forces of the kingdom ready to invade the Highlands,
as he wrote to General Buchan, foreseeing the unhappy consequences, not
only begged that general to send expresses to all parts with orders
immediately to submit, but also wrote to Sir Thomas Livingston, praying
him to supplicate the Council for a prorogation of the time, in regard
that he was so excessively fatigued, that he was obliged to stop some
days to repose a little; and that though he should send expresses, yet
it was impossible they could reach the distant parts in such time as to
allow the several persons concerned the benefit of the indemnity within
the space limited; besides, that some persons having put the Highlanders
in a bad temper, he was confident to persuade them to submit, if a
further time were allowed. Sir Thomas presented this letter to the
Council on the 5th of January, 1692, but they refused to give any
answer, and ordered him to transmit the same to Court."

The reply of William of Orange was a letter, countersigned by Dalrymple,
in which, upon the recital that "several of the chieftains and many of
their clans had not taken the benefit of our gracious indemnity," he
gave orders for a general massacre. "To that end, we have given Sir
Thomas Livingston orders to employ our troops (which we have already
conveniently posted) to cut off these obstinate rebels _by all manner of
hostility_; and we do require you to give him your assistance and
concurrence in all other things that may conduce to that service; and
because these rebels, to avoid our forces, may draw themselves, _their
families_, goods, or cattle, to lurk or be concealed among their
neighbours: therefore, we require and authorise you to emit a
proclamation to be published at the market-crosses of these or the
adjacent shires where the rebels reside, discharging upon the highest
penalties the law allows, any reset, correspondence, or intercommuning
with these rebels." This monstrous mandate, which was in fact the
death-warrant of many thousand innocent people, no distinction being
made of age or sex, would, in all human probability, have been put into
execution, but for the remonstrance of one high-minded nobleman. Lord
Carmarthen, afterwards Duke of Leeds, accidentally became aware of the
proposed massacre, and personally remonstrated with the monarch against
a measure which he denounced as at once cruel and impolitic. After much
discussion, William, influenced rather by an apprehension that so
savage and sweeping an act might prove fatal to his new authority, than
by any compunction or impulse of humanity, agreed to recall the general
order, and to limit himself, in the first instance, to a single deed of
butchery, by way of testing the temper of the nation. Some difficulty
seems to have arisen in the selection of the fittest victim. Both
Keppoch and Glencoe were named, but the personal rancour of Secretary
Dalrymple decided the doom of the latter. The Secretary wrote
thus:--"Argyle tells me that Glencoe hath not taken the oath, at which I
rejoice. It is a great work of charity to be exact in rooting out that
damnable set." The final instructions regarding Glencoe, which were
issued on 16th January, 1692, are as follows:--

  "William R.--As for M'Ian of Glencoe, and that tribe,
  if they can be well distinguished from the rest of the
  Highlanders, it will be proper for public justice to extirpate
  that set of thieves."                                   "W.R."

This letter is remarkable as being signed and countersigned by William
alone, contrary to the usual practice. The Secretary was no doubt
desirous to screen himself from after responsibility, and was further
aware that the royal signature would insure a rigorous execution of the

Macdonald, or, as he was more commonly designed, M'Ian of Glencoe, was
the head of a considerable sept or branch of the great Clan-Coila, and
was lineally descended from the ancient Lords of the Isles, and from
the royal family of Scotland--the common ancestor of the Macdonalds
having espoused a daughter of Robert II. He was, according to a
contemporary testimony, "a person of great integrity, honour, good
nature, and courage; and his loyalty to his old master, King James, was
such, that he continued in arms from Dundee's first appearing in the
Highlands, till the fatal treaty that brought on his ruin." In common
with the other chiefs, he had omitted taking the benefit of the
indemnity until he received the sanction of King James: but the copy of
that document which was forwarded to him, unfortunately arrived too
late. The weather was so excessively stormy at the time that there was
no possibility of penetrating from Glencoe to Inverara, the place where
the sheriff resided, before the expiry of the stated period; and M'Ian
accordingly adopted the only practicable mode of signifying his
submission, by making his way with great difficulty to Fort-William,
then called Inverlochy, and tendering his signature to the military
Governor there. That officer was not authorised to receive it, but at
the earnest entreaty of the chief, he gave him a certificate of his
appearance and tender, and on New-Year's day, 1692, M'Ian reached
Inverara, where he produced that paper as evidence of his intentions,
and prevailed upon the sheriff, Sir James Campbell of Ardkinglass, to
administer the oaths required. After that ceremony, which was
immediately intimated to the Privy Council, had been performed, the
unfortunate gentleman returned home, in the full conviction that he had
thereby made peace with government for himself and for his clan. But his
doom was already sealed.

A company of the Earl of Argyle's regiment had been previously quartered
in Glencoe. These men, though Campbells, and hereditarily obnoxious to
the Macdonalds, Camerons, and other of the loyal clans, were yet
countrymen, and were kindly and hospitably received. Their captain,
Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, was connected with the family of Glencoe
through the marriage of a niece, and was resident under the roof of the
chief. And yet this was the very troop selected for the horrid service.

Special instructions were sent to the major of the regiment, one
Duncanson, then quartered at Ballachulish--a morose, brutal, and savage
man--who accordingly wrote to Campbell of Glenlyon in the following

                      Ballacholis, 12 _February_, 1692.

  "SIR,--You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels,
  the M'Donalds of Glencoe, and putt all to the sword under
  seventy. You are to have special care that the old fox and
  his sons doe upon no account escape your hands. You are
  to secure all the avenues, that no man escape. This you
  are to put in execution att five o'clock in the morning
  precisely, and by that time, or very shortly after it, I'll
  strive to be att you with a stronger party. If I doe not
  come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me, but to fall
  on. This is by the king's speciall command, for the good
  and safety of the country, that these miscreants be cutt off
  root and branch. See that this be putt in execution without
  feud or favour, else you may expect to be treated as not
  true to the king's government, nor a man fitt to carry a
  commission in the king's service. Expecting you will not
  faill in the fulfilling hereof as you love yourself, I subscribe
  these with my hand."                    ROBERT DUNCANSON.

      "_For their Majestys' service.
  To Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon_."

This order was but too literally obeyed. At the appointed hour, when the
whole inhabitants of the glen were asleep, the work of murder began.
M'Ian was one of the first who fell. Drummond's narrative fills up the
remainder of the dreadful story.

"They then served all within the family in the same manner, without
distinction of age or person. In a word--for the horror of that
execrable butchery must give pain to the reader--they left none alive
but a young child, who, being frightened with the noise of the guns, and
the dismal shrieks and cries of its dying parents, whom they were
a-murdering, got hold of Captain Campbell's knees, and wrapt itself
within his cloak; by which, chancing to move compassion, the captain
inclined to have saved it, but one Drummond, an officer, arriving about
the break of day with more troops, commanded it to be shot by a file of
musqueteers. Nothing could be more shocking and horrible than the
prospect of these houses bestrewed with mangled bodies of the dead,
covered with blood, and resounding with the groans of wretches in the
last agonies of life.

"Two sons of Glencoe's were the only persons that escaped in that
quarter of the country; for, growing jealous of some ill designs from
the behaviour of the soldiers, they stole from their beds a few minutes
before the tragedy began, and, chancing to overhear two of them
discoursing plainly of the matter, they endeavoured to have advertised
their father, but, finding that impracticable, they ran to the other end
of the country and alarmed the inhabitants. There was another accident
that contributed much to their safety; for the night was so excessively
stormy and tempestuous, that four hundred soldiers, who were appointed
to murder these people, were stopped in their march from Inverlochy, and
could not get up till they had time to save themselves. To cover the
deformity of so dreadful a sight, the soldiers burned all the houses to
the ground, after having rifled them, carried away nine hundred cows,
two hundred horses, numberless herds of sheep and goats, and every thing
else that belonged to these miserable people. Lamentable was the case of
the women and children that escaped the butchery; the mountains were
covered with a deep snow, the rivers impassable, storm and tempest
filled the air and added to the horrors and darkness of the night, and
there were no houses to shelter them within many miles."[1]

Such was the awful massacre of Glencoe, an event which has left an
indelible and execrable stain upon the memory of William of Orange. The
records of Indian warfare can hardly afford a parallel instance of
atrocity: and this deed, coupled with his deliberate treachery in the
Darien scheme, whereby Scotland was for a time absolutely ruined, is
sufficient to account for the little estimation in which the name of the
"great Whig deliverer" is still regarded in the valleys of the North.


[Footnote 1: _Memoirs of Sir Ewen Cameron of Locheill_.]


  Do not lift him from the bracken,
    Leave him lying where he fell--
  Better bier ye cannot fashion:
    None beseems him half so well
  As the bare and broken heather,
    And the hard and trampled sod,
  Whence his angry soul ascended
    To the judgment-seat of God!
  Winding-sheet we cannot give him--
    Seek no mantle for the dead,
  Save the cold and spotless covering
    Showered from heaven upon his head.
  Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
    Bent and broken with the blow,
  That, before he died, avenged him
    On the foremost of the foe.
  Leave the blood upon his bosom--
    Wash not off that sacred stain:
  Let it stiffen on the tartan,
    Let his wounds unclosed remain,
  Till the day when he shall show them
    At the throne of God on high,
  When the murderer and the murdered
    Meet before their Judge's eye!

  Nay--ye should not weep, my children!
    Leave it to the faint and weak;
  Sobs are but a woman's weapon--
    Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
  Weep not, children of Macdonald!
    Weep not thou, his orphan heir--
  Not in shame, but stainless honour,
    Lies thy slaughtered father there.
  Weep not--but when years are over,
    And thine arm is strong and sure,
  And thy foot is swift and steady
    On the mountain and the muir--
  Let thy heart be hard as iron,
    And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
  Till the hour when vengeance cometh
    For the race that slew thy sire;
  Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
    Rise a louder shriek of woe
  Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
    Scared the eagles of Glencoe;
  Louder than the screams that mingled
    With the howling of the blast,
  When the murderer's steel was clashing,
    And the fires were rising fast;
  When thy noble father bounded
    To the rescue of his men,
  And the slogan of our kindred
    Pealed throughout the startled glen;
  When the herd of frantic women
    Stumbled through the midnight snow,
  With their fathers' houses blazing,
    And their dearest dead below.
  Oh, the horror of the tempest,
    As the flashing drift was blown,
  Crimsoned with the conflagration,
    And the roofs went thundering down!
  Oh, the prayers--the prayers and curses
    That together winged their flight
  From the maddened hearts of many
    Through that long and woeful night!
  Till the fires began to dwindle,
    And the shots grew faint and few,
  And we heard the foeman's challenge
    Only in a far halloo;
  Till the silence once more settled
    O'er the gorges of the glen,
  Broken only by the Cona
    Plunging through its naked den.
  Slowly from the mountain-summit
    Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
  And the ghastly valley glimmered
    In the gray December dawn.
  Better had the morning never
    Dawned upon our dark despair!
  Black amidst the common whiteness
    Rose the spectral ruins there:
  But the sight of these was nothing
    More than wrings the wild dove's breast,
  When she searches for her offspring
    Round the relics of her nest.
  For in many a spot the tartan
    Peered above the wintry heap,
  Marking where a dead Macdonald
    Lay within his frozen sleep.
  Tremblingly we scooped the covering
    From each kindred victim's head,
  And the living lips were burning
    On the cold ones of the dead.
  And I left them with their dearest--
    Dearest charge had everyone--
  Left the maiden with her lover,
    Left the mother with her son.
  I alone of all was mateless--
    Far more wretched I than they,
  For the snow would not discover
    Where my lord and husband lay.
  But I wandered up the valley
    Till I found him lying low,
  With the gash upon his bosom,
    And the frown upon his brow--
  Till I found him lying murdered
    Where he wooed me long ago.
  Woman's weakness shall not shame me;
    Why should I have tears to shed?
  Could I rain them down like water,
    O my hero, on thy head,
  Could the cry of lamentation
    Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
  Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
    It were mine to wail and weep.
  But I will not waste my sorrow,
    Lest the Campbell women say
  That the daughters of Clanranald
    Are as weak and frail as they.
  I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
    Like our fathers, on thy shield,
  When a host of English foemen
    Camped upon a Scottish field;
  I had mourned thee hadst thou perished
    With the foremost of his name,
  When the valiant and the noble
    Died around the dauntless Græme.
  But I will not wrong thee, husband!
    With my unavailing cries,
  Whilst thy cold and mangled body,
    Stricken by the traitor, lies;
  Whilst he counts the gold and glory
    That this hideous night has won,
  And his heart is big with triumph
    At the murder he has done.
  Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
    Other hearts be rent in twain,
  Ere the heathbells on thy hillock
    Wither in the autumn rain.
  Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
    And I'll veil my weary head,
  Praying for a place beside thee,
    Dearer than my bridal-bed:
  And I'll give thee tears, my husband,
    If the tears remain to me,
  When the widows of the foemen
    Cry the coronach for thee.


In consequence of a capitulation with Government, the regular troops who
had served under Lord Dundee were transhipped to France, and,
immediately upon their landing, the officers and others had their rank
confirmed according to the tenor of the commissions and characters which
they bore in Scotland. They were distributed throughout the different
garrisons in the north of France, and, though nominally in the service
of King James, derived their whole means of subsistence from the bounty
of the French monarch. So long as it appeared probable that another
descent was meditated, those gentlemen, who were almost without
exception men of considerable family, assented to this arrangement, but
the destruction of the French fleet under Admiral Tourville, off La
Hogue, led to a material change in their views. After that naval
engagement it became obvious that the cause of the fugitive King was in
the mean time desperate, and the Scottish officers, with no less
gallantry than honour, volunteered a sacrifice which, so far as I know,
has hardly been equalled.

The old and interesting pamphlet written by one of the corps,[2] from
which I have extracted most of the following details, but which is
seldom perused except by the antiquary, states that, "The Scottish
officers, considering that, by the loss of the French Fleet, King
James's restoration would be retarded for some time, and that they were
burdensome to the King of France, being entertained in garrisons on
whole pay, without doing duty, when he had almost all Europe in
confederacy against him, therefore humbly entreated King James to have
them reduced into a company of private sentinels, and choose officers
amongst themselves to command them, assuring his majesty that they would
serve in the meanest circumstances, and undergo the greatest hardships
and fatigues that reason could imagine, or misfortunes inflict, until it
pleased God to restore him. King James commended their generosity and
loyalty, but disapproved of what they proposed, and told them it was
impossible that gentlemen who had served in so honourable posts as
formerly they had enjoyed, and lived in so great plenty and ease, could
ever undergo the fatigue and hardships of private sentinels' duty.
Again, that his own first command was a company of officers, whereof
several died, others, wearied with fatigue, drew their discharges, till
at last it dwindled into nothing, and he got no reputation by the
command: therefore he desired them to insist no more on that project.
The officers (notwithstanding his majesty's desire to the contrary) made
several interests at court, and harassed him so much, that at last he
condescended," and appointed those who were to command them.

Shortly afterwards the new corps was reviewed for the first and last
time by the unfortunate James in the gardens of Saint Germains, and the
tears are said to have gushed from his eyes at the sight of so many
brave men, reduced, through their disinterested and persevering loyalty,
to so very humble a condition. "Gentlemen," said he, "my own misfortunes
are not so nigh my heart as yours. It grieves me beyond what I can
express to see so many brave and worthy gentlemen, who had once the
prospect of being the chief officers in my army, reduced to the stations
of private sentinels. Nothing but your loyalty, and that of a few of my
subjects in Britain, who are forced from their allegiance by the Prince
of Orange, and who, I know, will be ready on all occasions to serve me
and my distressed family, could make me willing to live. The sense of
what all of you have done and undergone for your loyalty hath made so
deep an impression upon my heart, that, if it ever please God to restore
me, it is impossible I can be forgetful of your services and sufferings.
Neither can there be any posts in the armies of my dominions but what
you have just pretensions to. As for my son, your Prince, he is of your
own blood, a child capable of any impression, and, as his education will
be from you, it is not supposable that he can forget your merits. At
your own desires you are now going a long march far distant from me.
Fear God and love one another. Write your wants particularly to me, and
depend upon it always to find me your parent and King." The scene bore a
strong resemblance to one which many years afterwards occurred at
Fontainebleau. The company listened to his words with deep emotion,
gathered round him, as if half repentant of their own desire to go, and
so parted, for ever on this earth, the dethroned monarch and his exiled

The number of this company of officers was about one hundred and twenty:
their destination was Perpignan in Rousillon, close upon the frontier of
Spain, where they were to join the army under the command of the
Mareschal de Noailles. Their power of endurance, though often most
severely tested in an unwholesome climate, seems to have been no less
remarkable than their gallantry, which upon many occasions called forth
the warm acknowledgment of the French commanders. "_Le gentilhomme_,"
said one of the generals, in acknowledgment of their readiness at a
peculiarly critical moment, "_est toujours gentilhomme, et se montre
toujours tel dans besoin et dans le danger_"--a eulogy as applicable to
them as it was in later days to La Tour d'Auvergne, styled the first
grenadier of France. At Perpignan they were joined by two other
Scottish companies, and the three seem to have continued to serve
together for several campaigns.

As a proof of the estimation in which they were held, I shall merely
extract a short account of the taking of Rosas in Catalonia, before
referring to the exploit which forms the subject of the following
ballad. "On the 27th of May, the company of officers and other Scottish
companies, were joined by two companies of Irish, to make up a battalion
in order to mount the trenches; and the major part of the officers
listed themselves in the company of grenadiers, under the command of the
brave Major Rutherford, who, on his way to the trenches, in sight of
Mareschal de Noailles and his court, marched with his company on the
side of the trench, which exposed him to the fire of a bastion, where
there were two culverins and several other guns planted; likewise to the
fire of two curtins lined with small shot. Colonel Brown, following with
the battalion, was obliged, in honour, to march the same way Major
Rutherford had done; the danger whereof the Mareschal immediately
perceiving, ordered one of his aides-de-camp to command Rutherford to
march under cover of the trench, which he did; and if he had but delayed
six minutes, the grenadiers and battalion had been cut to pieces.
Rutherford, with his grenadiers, marched to a trench near the town, and
the battalion to a trench on the rear and flank of the grenadiers, who
fired so incessantly on the besieged, that they thought (the trench
being practicable) they were going to make their attacks, immediately
beat a chamade, and were willing to give up the town upon reasonable
terms: but the Mareschal's demands were so exorbitant, that the Governor
could not agree to them. Then firing began on both sides to be very hot;
and they in the town, seeing how the grenadiers lay, killed eight of
them. When the Governor surrendered the town, he inquired of the
Mareschal what countrymen these grenadiers were; and assured him it was
on their account he delivered up the town, because they fired so hotly,
that he believed they were resolved to attack the breach. He answered,
smiling, _'Ces sont mes enfants_--They are my children.' Again; 'they
are the King of Great Britain's Scottish officers, who, to show their
willingness to share of his miseries, have reduced themselves to the
carrying of arms, and chosen to serve under my command.' The next day,
when the Mareschal rode along the front of the camp, he halted at the
company of the officers' piquet, and they all surrounded him. Then, with
his hat in his hand, he thanked them for their good services in the
trenches, and freely acknowledged it was their conduct and courage which
compelled the Governor to give up the town; and assured them he would
acquaint his master with the same, which he did. For when his son
arrived with the news at Versailles, the King, having read the letter,
immediately took coach to St. Germains; and when he had shown King James
the letter, he thanked him for the services his subjects had done in
taking Rosas in Catalonia; who, with concern, replied, they were the
stock of his British officers, and that he was sorry he could not make
better provision for them."

And a miserable provision it was! They were gradually compelled to part
with every remnant of the property which they had secured from the ruins
of their fortunes; so that when they arrived, after various adventures,
at Scelestat, in Alsace, they were literally without the common means of
subsistence. Famine and the sword had, by this time, thinned their
ranks, but had not diminished their spirit, as the following narrative
of their last exploit will show:--

"In December 1697, General Stirk, who commanded for the Germans,
appeared with 16,000 men on the other side of the Rhine, which obliged
the Marquis de Sell to draw out all the garrisons in Alsace, who made up
about 4000 men; and he encamped on the other side of the Rhine, over
against General Stirk, to prevent his passing the Rhine and carrying a
bridge over into an island in the middle of it, which the French foresaw
would be of great prejudice to them. For the enemy's guns, placed on
that island, would extremely gall their camp, which they could not
hinder for the deepness of the water and their wanting of boats--for
which the Marquis quickly sent; but arriving too late, the Germans had
carried a bridge over into the island, where they had posted above five
hundred men, who, by order of their engineers, intrenched themselves:
which the company of officers perceiving, who always grasped after
honour, and scorned all thoughts of danger, resolved to wade the river,
and attack the Germans in the island; and for that effect, desired
Captain John Foster, who then commanded them, to beg of the Marquis that
they might have liberty to attack the Germans in the island; who told
Captain Foster, when the boats came up, they should be the first that
attacked. Foster courteously thanked the Marquis, and told him they
would wade into the island, who shrunk up his shoulders, prayed God to
bless them, and desired them to do what they pleased." Whereupon the
officers, with the other two Scottish companies, made themselves ready;
and having secured their arms round their necks, waded into the river
hand-in-hand, "according to the Highland fashion," with the water as
high as their breasts; and having crossed the heavy stream, fell upon
the Germans in their intrenchment. These were presently thrown into
confusion, and retreated, breaking down their own bridges, whilst many
of them were drowned. This movement, having been made in the dusk of the
evening, partook of the character of a surprise; but it appears to me a
very remarkable one, as having been effected under such circumstances,
in the dead of winter, and in the face of an enemy who possessed the
advantages both of position and of numerical superiority. The author of
the narrative adds:--"When the Marquis de Sell heard the firing, and
understood that the Germans were beat out of the island, he made the
sign of the cross on his face and breast, and declared publicly, that it
was the bravest action that ever he saw, and that his army had no honour
by it. As soon as the boats came, the Marquis sent into the island to
acquaint the officers that he would send them both troops and
provisions, who thanked his Excellency, and desired he should be
informed that they wanted no troops, and could not spare time to make
use of provisions, and only desired spades, shovels, and pickaxes,
wherewith they might intrench themselves--which were immediately sent to
them. The next morning, the Marquis came into the island, and kindly
embraced every officer, and thanked them for the good service they had
done his master, assuring them he would write a true account of their
honour and bravery to the Court of France, which, at the reading his
letters, immediately went to St. Germains, and thanked King James for
the services his subjects had done on the Rhine."

The company kept possession of the island for nearly six weeks,
notwithstanding repeated attempts on the part of the Germans to surprise
and dislodge them; but all these having been defeated by the extreme
watchfulness of the Scots, General Stirk at length drew off his army and
retreated. "In consequence of this action," says the chronicler, "that
island is called at present Isle d'Ecosse, and will in likelihood bear
that name until the general conflagration."

Two years afterwards, a treaty of peace was concluded; and this gallant
company of soldiers, worthy of a better fate, was broken up and
dispersed. At the time when the narrative, from which I have quoted so
freely, was compiled, not more than sixteen of Dundee's veterans were
alive. The author concludes thus,--"And thus was dissolved one of the
best companies that ever marched under command! Gentlemen, who, in the
midst of all their pressures and obscurity, never forgot they were
gentlemen; and whom the sweets of a brave, a just, and honourable
conscience, rendered perhaps more happy under those sufferings, than the
most prosperous and triumphant in iniquity, since our minds stamp our

Some years ago, while visiting the ancient Scottish convent at Ratisbon,
my attention was drawn to the monumental inscriptions on the walls of
the dormitory, many of which bear reference to gentlemen of family and
distinction, whose political principles had involved them in the
troubles of 1688, 1715, and 1745. Whether the cloister which now holds
their dust had afforded them a shelter in the later years of their
misfortunes, I know not; but for one that is so commemorated, hundreds
of the exiles must have passed away in obscurity, buried in the field on
which they fell, or carried from the damp vaults of the military
hospital to the trench, without any token of remembrance, or any other
wish beyond that which the minstrels have ascribed to one of the
greatest of our olden heroes--

  "Oh bury me by the bracken bush,
    Beneath the blooming brier:
  Let never living mortal ken
    That a kindly Scot lies here!"


[Footnote 2: _An account of Dundee's Officers after they went to
France_. By an Officer of the Army. London, 1714.]



  The Rhine is running deep and red,
    The island lies before--
  "Now is there one of all the host
    Will dare to venture o'er?
  For not alone the river's sweep
    Might make a brave man quail:
  The foe are on the further side,
    Their shot comes fast as hail.
  God help us, if the middle isle
    We may not hope to win!
  Now, is there any of the host
    Will dare to venture in?"


  "The ford is deep, the banks are steep,
    The island-shore lies wide:
  Nor man nor horse could stem its force,
    Or reach the further side.
  See there! amidst the willow boughs
    The serried bayonets gleam;
  They've flung their bridge--they've won the isle;
    The foe have crossed the stream!
  Their volley flashes sharp and strong--
    By all the Saints, I trow,
  There never yet was soldier born
    Could force that passage now!"


  So spoke the bold French Mareschal
    With him who led the van,
  Whilst rough and red before their view
    The turbid river ran.
  Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross
    The wild and swollen Rhine,
  And thundering on the other bank
    Far stretched the German line.
  Hard by there stood a swarthy man
    Was leaning on his sword,
  And a saddened smile lit up his face
    As he heard the Captain's word.
  "I've seen a wilder stream ere now
    Than that which rushes there;
  I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet
    And never thought to dare.
  If German steel be sharp and keen,
    Is ours not strong and true?
  There may be danger in the deed,
    But there is honour too."


  The old lord in his saddle turned,
    And hastily he said--
  "Hath bold Dugueselin's fiery heart
    Awakened from the dead?
  Thou art the leader of the Scots--
    Now well and sure I know,
  That gentle blood in dangerous hour
    Ne'er yet ran cold nor slow,
  And I have seen ye in the fight
    Do all that mortal may:
  If honour is the boon ye seek
    It may be won this day.
  The prize is in the middle isle,
    There lies the venturous way;
  And armies twain are on the plain,
    The daring deed to see--
  Now ask thy gallant company
    If they will follow thee!"


  Right gladsome looked the Captain then,
    And nothing did he say,
  But he turned him to his little band--
    Oh few, I ween, were they!
  The relics of the bravest force
    That ever fought in fray.
  No one of all that company
    But bore a gentle name,
  Not one whose fathers had not stood
    In Scotland's fields of fame.
  All they had marched with great Dundee
    To where he fought and fell,
  And in the deadly battle-strife
    Had venged their leader well;
  And they had bent the knee to earth
    When every eye was dim,
  As o'er their hero's buried corpse
    They sang the funeral hymn;
  And they had trod the Pass once more,
    And stooped on either side
  To pluck the heather from the spot
    Where he had dropped and died;
  And they had bound it next their hearts,
    And ta'en a last farewell
  Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky,
    Where Scotland's glory fell.
  Then went they forth to foreign lands
    Like bent and broken men,
  Who leave their dearest hope behind,
    And may not turn again!


  "The stream," he said, "is broad and deep,
    And stubborn is the foe--
  Yon island-strength is guarded well--
    Say, brothers, will ye go?
  From home and kin for many a year
    Our steps have wandered wide,
  And never may our bones be laid
    Our fathers' graves beside.
  No sisters have we to lament,
    No wives to wail our fall;
  The traitor's and the spoiler's hand
    Have reft our hearths of all.
  But we have hearts, and we have arms
    As strong to will and dare
  As when our ancient banners flew
    Within the northern air.
  Come, brothers; let me name a spell
    Shall rouse your souls again,
  And send the old blood bounding free
    Through pulse, and heart, and vein!
  Call back the days of bygone years--
    Be young and strong once more;
  Think yonder stream, so stark and red,
    Is one we've crossed before.
  Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!
    Rise up on either hand--
  Again upon the Garry's banks,
    On Scottish soil we stand!
  Again I see the tartans wave,
    Again the trumpets ring;
  Again I hear our leader's call--
    'Upon them, for the King!'
  Stayed we behind that glorious day
    For roaring flood or linn?
  The soul of Græme is with us still--
    Now, brothers! will ye in?"


  No stay--no pause. With one accord
    They grasped each others' hand,
  And plunged into the angry flood,
    That bold and dauntless band.
  High flew the spray above their heads,
    Yet onward still they bore,
  Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell,
    And shot and cannon roar.
  "Now by the Holy Cross! I swear,
    Since earth and sea began
  Was never such a daring deed
    Essayed by mortal man!"


  Thick blew the smoke across the stream,
    And faster flashed the flame:
  The water plashed in hissing jets
    As ball and bullet came.
  Yet onwards pushed the Cavaliers
    All stern and undismayed,
  With thousand armèd foes before,
    And none behind to aid.
  Once, as they neared the middle stream,
    So strong the torrent swept,
  That scarce that long and living wall,
    Their dangerous footing kept.
  Then rose a warning cry behind,
    A joyous shout before:
  "The current's strong--the way is long--
    They'll never reach the shore!
  See, see! They stagger in the midst,
    They waver in their line!
  Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,
    And whelm them in the Rhine!"


  Have you seen the tall trees swaying
    When the blast is piping shrill,
  And the whirlwind reels in fury
    Down the gorges of the hill?
  How they toss their mighty branches,
    Striving with the tempest's shock;
  How they keep their place of vantage,
    Cleaving firmly to the rock?
  Even so the Scottish warriors
    Held their own against the river;
  Though the water flashed around them,
    Not an eye was seen to quiver;
  Though the shot flew sharp and deadly,
    Not a man relaxed his hold:
  For their hearts were big and thrilling
    With the mighty thoughts of old.
  One word was spoke among them,
    And through the ranks it spread--
  "Remember our dead Claverhouse!"
    Was all the Captain said.
  Then, sternly bending forward,
    They struggled on awhile,
  Until they cleared the heavy stream,
    Then rushed towards the isle.


  The German heart is stout and true,
    The German arm is strong;
  The German foot goes seldom back
    Where armèd foemen throng.
  But never had they faced in field
    So stern a charge before,
  And never had they felt the sweep
    Of Scotland's broad claymore.
  Not fiercer pours the avalanche
    Adown the steep incline,
  That rises o'er the parent springs
    Of rough and rapid Rhine--
  Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven
    Than came the Scottish band,
  Right up against the guarded trench,
    And o'er it, sword in hand.
  In vain their leaders forward press--
    They meet the deadly brand!
  O lonely island of the Rhine,
    Where seed was never sown,
  What harvest lay upon thy sands,
    By those strong reapers thrown?
  What saw the winter moon that night,
    As, struggling through the rain,
  She poured a wan and fitful light
    On marsh, and stream, and plain?
  A dreary spot with corpses strewn,
    And bayonets glistening round;
  A broken bridge, a stranded boat,
    A bare and battered mound;
  And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile,
    That sent its quivering glare
  To tell the leaders of the host
    The conquering Scots were there!


  And did they twine the laurel-wreath
    For those who fought so well?
  And did they honour those who lived,
    And weep for those who fell?
  What meed of thanks was given to them
    Let aged annals tell.
  Why should they twine the laurel-wreath--
    Why crown the cup with wine?
  It was not Frenchman's blood that flowed
    So freely on the Rhine--
  A stranger band of beggared men
    Had done the venturous deed:
  The glory was to France alone,
    The danger was their meed.
  And what cared they for idle thanks
    From foreign prince and peer?
  What virtue had such honeyed words
    The exiles' hearts to cheer?
  What mattered it that men should vaunt,
    And loud and fondly swear,
  That higher feat of chivalry
    Was never wrought elsewhere?
  They bore within their breasts the grief
    That fame can never heal--
  The deep, unutterable woe
    Which none save exiles feel.
  Their hearts were yearning for the land
    They ne'er might see again--
  For Scotland's high and heathered hills,
    For mountain, loch, and glen--
  For those who haply lay at rest
    Beyond the distant sea,
  Beneath the green and daisied turf
    Where they would gladly be!


  Long years went by. The lonely isle
    In Rhine's impetuous flood
  Has ta'en another name from those
    Who bought it with their blood:
  And though the legend does not live,
    For legends lightly die,
  The peasant, as he sees the stream
    In winter rolling by,
  And foaming o'er its channel-bed
    Between him and the spot
  Won by the warriors of the sword,
  Still calls that deep and dangerous ford
    The Passage of the Scot.


Though the sceptre had departed from the House of Stuart, it was
reserved for one of its last descendants to prove to the world, by his
personal gallantry and noble spirit of enterprise, that he at least had
not degenerated from his royal line of ancestors. The daring effort of
Charles Edward to recover the crown of these kingdoms for his father, is
to us the most remarkable incident of the last century. It was
honourable alike to the Prince and to those who espoused his cause; and,
even in a political point of view, the outbreak ought not to be
deplored, since its failure put an end for ever to the dynastical
struggle which, for more than half a century, had agitated the whole of
Britain, established the rule of law and of social order throughout the
mountainous districts of Scotland, and blended Celt and Saxon into one
prosperous and united people. It was better that the antiquated system
of clanship should have expired in a blaze of glory, than gradually
dwindled into contempt; better that the patriarchal rule should at once
have been extinguished by the dire catastrophe of Culloden, than that it
should have lingered on, the shadow of an old tradition. There is
nothing now to prevent us from dwelling with pride and admiration on the
matchless devotion displayed by the Highlanders, in 1745, in behalf of
the heir of him whom they acknowledged as their lawful king. No feeling
can arise to repress the interest and the sympathy which is excited by
the perusal of the tale narrating the sufferings of the princely
wanderer. That un-bought loyalty and allegiance of the heart, which
would not depart from its constancy until the tomb of the Vatican had
closed upon the last of the Stuart line, has long since been transferred
to the constitutional sovereign of these realms; and the enthusiastic
welcome which has so often greeted the return of Queen Victoria to her
Highland home, owes its origin to a deeper feeling than that dull
respect which modern liberalism asserts to be the only tribute due to
the first magistrate of the land.

The campaign of 1745 yields in romantic interest to none which is
written in history. A young and inexperienced prince, whose person was
utterly unknown to any of his adherents, landed on the west coast of
Scotland, not at the head of a foreign force, not munimented with
supplies and arms, but accompanied by a mere handful of followers, and
ignorant of the language of the people amongst whom he was hazarding his
person. His presence in Scotland had not been urged by the chiefs of the
clans, most of whom were deeply averse to embarking in an enterprise
which must involve them in a war with so powerful an antagonist as
England, and which, if unsuccessful, could only terminate in the utter
ruin of their fortunes. This was not a cause in which the whole of
Scotland was concerned. Although it was well known that many leading
families in the Lowlands entertained Jacobite opinions, and although a
large proportion of the common people had not yet become reconciled to,
or satisfied of, the advantages of the Union, by which they considered
themselves dishonoured and betrayed, it was hardly to be expected that,
without some fair guarantee for success, the bulk of the Scottish nation
would actively bestir themselves on the side of the exiled family.
Besides this, even amongst the Highlanders there was not unanimity of
opinion. The three northern clans of Sutherland, Mackay, and Monro, were
known to be staunch supporters of the Government. It was doubtful what
part might be taken in the struggle by those of Mackenzie and Ross. The
chiefs of Skye, who could have brought a large force of armed men into
the field, had declined participating in the attempt. The assistance of
Lord Lovat, upon whom the co-operation of the Frasers might depend,
could not be calculated on with certainty; and nothing but hostility
could be expected from the powerful sept of the Campbells. Under such
circumstances, it is little wonder if Cameron of Locheill, the most
sagacious of all the chieftains who favoured the Stuart cause, was
struck with consternation and alarm at the news of the Prince's
landing, or that he attempted to persuade him from undertaking an
adventure so seemingly hopeless. Mr. Robert Chambers, in his admirable
history of that period, does not in the least exaggerate the importance
of the interview, on the result of which the prosecution of the war
depended. "On arriving at Borrodale, Locheill had a private interview
with the Prince, in which the probabilities of the enterprise were
anxiously debated. Charles used every argument to excite the loyalty of
Locheill, and the chief exerted all his eloquence to persuade the Prince
to withdraw till a better opportunity. Charles represented the present
as the best possible opportunity, seeing that the French general kept
the British army completely engaged abroad, while at home there were no
troops but one or two newly-raised regiments. He expressed his
confidence that a small body of Highlanders would be sufficient to gain
a victory over all the force that could now be brought against him; and
he was equally sure that such an advantage was all that was required to
make his friends at home declare in his favour, and cause those abroad
to send him assistance. All he wanted was that the Highlanders should
begin the war. Locheill still resisted, entreating Charles to be more
temperate, and consent to remain concealed where he was, till his
friends should meet together and concert what was best to be done.
Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost pitch of impatience, paid
no regard to this proposal, but answered that he was determined to put
all to the hazard. 'In a few days,' said he, 'with the few friends I
have, I will raise the royal standard, and proclaim to the people of
Britain that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his
ancestors--to win it, or to perish in the attempt! Locheill--who, my
father has often told me, was our firmest friend--may stay at home, and
learn from the newspapers the fate of his Prince!' 'No!' said Locheill,
stung by so poignant a reproach, and hurried away by the enthusiasm of
the moment; 'I will share the fate of my Prince, and so shall every man
over whom nature or fortune has given me any power.' Such was the
juncture upon which depended the civil war of 1745; for it is a point
agreed, says Mr. Home, who narrates this conversation, that if Locheill
had persisted in his refusal to take arms, no other chief would have
joined the standard, and the spark of rebellion must have been instantly
extinguished." Not more than twelve hundred men were assembled in
Glenfinnan on the day when the standard was unfurled by the Marquis of
Tullibardine, and, at the head of this mere handful of followers,
Charles Edward commenced the stupendous enterprise of reconquering the
dominions of his fathers.

With a force which, at the battle of Preston, did not double the above
numbers, the Prince descended upon the Lowlands, having baffled the
attempts of General Cope to intercept his march--occupied the city of
Perth and the town of Dundee, and finally, after a faint show of
resistance on the part of the burghers, took possession of the ancient
capital of Scotland, and once more established a court in the halls of
Holyrood. His youth, his gallantry, and the grace and beauty of his
person, added to a most winning and affable address, acquired for him
the sympathy of many who, from political motives, abstained from
becoming his adherents. Possibly certain feelings of nationality, which
no deliberate views of civil or religious policy could altogether
extirpate, led such men to regard, with a sensation akin to pride, the
spectacle of a prince descended from the long line of Scottish kings,
again occupying his ancestral seat, and restoring to their country,
which had been utterly neglected by the new dynasty, a portion of its
former state. No doubt a sense of pity for the probable fate of one so
young and chivalrous was often present to their minds, for they had
thorough confidence in the intrepidity of the regular troops, and in the
capacity of their commander; and they never for a moment supposed that
these could be successfully encountered by a raw levy of undisciplined
Highlanders, ill-armed and worse equipped, and without the support of
any artillery.

The issue of the battle of Prestonpans struck Edinburgh with amazement.
In point of numbers the two armies were nearly equal, but in every thing
else, save personal valour, the royal troops had the advantage. And yet,
_in four minutes_--for the battle is said not to have lasted
longer--the Highlanders having only made one terrific and impetuous
charge--the rout of the regulars was general. The infantry was broken
and cut to pieces; the dragoons, who behaved shamefully on the occasion,
turned bridle and fled, without having once crossed swords with the
enemy. Mr. Chambers thus terminates his account of the action: "The
general result of the battle of Preston may be stated as having been the
total overthrow and almost entire destruction of the royal army. Most of
the infantry, falling upon the park walls of Preston, were there huddled
together, without the power of resistance, into a confused drove, and
had either to surrender or to be cut to pieces. Many, in vainly
attempting to climb over the walls, fell an easy prey to the ruthless
claymore. Nearly 400, it is said, were thus slain, 700 taken, while only
about 170 in all succeeded in effecting their escape.

"The dragoons, with worse conduct, were much more fortunate. In falling
back, they had the good luck to find outlets from their respective
positions by the roads which ran along the various extremities of the
park wall, and they thus got clear through the village with little
slaughter; after which, as the Highlanders had no horse to pursue them,
they were safe. Several officers, among whom were Fowkes and Lascelles,
escaped to Cockenzie and along Seton Sands, in a direction contrary to
the general flight.

"The unfortunate Cope had attempted, at the first break of Gardiner's
dragoons, to stop and rally them, but was borne headlong, with the
confused bands, through the narrow road to the south of the enclosures,
notwithstanding all his efforts to the contrary. On getting beyond the
village, where he was joined by the retreating bands of the other
regiment, he made one anxious effort, with the Earls of Loudoun and
Home, to form and bring them back to charge the enemy, now disordered by
the pursuit; but in vain. They fled on, ducking their heads along their
horses' necks to escape the bullets which the pursuers occasionally sent
after them. By using great exertions, and holding pistols to the heads
of the troopers, Sir John and a few of his officers induced a small
number of them to halt in a field near St. Clement's Wells, about two
miles from the battle-ground. But, after a momentary delay, the
accidental firing of a pistol renewed the panic, and they rode off once
more in great disorder. Sir John Cope, with a portion of them, reached
Channelkirk at an early hour in the forenoon, and there halted to
breakfast, and to write a brief note to one of the state-officers,
relating the fate of the day. He then resumed his flight, and reached
Coldstream that night. Next morning he proceeded to Berwick, whose
fortifications seemed competent to give the security he required. He
everywhere brought the first tidings of his own defeat."

This victory operated very much in favour of Prince Charles. It secured
him, for a season, the undisputed possession of Scotland, and enabled
numerous adherents from all parts of the country to raise such forces as
they could command, and to repair to his banner. His popularity in
Edinburgh daily increased, as the qualities of his person and mind
became known; and such testimony as the following, with respect to his
estimation by the fair sex, and the devotion they exhibited in his
cause, is not overcharged. "His affability and great personal grace
wrought him high favour with the ladies, who, as we learn from, the
letters of President Forbes, became generally so zealous in his cause,
as to have some serious effect in inducing their admirers to declare for
the Prince. There was, we know for certain, a Miss Lumsden, who plainly
told her lover, a young artist, named Robert Strange, that he might
think no more of her unless he should immediately join Prince Charles,
and thus actually prevailed upon him to take up arms. It may be added
that he survived the enterprise, escaped with great difficulty, and
married the lady. He was afterwards the best line-engraver of his time,
and received the honour of knighthood from George III. White ribbons and
breastknots became at this time conspicuous articles of female attire in
private assemblies. The ladies also showed considerable zeal in
contributing plate and other articles for the use of the Chevalier at
the palace, and in raising pecuniary subsidies for him. Many a
posset-dish and snuff-box, many a treasured necklace and repeater, many
a jewel which had adorned its successive generations of family
beauties, was at this time sold or laid in pledge, to raise a little
money for the service of Prince Charlie."

As to the motives and intended policy of this remarkable and unfortunate
young man, it may be interesting to quote the terms of the proclamation
which he issued on the 10th October, 1745, before commencing his march
into England. Let his history be impartially read, his character, as
spoken to by those who knew him best, fairly noted, and I think there
cannot be a doubt that, had he succeeded in his daring attempt, he would
have been true to the letter of his word, and fulfilled a pledge which
Britain never more required than at the period when that document was

"Do not the pulpits and congregations of the clergy, as well as your
weekly papers, ring with the dreadful threats of popery, slavery,
tyranny, and arbitrary power, which are now ready to be imposed upon you
by the formidable powers of France and Spain? Is not my royal father
represented as a bloodthirsty tyrant, breathing out nothing but
destruction to all who will not immediately embrace an odious religion?
Or have I myself been better used? But listen only to the naked truth.

"I, with my own money, hired a small vessel. Ill-supplied with money,
arms, or friends, I arrived in Scotland, attended by seven persons. I
publish the King my father's declaration, and proclaim his title, with
pardon in one hand, and in the other liberty of conscience, and the most
solemn promises to grant whatever a free Parliament shall propose for
the happiness of a people. I have, I confess, the greatest reason to
adore the goodness of Almighty God, who has in so remarkable a manner
protected me and my small army through the many dangers to which we were
at first exposed, and who has led me in the way to victory, and to the
capital of this ancient kingdom, amidst the acclamations of the King my
father's subjects. Why, then, is so much pains taken to spirit up the
minds of the people against this my undertaking?

"The reason is obvious; it is, lest the real sense of the nation's
present sufferings should blot out the remembrance of past misfortunes,
and of the outcries formerly raised against the royal family. Whatever
miscarriages might have given occasion to them, they have been more than
atoned for since; and the nation has now an opportunity of being secured
against the like in future.

"That our family has suffered exile during these fifty-seven years
everybody knows. Has the nation, during that period of time, been the
more happy and flourishing for it? Have you found reason to love and
cherish your governors as the fathers of the people of Great Britain and
Ireland? Has a family, upon whom a faction unlawfully bestowed the
diadem of a rightful prince, retained a due sense of so great a trust
and favour? Have you found more humanity and condescension in those who
were not born to a crown, than in my royal forefathers? Have their ears
been open to the cries of the people? Have they, or do they consider
only the interests of these nations? Have you reaped any other benefit
from them than an immense load of debt? If I am answered in the
affirmative, why has their government been so often railed at in all
your public assemblies? Why has the nation been so long crying out in
vain for redress against the abuse of Parliaments, upon account of their
long duration, the multitude of placemen, which occasions their
venality, the introduction of penal laws, and, in general, against the
miserable situation of the kingdom at home and abroad? All these, and
many more inconveniences, must now be removed, unless the people of
Great Britain be already so far corrupted that they will not accept of
freedom when offered to them, seeing the King, on his restoration, will
refuse nothing that a free Parliament can ask for the security of the
religion, laws, and liberty of his people.

"It is now time to conclude; and I shall do it with this reflection.
Civil wars are ever attended with rancour and ill-will, which party rage
never fails to produce in the minds of those whom different interests,
principles or views, set in opposition to one another. I, therefore,
earnestly require it of my friends to give as little loose as possible
to such passions: this will prove the most effectual means to prevent
the same in the enemies of my royal cause. And this my declaration will
vindicate to all posterity the nobleness of my undertaking, and the
generosity of my intentions."

There was much truth in the open charges preferred in this declaration
against the existing government. The sovereigns of the house of Hanover
had always shown a marked predilection for their Continental
possessions, and had proportionally neglected the affairs of Britain.
Under Walpole's administration the imperial Parliament had degenerated
from an independent assembly to a junta of placemen, and the most
flagitious system of bribery was openly practised and avowed. It was not
without reason that Charles contrasted the state of the nation then,
with its position when under the rule of the legitimate family; and had
there not been a strong, though, I think, unreasonable suspicion in the
minds of many, that his success would be the prelude to a vigorous
attack upon the established religions of the country, and that he would
be inclined to follow out in this respect the fatal policy of his
grandfather, Charles would in all probability have received a more
active and general support than was accorded to him. The zeal with which
the Episcopalian party in Scotland espoused his cause, naturally gave
rise to the idea that the attempt of the Prince was of evil omen to
Presbytery; and the settlement of the Church upon its present footing
was yet so recent, that the sores of the old feud were still festering
and green. The established clergy, therefore, were, nearly to a man,
opposed to his pretensions; and one minister of Edinburgh, at the time
when the Highland host was in possession of the city, had the courage to
conclude his prayer nearly in the following terms--"Bless the king; Thou
knows what king I mean--may his crown long sit easy on his head. And as
to this young man who has come among us to seek an earthly crown, we
beseech Thee in mercy to take him to Thyself, and give him a crown of
glory!" At the same time, it is very curious to observe, that the most
violent sect of Presbyterians, who might be considered as the
representatives of the extreme Cameronian principle, and who had early
seceded from the Church, and bitterly opposed the union of the kingdoms,
were not indisposed, on certain terms, to coalesce with the Jacobites.
It is hardly possible to understand the motives which actuated these
men, who appear to have regarded each successive government as equally
obnoxious. Some writers go the length of averring that, in 1688, a
negociation was opened by one section of the Covenanters with Lord
Dundee, with the object of resistance to the usurpation of William of
Orange, and that the project was frustrated only by the death of that
heroic nobleman. Sir Walter Scott--a great authority--seems to have been
convinced that such was the case; but, in the absence of direct proof,
I can hardly credit it. It is perfectly well known that a conspiracy was
formed by a certain section of the Cameronian party to assassinate Lords
Dundee and Dunfermline whilst in attendance at the meeting of Estates;
and, although the recognition of William as king might not have been
palatable to others who held the same opinions, it would be a strange
thing if they had so suddenly resolved to assist Dundee in his efforts
for the exiled family. But the political changes in Scotland, more
especially the union, seem to have inspired some of these men with a
spirit of disaffection to the government; for, according to Mr.
Chambers, the most rigid sect of Presbyterians had, since the
revolution, expressed a strong desire to coalesce with the Jacobites,
with the hope, in case the house of Stuart were restored, to obtain what
they called a covenanted king. Of this sect one thousand had assembled
in Dumfriesshire at the first intelligence of the insurrection, bearing
arms and colours, and supposed to contemplate a junction with the
Chevalier. But these religionists were now almost as violently distinct
from the Established Church of Scotland as ever they had been from those
of England and Rome, and had long ceased to play a prominent part in the
national disputes. The Established clergy, and the greater part of their
congregations, were averse to Charles upon considerations perfectly
moderate, at the same time not easy to be shaken.

On commencing his march into England, Charles found himself at the head
of an army of between five thousand and six thousand men, which force
was considered strong enough, with the augmentations it might receive on
the way, to effect the occupation of London. Had the English Jacobites
performed their part with the same zeal as the Scots, it is more than
probable that the attempt would have been crowned with success. As it
was, the Prince succeeded in reducing the strong fortified town of
Carlisle, and in marching, without opposition, through the heart of
England, as far as Derby, within one hundred miles of the metropolis.
But here his better genius deserted him. Discord had crept into his
councils; for some of the chiefs became seriously alarmed at finding
that the gentry of England were not prepared to join the expedition, but
preferred remaining at home inactive spectators of the contest. Except
at Manchester, they had received few or no recruits. No tidings had
reached them from Wales, a country supposed to be devoted to the cause
of King James, whilst it was well known that a large force was already
in arms to oppose the clans. Mr. Chambers gives us the following
details. "At a council of war held on the morning of the 5th December,
Lord George Murray and the other members gave it as their unanimous
opinion that the army ought to return to Scotland. Lord George pointed
out that they were about to be environed by three armies, amounting
collectively to about thirty thousand men, while their own forces were
not above five thousand, if so many. Supposing an unsuccessful
engagement with any of these armies, it could not be expected that one
man would escape, for the militia would beset every road. The Prince, if
not slain in the battle, must fall into the enemy's hands: the whole
world would blame them as fools for running into such a risk. Charles
answered, that he regarded not his own danger. He pressed, with all the
force of argument, to go forward. He did not doubt, he said, that the
justice of his cause would prevail. He was hopeful that there might be a
defection in the enemy's army, and that many would declare for him. He
was so very bent on putting all to the risk, that the Duke of Perth was
for it, since his Royal Highness was. At last he proposed going to Wales
instead of returning to Carlisle; but every other officer declared his
opinion for a retreat. These are nearly the words of Lord George Murray.
We are elsewhere told that the Prince condescended to use entreaties to
induce his adherents to alter their resolution. 'Rather than go back,'
he said, 'I would wish to be twenty feet under ground!' His chagrin,
when he found his councillors obdurate, was beyond all bounds. The
council broke up, on the understanding that the retreat was to commence
next morning, Lord George volunteering to take the place of honour in
the rear, provided only that he should not be troubled with the

This resolution was received by the army with marks of unequivocal
vexation. Retreat, in their estimation, was little less than overthrow;
and it was most galling to find that, after all their labours, hazards,
and toils, they were doomed to disappointment at the very moment when
the prize seemed ready for their grasp. That the movement was an
injudicious one is, I think, obvious. We are told, upon good authority,
"that the very boldness of the Prince's onward movement, especially
taken into connexion with the expected descent from France, had at
length disposed the English Jacobites to come out; and many were just on
the point of declaring themselves, and marching to join his army, when
the retreat from Derby was determined on. A Mr. Barry arrived in Derby
two days after the Prince left it, with a message from Sir Watkin
William Wynne and Lord Barrymore, to assure him, in the names of many
friends of the cause, that they were ready to join him in what manner he
pleased, either in the capital, or every one to rise in his own county.
I have likewise been assured that many of the Welsh gentry had actually
left their homes, and were on the way to join Charles, when intelligence
of his retreat at once sent them all back peaceably, convinced that it
was now too late to contribute their assistance. These men, from the
power they had over their tenantry, could have added materially to his
military force. In fact, from all that appears, we must conclude that
the insurgents had a very considerable chance of success from an onward
movement--also, no doubt, a chance of destruction, and yet not worse
than what ultimately befell many of them--while a retreat broke in a
moment the spell which their gallantry had conjured up, and gave the
enemy a great advantage over them."

One victory more was accorded to Prince Charles, before his final
overthrow. After successfully conducting his retreat to Scotland,
occupying Glasgow, and strengthening his army by the accession of new
recruits, he gave battle to the royal forces under General Hawley at
Falkirk, and, as at Preston, drove them from the field. The parties were
on this occasion fairly matched, there being about eight thousand men
engaged on either side. The action was short; and, though not so
decisive as the former one, gave great confidence to the insurgents. It
has been thus picturesquely portrayed by the historian of the
enterprise: "Some individuals, who beheld the battle from the steeple of
Falkirk, used to describe these, its main events, as occupying a
surprisingly brief space of time. They first saw the English army enter
the misty and storm-covered muir at the top of the hill; then saw the
dull atmosphere thickened by a fast-rolling smoke, and heard the pealing
sounds of the discharge; immediately after, they beheld the discomfited
troops burst wildly from the cloud in which they had been involved, and
rush, in far-spread disorder, over the face of the hill. From the
commencement of what they styled 'the break of the battle,' there did
not intervene more than ten minutes--so soon may an efficient body of
men become, by one transient emotion of cowardice, a feeble and
contemptible rabble.

"The rout would have been total, but for the three out-flanking
regiments. These not having been opposed by any of the clans, having a
ravine in front, and deriving some support from a small body of
dragoons, stood their ground under the command of General Huske and
Brigadier Cholmondley. When the Highlanders went past in pursuit, they
received a volley from this part of the English army, which brought them
to a pause, and caused them to draw back to their former ground, their
impression being that some ambuscade was intended. This saved the
English army from destruction. A pause took place, during which the bulk
of the English infantry got back to Falkirk. It was not until Lord
George Murray brought up the second line of his wing and the pickets,
with some others on the other wing, that General Huske drew off his
party, which he did in good order."

The seat of war was now removed to the North. The month of April, 1746,
found Prince Charles in possession of Inverness, with an army sorely
dwindled in numbers, and in great want of necessaries and provisions.
Many of the Highlanders had retired for the winter to their native
glens, and had not yet rejoined the standard. The Duke of Cumberland,
who now commanded the English army, with a reputation not diminished by
the unfortunate issue of Fontenoy, was at the head of a large body of
tried and disciplined troops, in the best condition, and supported by
the powerful arm of artillery. He effected the passage of the Spey, a
large and rapid river which intersects the Highlands, without
encountering any opposition, and on the 15th of the month had arrived at
Nairn, about nine miles distant from the position occupied by his
kinsman and opponent. His superiority in point of strength was so great
that the boldest of the insurgent chiefs hesitated as to the policy of
giving immediate battle, and nothing but the desire of covering
Inverness prevented the council from recommencing a further retreat into
the mountains, where they could not have been easily followed, and where
they were certain to have met with reinforcements. As to the Prince, his
confidence in the prowess of the Highlanders was so unbounded, that,
even with such odds against him, he would not listen to a proposal for

There yet remained, says Mr. Chambers, before playing the great stake of
a pitched battle, one chance of success by the irregular mode of warfare
to which the army was accustomed, and Charles resolved to put it to
trial. This was a night-attack upon the camp of the Duke of Cumberland.
He rightly argued that if his men could approach without being
discovered, and make a simultaneous attack in more than one place, the
royal forces, then probably either engaged in drinking their commander's
health (the 15th happened to be the anniversary of the Duke's birthday,
and was celebrated as such by his army), or sleeping off the effects of
the debauch, must be completely surprised and cut to pieces, or at least
effectually routed. The time appointed for setting out upon the march
was eight in the evening, when daylight should have completely
disappeared, and, in the mean time, great pains were taken to conceal
the secret from the army.

This resolution was entered into at three in the afternoon, and orders
were given to collect the men who had gone off in search of provisions.
The officers dispersed themselves to Inverness and other places, and
besought the stragglers to repair to the muir. But, under the influence
of hunger, they told their commanders to shoot them, if they pleased,
rather than compel them to starve any longer. Charles had previously
declared, with his characteristic fervour, that though only a thousand
of his men should accompany him, he would lead them on to the attack,
and he was not now intimidated when he saw twice that number ready to
assist in the enterprise, though some of his officers would willingly
have made this deficiency of troops an excuse for abandoning what they
esteemed at best a hazardous expedition. Having given out for watchword
the name of his father, he embraced Lord George Murray, who was to
command the foremost column, and, putting himself at the head of that
which followed, gave the order to march.

The attempt proved peculiarly unfortunate, and, from the fatigue which
it occasioned to the Highlanders, contributed in a great degree towards
the disaster of the following day. The night chanced to be uncommonly
dark, and as it was well known that Cumberland had stationed spies on
the principal roads, it became necessary to select a devious route, in
order to effect a surprise. The columns, proceeding over broken and
irregular ground, soon became scattered and dislocated: no exertions of
the officers could keep the men together, so that Lord George Murray at
two o'clock found that he was still distant three miles from the hostile
camp, and that there were no hopes of commencing the attack before the
break of day, when they would be open to the observation of the enemy.
Under these circumstances a retreat was commenced; and the scheme, which
at one time seemed to hold out every probability of success, was

"The Highlanders returned, fatigued and disconsolate, to their former
position, about seven in the morning, when they immediately addressed
themselves to sleep, or went away in search of provisions. So scarce was
food at this critical juncture, that the Prince himself, on retiring to
Culloden House, could obtain no better refreshment than a little bread
and whisky. He felt the utmost anxiety regarding his men, among whom
the pangs of hunger, upon bodies exhausted by fatigue, must have been
working effects most unpromising to his success; and he gave orders,
before seeking any repose, that the whole country should now be
mercilessly ransacked for the means of refreshment. His orders were not
without effect. Considerable supplies were procured, and subjected to
the cook's art at Inverness; but the poor famished clansmen were
destined never to taste these provisions, the hour of battle arriving
before they were prepared."

About eleven in the forenoon, the troops of Cumberland were observed
upon the eastern extremity of the wide muir of Culloden, and
preparations were instantly made for the coming battle. The army had
been strengthened that morning by the arrival of the Keppoch Macdonalds
and a party of the Frasers; but even with these reinforcements the whole
available force which the Prince could muster was about five thousand
men, to oppose at fearful odds an enemy twice as numerous, and heavily
supported by artillery. Fortune on this day seemed to have deserted the
Prince altogether. In drawing out the line of battle, a most unlucky
arrangement was made by O'Sullivan, who acted as adjutant, whereby the
Macdonald regiments were removed from the right wing--the place which
the great clan Colla has been privileged to hold in Scottish array ever
since the auspicious battle of Bannockburn. To those who are not
acquainted with the peculiar temper and spirit of the Highlanders, and
their punctilio upon points of honour and precedence, the question of
arrangement will naturally appear a matter of little importance. But it
was not so felt by the Macdonalds, who considered their change of
position as a positive degradation, and who further looked upon it as an
evil omen to the success of the battle. The results of this mistake will
be explained immediately.

Just before the commencement of the action, the weather, which had
hitherto been fair and sunny, became overcast, and a heavy blast of rain
and sleet beat directly in the faces of the Highlanders. The English
artillery then began to play upon them, and, being admirably served,
every discharge told with fearful effect upon the ranks. The chief
object of either party at the battle of Culloden seems to have been to
force its opponent to leave his position, and to commence the attack.
Cumberland, finding that his artillery was doing such execution, had no
occasion to move; and Charles appears to have committed a great error in
abandoning a mode of warfare which was peculiarly suited for his troops,
and which, on two previous occasions, had proved eminently successful.
Had he at once ordered a general charge, and attempted to silence the
guns, the issue of the day might have been otherwise: but his
unfortunate star prevailed.

"It was not," says Mr. Chambers, "till the cannonade had continued
nearly half an hour, and the Highlanders had seen many of their kindred
stretched upon the heath, that Charles at last gave way to the necessity
of ordering a charge. The aide-de-camp intrusted to carry his message to
the Lieutenant-general--a youth of the name of Maclachlan--was killed by
a cannon-ball before he reached the first line, but the general
sentiment of the army, as reported to Lord George Murray, supplied the
want, and that general took it upon him to order an attack without
Charles's permission having been communicated.

"Lord George had scarcely determined upon ordering a general movement,
when the Macintoshes, a brave and devoted clan, though not before
engaged in action, unable any longer to brook the unavenged slaughter
made by the cannon, broke from the centre of the line, and rushed
forward through smoke and snow to mingle with the enemy. The Athole men,
Camerons, Stuarts, Frasers, and Macleans also went on, Lord George
Murray heading them with that rash bravery befitting the commander of
such forces. Thus, in the course of one or two minutes, the charge was
general along the whole line, except at the left extremity, where the
Macdonalds, dissatisfied with their position, hesitated to engage.

"The action and event of the onset were, throughout, quite as dreadful
as the mental emotion which urged it. Notwithstanding that the three
files of the front line of English poured forth their incessant fire of
musketry--notwithstanding that the cannon, now loaded with grapeshot,
swept the field as with a hailstorm--notwithstanding the flank fire of
Wolfe's regiment--onward, onward went the headlong Highlanders, flinging
themselves into, rather than rushing upon, the lines of the enemy,
which, indeed, they did not see for smoke, till involved among the
weapons. All that courage, all that despair could do, was done. It was a
moment of dreadful and agonising suspense, but only a moment--for the
whirlwind does not reap the forest with greater rapidity than the
Highlanders cleared the line. Nevertheless, almost every man in their
front rank, chief and gentleman, fell before the deadly weapons which
they had braved; and, although the enemy gave way, it was not till every
bayonet was bent and bloody with the strife.

"When the first line had thus been swept aside, the assailants continued
their impetuous advance till they came near the second, when, being
almost annihilated by a profuse and well-directed fire, the shattered
remains of what had been before a numerous and confident force began to
give way. Still a few rushed on, resolved rather to die than forfeit
their well-acquired and dearly-estimated honour. They rushed on; but not
a man ever came in contact with the enemy. The last survivor perished as
he reached the points of the bayonets."

Some idea of the determination displayed by the Highlanders in this
terrific charge may be gathered from the fact that, in one part of the
field, their bodies were afterwards found in layers of three and four
deep. The slaughter was fearful, for, out of the five regiments which
charged the English, almost all the leaders and men in the front rank
were killed. So shaken was the English line, that, had the Macdonald
regiments, well-known to yield in valour to none of the clans, come up,
the fortune of the day might have been altered. But they never made an
onset. Smarting and sullen at the affront which they conceived to have
been put upon their name, they bore the fire of the English regiments
without flinching, and gave way to their rage by hewing at the heather
with their swords. In vain their chiefs exhorted them to go forward:
even at that terrible moment the pride of clanship prevailed. "My God!"
cried Macdonald of Keppoch, "has it come to this, that the children of
my tribe have forsaken me!" and he rushed forward alone, sword in hand,
with the devotion of an ancient hero, and fell pierced with bullets.

The Lowland and foreign troops which formed the second line were
powerless to retrieve the disaster. All was over. The rout became
general, and the Prince was forced from the field, which he would not
quit, until dragged from it by his immediate bodyguard.

Such was the last battle, the result of civil war, which has been fought
on British soil. Those who were defeated have acquired as much glory
from it as the conquerors--and even more, for never was a conquest
sullied by such deeds of deliberate cruelty as were perpetrated upon the
survivors of the battle of Culloden. It is not, however, the object of
the present paper to recount these, or even the romantic history or
hairbreadth escapes of the Prince, whilst wandering on the mainland and
through the Hebrides. Although a reward of thirty thousand pounds--an
immense sum for the period--was set upon his head--although his secret
was known to hundreds of persons in every walk of life, and even to the
beggar and the outlaw--not one attempted to betray him. Not one of all
his followers, in the midst of the misery which overtook them, regretted
having drawn the sword in his cause, or would not again have gladly
imperilled their lives for the sake of their beloved Chevalier. "He
went," says Lord Mahon, "but not with him departed his remembrance from
the Highlanders. For years and years did his name continue enshrined in
their hearts and familiar to their tongues, their plaintive ditties
resounding with his exploits and inviting his return. Again, in these
strains, do they declare themselves ready to risk life and fortune for
his cause; and even maternal fondness--the strongest, perhaps, of all
human feelings--yields to the passionate devotion to Prince Charlie."

The subsequent life of the Prince is a story of melancholy interest. We
find him at first received in France with all the honours due to one
who, though unfortunate, had exhibited a heroism rarely equalled and
never surpassed: gradually he was neglected and slighted, as one of a
doomed and unhappy race, whom no human exertion could avail to elevate
to their former seat of power; and finally, when his presence in France
became an obstacle to the conclusion of peace, he was violently arrested
and conveyed out of the kingdom. There can be little doubt that
continued misfortune and disappointment had begun very early to impair
his noble mind. For long periods he was a wanderer, lost sight of by his
friends and even by his father and brother. There are fragments of his
writing extant which show how poignantly he felt the cruelty of his
fortune. "De vivre et pas vivre est beaucoup plus que de mourir!" And
again, writing to his father's secretary, eight years after Culloden, he
says--"I am grieved that our master should think that my silence was
either neglect or want of duty; but, in reality, my situation is such
that I have nothing to say but imprecations against the fatality of
being born in such a detestable age." An unhappy and uncongenial
marriage tended still more to embitter his existence; and if at last he
yielded to frailties, which inevitably insure degradation, it must be
remembered that his lot had been one to which few men have ever been
exposed, and the magnitude of his sufferings may fairly be admitted as
some palliation for his weakness.

To the last, his heart was with Scotland. The following anecdote was
related by his brother, Cardinal York, to Bishop Walker, the late
Primus of the Episcopal Church of Scotland:--"Mr. Greathead, a personal
friend of Mr. Fox, succeeded, when at Rome in 1782 or 1783, in obtaining
an interview with Charles Edward; and, being alone with him for some
time, studiously led the conversation to his enterprise in Scotland, and
to the occurrences which succeeded the failure of that attempt. The
Prince manifested some reluctance to enter upon these topics, appearing
at the same time to undergo so much mental suffering, that his guest
regretted the freedom he had used in calling up the remembrance of his
misfortunes. At length, however, the Prince seemed to shake off the load
which oppressed him; his eye brightened, his face assumed unwonted
animation, and he entered upon the narrative of his Scottish campaigns
with a distinct but somewhat vehement energy of manner--recounted his
marches, his battles, his victories, his retreats, and his
defeats--detailed his hairbreadth escapes in the Western Isles, the
inviolable and devoted attachment of his Highland friends, and at length
proceeded to allude to the terrible penalties with which the chiefs
among them had been visited. But here the tide of emotion rose too high
to allow him to go on--his voice faltered, his eyes became fixed, and he
fell convulsed on the floor. The noise brought into his room his
daughter, the Duchess of Albany, who happened to be in an adjoining
apartment. 'Sir,' she exclaimed, 'what is this? You have been speaking
to my father about Scotland and the Highlanders! No one dares to
mention those subjects in his presence.'"

He died on the 30th of January, 1788, in the arms of the Master of
Nairn. The monument erected to him, his father, and brother, in St.
Peter's, by desire of George IV., was perhaps the most graceful tribute
ever paid by royalty to misfortune--REGIO CINERI PIETAS REGIA.



  Take away that star and garter--
    Hide them from my aching sight:
  Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
    From my lonely room this night;
  Fitting for the throneless exile
    Is the atmosphere of pall,
  And the gusty winds that shiver
    'Neath the tapestry on the wall.
  When the taper faintly dwindles
    Like the pulse within the vein,
  That to gay and merry measure
    Ne'er may hope to bound again,
  Let the shadows gather round me
    While I sit in silence here,
  Broken-hearted, as an orphan
    Watching by his father's bier.
  Let me hold my still communion
    Far from every earthly sound--
  Day of penance--day of passion--
    Ever, as the year comes round;
  Fatal day, whereon the latest
    Die was cast for me and mine--
  Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes
    Of the hapless Stuart line!
  Phantom-like, as in a mirror,
    Rise the griesly scenes of death--
  There before me, in its wildness,
    Stretches bare Culloden's heath:
  There the broken clans are scattered,
    Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,
  Hunger gnawing at their vitals,
    Hope abandoned, all but pride--
  Pride, and that supreme devotion
    Which the Southron never knew,
  And the hatred, deeply rankling,
    'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.
  Oh, my God! are these the remnants,
    These the wrecks of the array
  That around the royal standard
    Gathered on the glorious day,
  When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley;
    Thousands, on their bended knees,
  Saw once more that stately ensign
    Waving in the northern breeze,
  When the noble Tullibardine
    Stood beneath its weltering fold,
  With the Ruddy Lion ramping
    In the field of tressured gold,
  When the mighty heart of Scotland,
    All too big to slumber more,
  Burst in wrath and exultation,
    Like a huge volcano's roar?
  There they stand, the battered columns,
    Underneath the murky sky,
  In the hush of desperation,
    Not to conquer, but to die.
  Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:
    Not the pibroch loud and shrill,
  That, with hope of bloody banquet,
    Lured the ravens from the hill,
  But a dirge both low and solemn,
    Fit for ears of dying men,
  Marshalled for their latest battle,
    Never more to fight again.
  Madness--madness! Why this shrinking?
    Were we less inured to war
  When our reapers swept the harvest
    From the field of red Dunbar?
  Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!
    Call the riders of Fitz-James:
  Let Lord Lewis head the column!
    Valiant chiefs of mighty names--
  Trusty Keppoch, stout Glengarry,
    Gallant Gordon, wise Locheill--
  Bid the clansmen hold together,
    Fast, and fell, and firm as steel.
  Elcho, never look so gloomy--
    What avails a saddened brow?
  Heart, man, heart! we need it sorely,
    Never half so much, as now.
  Had we but a thousand troopers,
    Had we but a thousand more!
  Noble Perth, I hear them coming!--
    Hark! the English cannons' roar.
  God! how awful sounds that volley,
    Bellowing through the mist and rain!
  Was not that the Highland slogan?
    Let me hear that shout again!
  Oh, for prophet eyes to witness
    How the desperate battle goes!
  Cumberland! I would not fear thee,
    Could my Camerons see their foes.
  Sound, I say, the charge at venture--
    'Tis not naked steel we fear;
  Better perish in the mêlée
    Than be shot like driven deer;
  Hold! the mist begins to scatter!
    There in front 'tis rent asunder,
  And the cloudy bastion crumbles
    Underneath the deafening thunder;
  There I see the scarlet gleaming!
    Now, Macdonald--now or never!--
  Woe is me, the clans are broken!
    Father, thou art lost for ever!
  Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,
    There they lie in heaps together,
  Smitten by the deadly volley,
    Rolled in blood upon the heather;
  And the Hanoverian horsemen,
    Fiercely riding to and fro,
  Deal their murderous strokes at random.--
    Ah, my God! where am I now?
  Will that baleful vision never
    Vanish from my aching sight?
  Must those scenes and sounds of terror
    Haunt me still by day and night?
  Yea, the earth hath no oblivion
    For the noblest chance it gave,
  None, save in its latest refuge--
    Seek it only in the grave!
  Love may die, and hatred slumber,
    And their memory will decay,
  As the watered garden recks not
    Of the drought of yesterday;
  But the dream of power once broken,
    What shall give repose again?
  What shall charm the serpent-furies
    Coiled around the maddening brain?
  What kind draught can nature offer
    Strong enough to lull their sting?
  Better to be born a peasant
    Than to live an exiled king!
  Oh, these years of bitter anguish!--
    What is life to such as me,
  With my very heart as palsied
    As a wasted cripple's knee!
  Suppliant-like for alms depending
    On a false and foreign court,
  Jostled by the flouting nobles,
    Half their pity, half their sport.
  Forced to hold a place in pageant,
    Like a royal prize of war,
  Walking with dejected features
    Close behind his victor's car,
  Styled an equal--deemed a servant--
    Fed with hopes of future gain--
  Worse by far is fancied freedom
    Than the captive's clanking chain!
  Could I change this gilded bondage
    Even for the dusky tower,
  Whence King James beheld his lady
    Sitting in the castle bower;
  Birds around her sweetly singing,
    Fluttering on the kindling spray,
  And the comely garden glowing
    In the light of rosy May.
  Love descended to the window--
    Love removed the bolt and bar--
  Love was warder to the lovers
    From the dawn to even-star.
  Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?
    Where is now the tender glance?
  Where the meaning looks once lavished
    By the dark-eyed Maid of France?
  Where the words of hope she whispered,
    When around my neck she threw
  That same scarf of broidered tissue,
    Bade me wear it and be true--
  Bade me send it as a token
    When my banner waved once more
  On the castled Keep of London,
    Where my fathers' waved before?
  And I went and did not conquer--
    But I brought it back again--
  Brought it back from storm and battle--
    Brought it back without a stain;
  And once more I knelt before her,
    And I laid it at her feet,
  Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess?
    There at least is no defeat!"
  Scornfully she looked upon me
    With a measured eye and cold--
  Scornfully she viewed the token,
    Though her fingers wrought the gold;
  And she answered, faintly flushing,
    "Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
  Worthy matter for a minstrel
    To be told in knightly song!
  Worthy of a bold Provençal,
    Pacing through the peaceful plain,
  Singing of his lady's favour,
    Boasting of her silken chain,
  Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
    Sent to wrestle for a crown.
  Is this all that thou hast brought me
    From thy fields of high renown?
  Is this all the trophy carried
    From the lands where thou hast been?
  It was broidered by a Princess,
    Canst thou give it to a Queen?"
  Woman's love is writ in water!
    Woman's faith is traced in sand!
  Backwards--backwards let me wander
    To the noble northern land:
  Let me feel the breezes blowing
    Fresh along the mountain-side;
  Let me see the purple heather,
    Let me hear the thundering tide,
  Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
    Spouting when the storm is high--
  Give me but one hour of Scotland--
    Let me see it ere I die!
  Oh, my heart is sick and heavy--
    Southern gales are not for me;
  Though the glens are white with winter,
    Place me there, and set me free;
  Give me back my trusty comrades--
    Give me back my Highland maid--
  Nowhere beats the heart so kindly
    As beneath the tartan plaid!
  Flora! when thou wert beside me,
    In the wilds of far Kintail--
  When the cavern gave us shelter
    From the blinding sleet and hail--
  When we lurked within the thicket,
    And, beneath the waning moon,
  Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer,
    Heard him chant his listless tune--
  When the howling storm o'ertook us,
    Drifting down the island's lee,
  And our crazy bark was whirling
    Like a nutshell on the sea--
  When the nights were dark and dreary,
    And amidst the fern we lay,
  Faint and foodless, sore with travel,
    Waiting for the streaks of day;
  When thou wert an angel to me,
    Watching my exhausted sleep--
  Never didst thou hear me murmur--
    Couldst thou see how now I weep!
  Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,
    Unavailing though they be:
  Oh, the brave--the brave and noble--
    That have died in vain for me!



  _Could I change this gilded bondage
    Even for the dusky tower
  Whence King James beheld his lady
    Sitting in the castle bower_.--p. 168.

James I. of Scotland, one of the most accomplished kings that ever sate
upon a throne, is the person here indicated. His history is a very
strange and romantic one. He was son of Robert III., and immediate
younger brother of that unhappy Duke of Rothesay who was murdered at
Falkland. His father, apprehensive of the designs and treachery of
Albany, had determined to remove him, when a mere boy, for a season from
Scotland; and as France was then considered the best school for the
education of one so important from his high position, it was resolved to
send him thither, under the care of the Earl of Orkney, and Fleming of
Cumbernauld. He accordingly embarked at North Berwick, with little
escort--as there was a truce for the time between England and Scotland;
and they were under no apprehension of meeting with any vessels, save
those of the former nation. Notwithstanding this, the ship which carried
the Prince was captured by an armed merchantman, and carried to London,
where Henry IV., the usurping Bolingbroke, utterly regardless of
treaties, committed him and his attendants to the Tower.

"In vain," says Mr. Tytler, "did the guardians of the young Prince
remonstrate against this cruelty, or present to Henry a letter from the
King his father, which, with much simplicity, recommended him to the
kindness of the English monarch, should he find it necessary to land in
his dominions. In vain did they represent that the mission to France was
perfectly pacific, and its only object the education of the prince at
the French court. Henry merely answered by a poor witticism, declaring
that he himself knew the French language indifferently well, and that
his father could not have sent him to a better master. So flagrant a
breach of the law of nations, as the seizure and imprisonment of the
heir-apparent, during the time of truce, would have called for the most
violent remonstrances from any government, except that of Albany. But to
this usurper of the supreme power, the capture of the Prince was the
most grateful event which could have happened; and to detain him in
captivity became, from this moment, one of the principal objects of his
future life; we are not to wonder, then, that the conduct of Henry not
only drew forth no indignation from the governor, but was not even
followed by any request that the prince should be set at liberty.

"The aged King, already worn out by infirmity, and now broken by
disappointment and sorrow, did not long survive the captivity of his
son. It is said the melancholy news were brought him as he was sitting
down to supper in his palace of Rothesay in Bute, and that the effect
was such upon his affectionate but feeble spirit, that he drooped from
that day forward, refused all sustenance, and died soon after of a
broken heart."

James was finally incarcerated in Windsor Castle, where he endured an
imprisonment of nineteen years. Henry, though he had not hesitated to
commit a heinous breach of faith, was not so cruel as to neglect the
education of his captive. The young King was supplied with the best
masters; and gradually became an adept in all the accomplishments of the
age. He is a singular exception from the rule which maintains that
monarchs are indifferent authors. As a poet, he is entitled to a very
high rank indeed, being, I think, in point of sweetness and melody of
verse, not much inferior to Chaucer. From the window of his chamber in
the Tower, he had often seen a young lady, of great beauty and grace,
walking in the garden; and the admiration which at once possessed him
soon ripened into love. This was Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the
Earl of Somerset and niece of Henry IV., and who afterwards became his
queen. How he loved and how he wooed her is told in his own beautiful
poem of "The King's Quhair," of which the following are a few stanzas:--

  "Now there was made, fast by the towris wall,
  A garden fair; and in the corners set
  An arbour green, with wandis long and small
  Railed about, and so with trees set
  Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,
  That lyf was none walking there forbye,
  That might within scarce any wight espy.

  "So thick the boughis and the leavis greene
  Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
  And mids of every arbour might be seen
  The sharpe, greene, sweete juniper,
  Growing so fair, with branches here and there,
  That, as it seemed to a lyf without,
  The boughis spread the arbour all about.

  "And on the smalle greene twistis sat
  The little sweet nightingale, and sung
  So loud and clear the hymnis consecrat
  Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
  That all the gardens and the wallis rung
  Right of their song.

  "And therewith cast I down mine eyes again,
  Where as I saw, walking under the tower,
  Full secretly, now comen here to plain,
  The fairest or the freshest younge flower
  That e'er I saw, methought, before that hour:
  For which sudden abate, anon astart
  The blood of all my body to my heart.

  "And though I stood abasit for a lite,
  No wonder was; for why? my wittis all
  Were so o'ercome with pleasance and delight--
  Only through letting of my eyen fall--
  That suddenly my heart became her thrall
  For ever of free will, for of menace
  There was no token in her sweete face."

  _Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me?
    Where is now the tender glance?
  Where the meaning looks once lavished
    By the dark-eyed Maid of France?_--p. 168.

There appears to be no doubt that Prince Charles was deeply attached to
one of the princesses of the royal family of France. In the interesting
collection called "Jacobite Memoirs," compiled by Mr. Chambers from the
voluminous MSS. of Bishop Forbes, we find the following passage from the
narrative of Donald Macleod, who acted as a guide to the wanderer whilst
traversing the Hebrides:--"When Donald was asked, if ever the Prince
used to give any particular toast, when they were taking a cup of cold
water, or the like; he said that the Prince very often drank to the
Black Eye--by which, said Donald, he meant the second daughter of
France, and I never heard him name any particular health but that alone.
When he spoke of that lady--which he did frequently--he appeared to be
more than ordinarily well pleased."


The "gentle Locheill" may he considered as the pattern of a Highland
Chief. Others who headed the insurrection may have been actuated by
motives of personal ambition, and by a desire for aggrandisement; but no
such charge can be made against the generous and devoted Cameron. He
was, as we have already seen, the first who attempted to dissuade the
Prince from embarking in an enterprise which he conscientiously believed
to be desperate; but, having failed in doing so, he nobly stood firm to
the cause which his conscience vindicated as just, and cheerfully
imperilled his life, and sacrificed his fortune, at the bidding of his
master. There was no one, even among those who espoused the other side,
in Scotland, who did not commiserate the misfortunes of this truly
excellent man, whose humanity was not less conspicuous than his valour
throughout the civil war, and who died in exile of a broken heart.

Perhaps the best type of the Lowland Cavalier of that period, may be
found in the person of Alexander Forbes, Lord Pitsligo, a nobleman whose
conscientious views impelled him to take a different side from that
adopted by the greater part of his house and name. Lord Forbes, the head
of this very ancient and honourable family, was one of the first
Scottish noblemen who declared for King William. Lord Pitsligo, on the
contrary, having been educated abroad, and early introduced to the
circle at Saint Germains, conceived a deep personal attachment to the
members of the exiled line. He was anything but an enthusiast, as his
philosophical and religious writings, well worthy of a perusal, will
show. He was the intimate friend of Fénélon, and throughout his whole
life was remarkable rather for his piety and virtue, than for keenness
in political dispute.

After his return from France, Lord Pitsligo took his seat in the
Scottish Parliament, and his parliamentary career has thus been
characterised by a former writer.[3] "Here it is no discredit either to
his head or heart to say, that, obliged to become a member of one of the
contending factions of the time, he adopted that which had for its
object the independence of Scotland, and restoration of the ancient race
of monarchs. The advantages which were in future to arise from the great
measure of a national union were so hidden by the mist of prejudice,
that it cannot be wondered at if Lord Pitsligo, like many a
high-spirited man, saw nothing but disgrace in a measure forced on by
such corrupt means, and calling in its commencement for such mortifying
national sacrifices. The English nation, indeed, with a narrow, yet not
unnatural, view of their own interest, took such pains to encumber and
restrict the Scottish commercial privileges that it was not till the
best part of a century after the event that the inestimable fruits of
the treaty began to be felt and known. This distant period Lord Pitsligo
could not foresee. He beheld his countrymen, like the Israelites of
yore, led into the desert; but his merely human eye could not foresee
that, after the extinction of a whole race--after a longer pilgrimage
than that of the followers of Moses--the Scottish people should at
length arrive at that promised land, of which the favourers of the Union
held forth so gay a prospect.

"Looking upon the Act of Settlement of the Crown, and the Act of
Abjuration, as unlawful, Lord Pitsligo retired to his house in the
country, and threw up attendance on Parliament. Upon the death of Queen
Anne he joined himself in arms with a general insurrection of the
Highlanders and Jacobites, headed by his friend and relative the Earl of

"Mar, a versatile statesman and an able intriguer, had consulted his
ambition rather than his talents when he assumed the command of such an
enterprise. He sunk beneath the far superior genius of the Duke of
Argyle; and after the undecisive battle of Sheriffmuir, the confederacy
which he had formed, but was unable to direct, dissolved like a
snow-ball, and the nobles concerned in it were fain to fly abroad. This
exile was Lord Pitsligo's fate for five or six years. Part of the time
he spent at the Court, if it can be called so, of the old Chevalier de
Saint George, where existed all the petty feuds, chicanery, and crooked
intrigues which subsist in a real scene of the same character, although
the objects of the ambition which prompts such arts had no existence.
Men seemed to play at being courtiers in that illusory court, as
children play at being soldiers."

It would appear that Lord Pitsligo was not attainted for his share in
Mar's rebellion. He returned to Scotland in 1720, and resided at his
castle in Aberdeenshire, not mingling in public affairs, but gaining,
through his charity, kindness, and benevolence, the respect and
affection of all around him. He was sixty-seven years of age when
Charles Edward landed in Scotland. The district in which the estates of
Lord Pitsligo lay was essentially Jacobite, and the young cavaliers only
waited for a fitting leader to take up arms in the cause. According to
Mr. Home, his example was decisive of the movement of his neighbours:
"So when he who was so wise and prudent declared his purpose of joining
Charles, most of the gentlemen in that part of the country who favoured
the Pretender's cause, put themselves under his command, thinking they
could not follow a better or safer guide than Lord Pitsligo." His
Lordship's own account of the motives which urged him on is
peculiar:--"I was grown a little old, and the fear of ridicule stuck to
me pretty much. I have mentioned the weightier considerations of a
family, which would make the censure still the greater, and set the more
tongues agoing. But we are pushed on, I know not how,--I thought--I
weighed--and I weighed again. If there was any enthusiasm in it, it was
of the coldest kind; and there was as little remorse when the affair
miscarried, as there was eagerness at the beginning."

The writer whom I have already quoted goes on to say--"To those friends
who recalled his misfortunes of 1715, he replied gaily, 'Did you ever
know me absent at the second day of a wedding?' meaning, I suppose, that
having once contracted an engagement, he did not feel entitled to quit
it while the contest subsisted. Being invited by the gentlemen of the
district to put himself at their head, and having surmounted his own
desires, he had made a farewell visit at a neighbour's house, where a
little boy, a child of the family, brought out a stool to assist the old
nobleman in remounting his horse. 'My little fellow.' said Lord
Pitsligo, 'this is the severest rebuke I have yet received, for
presuming to go on such an expedition.'

"The die was however cast, and Lord Pitsligo went to meet his friends
at the rendezvous they had appointed in Aberdeen. They formed a body of
well-armed cavalry, gentlemen and their servants, to the number of a
hundred men. When they were drawn up in readiness to commence the
expedition, the venerable nobleman, their leader, moved to their front,
lifted his hat, and, looking up to heaven, pronounced, with a solemn
voice, the awful appeal,--'O Lord, thou knowest that our cause is just!'
then added the signal for departure--'March, gentlemen!'

"Lord Pitsligo, with his followers, found Charles at Edinburgh, on 8th
October 1745, a few days after the Highlanders' victory at Preston.
Their arrival was hailed with enthusiasm, not only on account of the
timely reinforcement, but more especially from the high character of
their leader. Hamilton of Bangour, in an animated and eloquent eulogium
upon Pitsligo, states that nothing could have fallen out more
fortunately for the Prince than his joining them did--for it seemed as
if religion, virtue, and justice were entering his camp, under the
appearance of this venerable old man; and what would have given sanction
to a cause of the most dubious right, could not fail to render sacred
the very best."

Although so far advanced in years, he remained in arms during the whole
campaign, and was treated with almost filial tenderness by the Prince.
After Culloden, he became, like many more, a fugitive and an outlaw,
but succeeded, like the Baron of Bradwardine, in finding a shelter upon
the skirts of his own estate. Disguised as a mendicant, his secret was
faithfully kept by the tenantry; and although it was more than surmised
by the soldiers that he was lurking somewhere in the neighbourhood, they
never were able to detect him. On one occasion he actually guided a
party to a cave on the sea-shore, amidst the rough rocks of Buchan,
where it was rumoured that he was lying in concealment; and on another,
when overtaken by his asthma, and utterly unable to escape from an
approaching patrol of soldiers, he sat down by the wayside, and acted
his assumed character so well, that a good-natured fellow not only gave
him alms, but condoled with him on the violence of his complaint.

For ten years he remained concealed, but in the mean time both title and
estate were forfeited by attainder. His last escape was so very
remarkable, that I may be pardoned for giving it in the language of the
author of his memoirs.

"In March 1756, and of course long after all apprehension of a search
had ceased, information having been given to the commanding officer at
Fraserburgh, that Lord Pitsligo was at that moment at the house of
Auchiries, it was acted upon with so much promptness and secrecy that
the search must have proved successful but for a very singular
occurrence. Mrs. Sophia Donaldson, a lady who lived much with the
family, repeatedly dreamt, on that particular night, that the house was
surrounded by soldiers. Her mind became so haunted with the idea, that
she got out of bed, and was walking through the room, in hopes of giving
a different current to her thoughts before she lay down again; when, day
beginning to dawn, she accidentally looked out at the window as she
passed it in traversing the room, and was astonished at actually
observing the figures of soldiers among some trees near the house. So
completely had all idea of a search been by that time laid asleep, that
she supposed they had come to steal poultry--Jacobite poultry-yards
affording a safe object of pillage for the English soldiers in those
days. Mrs. Sophia was proceeding to rouse the servants, when her sister,
having awaked, and inquiring what was the matter, and being told of
soldiers near the house, exclaimed in great alarm, that she feared they
wanted something more than hens. She begged Mrs. Sophia to look out at a
window on the other side of the house, when not only were soldiers seen
in that direction, but also an officer giving instructions by signal,
and frequently putting his fingers to his lips, as if enjoining silence.

There was now no time to be lost in rousing the family, and all the
haste that could be made was scarcely sufficient to hurry the venerable
man from his bed into a small recess, behind the wainscot of an
adjoining room, which was concealed by a bed, in which a lady, Miss
Gordon of Towie, who was there on a visit, lay, before the soldiers
obtained admission. A most minute search took place. The room in which
Lord Pitsligo was concealed did not escape. Miss Gordon's bed was
carefully examined, and she was obliged to suffer the rude scrutiny of
one of the party, by feeling her chin, to ascertain that it was not a
man in a lady's night-dress. Before the soldiers had finished their
examination in this room, the confinement and anxiety increased Lord
Pitsligo's asthma so much, and his breathing became so loud, that it
cost Miss Gordon, lying in bed, much and violent coughing, which she
counterfeited, in order to prevent the high breathings behind the
wainscot from being heard.

It may be easily conceived what agony she would suffer, lest, by
overdoing her part, she should increase suspicion, and in fact lead to a
discovery. The ruse was fortunately successful. On the search through
the house being given over, Lord Pitsligo was hastily taken from his
confined situation, and again replaced in bed; and, as soon as he was
able to speak, his accustomed kindness of heart made him say to his
servant--'James, go and see that these poor fellows get some breakfast
and a drink of warm ale, for this is a cold morning; they are only doing
their duty, and cannot bear me any ill-will.' When the family were
felicitating each other on his escape, he pleasantly observed--'A poor
prize, had they obtained it--an old dying man!'"

This was the last attempt made on the part of government to seize on the
persons of any of the surviving insurgents. Three years before, Dr.
Archibald Cameron, a brother of Locheill, having clandestinely revisited
Scotland, was arrested, tried, and executed for high treason at Tyburn.
The government was generally blamed for this act of severity, which was
considered rather to have been dictated by revenge than required for the
public safety. It is, however, probable that they might have had secret
information of certain negotiations which were still conducted in the
Highlands by the agents of the Stuart family, and that they considered
it necessary, by one terrible example, to overawe the insurrectionary
spirit. This I believe to have been the real motive of an execution
which otherwise could not have been palliated: and, in the case of Lord
Pitsligo, it is quite possible that the zeal of a partisan may have led
him to take a step which would not have been approved of by the
ministry. After the lapse of so many years, and after so many scenes of
judicial bloodshed, the nation would have turned in disgust from the
spectacle of an old man, whose private life was not only blameless, but
exemplary, dragged to the scaffold, and forced to lay down his head in
expiation of a doubtful crime: and this view derives corroboration from
the fact that, shortly afterwards, Lord Pitsligo was tacitly permitted
to return to the society of his friends, without further notice or

Dr. King, the Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, has borne the
following testimony to the character of Lord Pitsligo. "Whoever is so
happy, either from his natural disposition, or his good judgment,
constantly to observe St. Paul's precept, 'to speak evil of no one' will
certainly acquire the love and esteem of the whole community of which he
is a member. But such a man is the _rara avis in terris_; and, among all
my acquaintance, I have known only one person to whom I can with truth
assign this character. The person I mean is the present Lord Pitsligo of
Scotland. I not only never heard this gentleman speak an ill word of any
man living, but I always observed him ready to defend any other person
who was ill spoken of in his company. If the person accused were of his
acquaintance, my Lord Pitsligo would always find something good to say
of him as a counterpoise. If he were a stranger, and quite unknown to
him, my lord would urge in his defence the general corruption of
manners, and the frailties and infirmities of human nature.

"It is no wonder that such an excellent man, who, besides, is a polite
scholar, and has many other great and good qualities, should be
universally admired and beloved--insomuch, that I persuade myself he has
not one enemy in the world. At least, to this general esteem and
affection for his person, his preservation must be owing; for since his
attainder he has never removed far from his own house, protected by men
of different principles, and unsought for and unmolested by government."
To which eulogy it might be added, by those who have the good fortune to
know his representatives, that the virtues here acknowledged seem
hereditary in the family of Pitsligo.

The venerable old nobleman was permitted to remain without molestation
at the residence of his son, during the latter years of an existence
protracted to the extreme verge of human life. And so, says the author
of his memoirs, "In this happy frame of mind,--calm and full of
hope,--the saintly man continued to the last, with his reason unclouded,
able to study his favourite volume, enjoying the comforts of friendship,
and delighting in the consolations of religion, till he gently 'fell
asleep in Jesus.' He died on the 21st of December, 1762, in the
eighty-fifth year of his age; and to his surviving friends the
recollection of the misfortunes which had accompanied him through his
long life was painfully awakened even in the closing scene of his mortal
career--as his son had the mortification to be indebted to a stranger,
now the proprietor of his ancient inheritance by purchase from the
crown, for permission to lay his father's honoured remains in the vault
which contained the ashes of his family for many generations."

Such a character as this is well worthy of remembrance; and Lord
Pitsligo has just title to be called the last of the old Scottish
Cavaliers. I trust that, in adapting the words of the following little
ballad to a well-known English air, I have committed no unpardonable


[Footnote 3: See _Blackwood's Magazine_ for May 1829.--Article "Lord



  Come listen to another song,
    Should make your heart beat high,
  Bring crimson to your forehead,
    And the lustre to your eye;--
  It is a song of olden time,
    Of days long since gone by,
  And of a Baron stout and bold
    As e'er wore sword on thigh!
      Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
        All of the olden time!


  He kept his castle in the north,
    Hard by the thundering Spey;
  And a thousand vassals dwelt around
    All of his kindred they.
  And not a man of all that clan
    Had ever ceased to pray
  For the Royal race they loved so well,
    Though exiled far away
      From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
        All of the olden time!


  His father drew the righteous sword
    For Scotland and her claims,
  Among the loyal gentlemen
    And chiefs of ancient names
  Who swore to fight or fall beneath
    The standard of King James,
  And died at Killiecrankie pass
    With the glory of the Graemes;
      Like a true old Scottish cavalier,
        All of the olden time!


  He never owned the foreign rule,
    No master he obeyed,
  But kept his clan in peace at home,
    From foray and from raid;
  And when they asked him for his oath,
    He touched his glittering blade,
  And pointed to his bonnet blue,
    That bore the white cockade:
      Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
        All of the olden time!


  At length the news ran through the land--
    THE PRINCE had come again!
  That night the fiery cross was sped
    O'er mountain and through glen;
  And our old Baron rose in might,
    Like a lion from his den,
  And rode away across the hills
    To Charlie and his men,
      With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
        All of the olden time!


  He was the first that bent the knee
    When the STANDARD waved abroad,
  He was the first that charged the foe
    On Preston's bloody sod;
  And ever, in the van of fight,
    The foremost still he trod,
  Until, on bleak Culloden's heath,
    He gave his soul to God,
      Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
        All of the olden time!


  Oh! never shall we know again
    A heart so stout and true--
  The olden times have passed away,
    And weary are the new:
  The fair White Rose has faded
    From the garden where it grew,
  And no fond tears save those of heaven
    The glorious bed bedew
      Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
        All of the olden time!



  Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun
  May shine upon my old and time-worn head,
  For the last time, perchance. My race is run;
  And soon amidst the ever-silent dead
  I must repose, it may be, half forgot.
  Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread
  For many a year, with those who trembled not
  To buckle on their armour for the fight,
  And set themselves against the tyrant's lot;
  And I have never bowed me to his might,
  Nor knelt before him--for I bear within
  My heart the sternest consciousness of right,
  And that perpetual hate of gilded sin
  Which made me what I am; and though the stain
  Of poverty be on me, yet I win
  More honour by it, than the blinded train
  Who hug their willing servitude, and bow
  Unto the weakest and the most profane.
  Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go
  Before the footstool of my Maker, where
  I hope to stand as undebased as now!
  Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair
  Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind,
  I feel the odours that perfume the air,
  And hear the rustling of the leaves behind.
  Within my heart I picture them, and then
  I almost can forget that I am blind,
  And old, and hated by my fellow-men.
  Yet would I fain once more behold the grace
  Of nature ere I die, and gaze again
  Upon her living and rejoicing face--
  Fain would I see thy countenance, my child,
  My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace--
  I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild,
  The patient, sole interpreter, by whom
  So many years of sadness are beguiled;
  For it hath made my small and scanty room
  Peopled with glowing visions of the past.
  But I will calmly bend me to my doom,
  And wait the hour which is approaching fast,
  When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes,
  And heaven itself be opened up at last
  To him who dared foretell its mysteries.
  I have had visions in this drear eclipse
  Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies,
  Striving to utter with my earthly lips
  What the diviner soul had half divined,
  Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse
  Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined
  Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven
  All outward strife and tumult from my mind,
  And humbled me, until I have forgiven
  My bitter enemies, and only seek
  To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.

  Yet I am weak--oh! how entirely weak,
  For one who may not love nor suffer more!
  Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek,
  And my heart bound as keenly as of yore,
  Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest,
  Which made the beautiful Italian shore,
  In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest,
  An Eden and a Paradise to me.
  Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west
  Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope,
  In search of odours from the orange bowers?
  Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee
  Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers?
  And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong
  'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours,
  Making the summer one perpetual song?
  Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride
  I walked in joy thy grassy meads among,
  With that fair youthful vision by my side,
  In whose bright eyes I looked--and not in vain?
  O my adored angel! O my bride!
  Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain,
  My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem
  To wander with thee, hand in hand, again,
  By the bright margin of that flowing stream.
  I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet
  Than fancied music floating in a dream,
  Possess my being; from afar I greet
  The waving of thy garments in the glade,
  And the light rustling of thy fairy feet--
  What time as one half eager, half afraid,
  Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue,
  And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed
  The secret of the heart from whence they sprung.
  Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven
  Gave up an angel beautiful and young,
  Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven:
  A bright Aurora for the starry sphere
  Where all is love, and even life forgiven.
  Bride of immortal beauty--ever dear!
  Dost thou await me in thy blest abode?
  While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here,
  And count each step along the rugged road;
  A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave,
  And eager to lay down my weary load!

  I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave.
  Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell
  Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave,
  Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell,
  Retains within its mystic urn the hum
  Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell--
  Old thoughts still haunt me--unawares they come
  Between me and my rest, nor can I make
  Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb.
  Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake!
  Nor wander back with sullen steps again;
  For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take
  In such a journey, nor endure the pain.
  The phantoms of the past are dead for thee;
  So let them ever uninvoked remain,
  And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free.
  Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago,
  Long since their blossoms withered on the tree:
  No second spring can come to make them blow,
  But in the silent winter of the grave
  They lie with blighted love and buried woe.

  I did not waste the gifts which nature gave,
  Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower;
  Nor did I yield myself the willing slave
  Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power.
  No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt;
  For constant was my faith in manhood's dower;
  Man--made in God's own image--and I felt
  How of our own accord we courted shame,
  Until to idols like ourselves we knelt,
  And so renounced the great and glorious claim
  Of freedom, our immortal heritage.
  I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim,
  Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage,
  How error stole behind the steps of truth,
  And cast delusion on the sacred page.
  So, as a champion, even in early youth
  I waged my battle with a purpose keen;
  Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth
  Of serpent jealousy. And I have been
  With starry Galileo in his cell,
  That wise magician with the brow serene,
  Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell
  The wonders of the planetary sphere,
  And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel
  On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear.
  And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane--
  Names once so gracious to an English ear--
  In days that never may return again.
  My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard
  Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain,
  And the faint effort of the humble bard
  Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy,
  To speak in words of thunder. What reward
  Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I
  Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide,
  Without a hope or wish, except to die.
  But truth, asserted once, must still abide,
  Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs
  Which day and night gush from the mountain-side,
  Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings,
  Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro,
  But cannot conquer with the force it brings.
  Yet I, who ever felt another's woe
  More keenly than my own untold distress;
  I, who have battled with the common foe,
  And broke for years the bread of bitterness;
  Who never yet abandoned or betrayed
  The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless,
  Am left alone to wither in the shade,
  A weak old man, deserted by his kind--
  Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!

  Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind,
  Conscious and upright, needs no other stay;
  Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind,
  In the rich promise of eternal day.
  Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone,
  Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away:
  And the old pilgrim, weary and alone,
  Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate
  Now sits, his task of life-long labour done,
  Thankful for rest, although it comes so late,
  After sore journey through this world of sin,
  In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait,
  Until the door shall ope, and let him in.


Hermotimus, the hero of this ballad, was a philosopher, or rather a
prophet, of Clazomenæ, who possessed the faculty, now claimed by the
animal-magnetists, of effecting a voluntary separation between his soul
and body; for the former could wander to any part of the universe, and
even hold intercourse with supernatural beings, whilst the senseless
frame remained at home. Hermotimus, however, was not insensible to the
risk attendant upon this disunion; since, before attempting any of these
aerial flights, he took the precaution to warn his wife, lest, ere the
return of his soul, the body should be rendered an unfit or useless
receptacle. This accident, which he so much dreaded, at length occurred;
for the lady, wearied out by a succession of trances, each of longer
duration than the preceding, one day committed his body to the flames,
and thus effectually put a stop to such unconnubial conduct. He received
divine honours at Clazomenæ, but must nevertheless remain as a terrible
example and warning to all husbands who carry their scientific or
spiritual pursuits so far as to neglect their duty to their wives.

It is somewhat curious that Hermotimus is not the only person (putting
the disciples of Mesmer and Dupotet altogether out of the question) who
has possessed this miraculous power. Another and much later instance is
recorded by Dr. George Cheyne, in his work entitled, _The English
Malady, or a Treatise of Nervous Diseases_, as having come under his own
observation; and, as this case is exactly similar to that of the
Prophet, it may amuse the reader to see how far an ancient fable may be
illustrated, and in part explained, by the records of modern science.
Dr. Cheyne's patient was probably cataleptic; but the worthy physician
must be allowed to tell his own story.

"Colonel Townshend, a gentleman of honour and integrity, had for many
years been afflicted with a nephritic complaint. His illness increasing,
and his strength decaying, he came from Bristol to Bath in a litter, in
autumn, and lay at the Bell Inn. Dr. Baynard and I were called to him,
and attended him twice a-day; but his vomitings continuing still
incessant and obstinate against all remedies, we despaired of his
recovery. While he was in this condition, he sent for us one morning; we
waited on him with Mr. Skrine, his apothecary. We found his senses
clear, and his mind calm: his nurse and several servants were about him.
He told us he had sent for us to give him an account of an odd sensation
he had for some time observed and felt in himself; which was, that, by
composing himself, _he could die or expire when he pleased_; and yet by
an effort, or somehow, he could come to life again, which he had
sometimes tried before he had sent for us. We heard this with surprise;
but, as it was not to be accounted for upon common principles, we could
hardly believe the fact as he related it, much less give any account of
it; unless he should please to make the experiment before us, which we
were unwilling he should do, lest, in his weak condition, he might carry
it too far. He continued to talk very distinctly and sensibly above a
quarter of an hour about this surprising sensation, and insisted so much
on our seeing the trial made, that we were at last forced to comply. We
all three felt his pulse first--it was distinct, though small and
thready, and his heart had its usual beating. He composed himself on his
back, and lay in a still posture for some time: while I held his right
hand, Dr. Baynard laid his hand on his heart, and Mr. Skrine held a
clean looking-glass to his mouth. I found his pulse sink gradually, till
at last I could not find any by the most exact and nice touch. Dr.
Baynard could not feel the least motion in his heart, nor Mr. Skrine the
least soil of breath on the bright mirror he held to his mouth; then
each of us by turns examined his arm, heart, and breath, but could not,
by the nicest scrutiny, discover the least symptom of life in him. We
reasoned a long time about this odd appearance as well as we could, and
all of us judging it inexplicable and unaccountable; and, finding he
still continued in that condition, we began to conclude that he had
indeed carried the experiment too far; and at last were satisfied he was
actually dead, and were just ready to leave him. This continued about
half an hour. As we were going away, we observed some motion about the
body; and, upon examination, found his pulse and the motion of his heart
gradually returning. He began to breathe gently and speak softly. We
were all astonished to the last degree at this unexpected change; and,
after some further conversation with him, and among ourselves, went away
fully satisfied as to all the particulars of this fact, but confounded
and puzzled, and not able to form any rational scheme that might account
for it."



  "Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber?
    Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest;
  Sleep will bring thee dreams in starry number--
    Let him come to thee and be thy guest.
        Midnight now is past--
        Husband! come at last--
    Lay thy throbbing head upon my breast."


  "Weary am I, but my soul is waking;
    Fain I'd lay me gently by thy side,
  But my spirit then, its home forsaking,
    Through the realms of space would wander wide--
        Everything forgot,
        What would be thy lot,
    If I came not back to thee, my bride?"


  "Music, like the lute of young Apollo,
    Vibrates even now within mine ear;
  Soft and silver voices bid me follow,
    Yet my soul is dull and will not hear.
  Waking it will stay:
        Let me watch till day--
    Fainter will they come, and disappear."


  "Speak not thus to me, my own--my dearest!
    These are but the phantoms of thy brain;
  Nothing can befall thee which thou fearest,
    Thou shalt wake to love and life again.
        Were this sleep thy last,
        I should hold thee fast,
    Thou shouldst strive against me but in vain."


  "Eros will protect us, and will hover,
    Guardian-like, above thee all the night,
  Jealous of thee, as of some fond lover
    Chiding back the rosy-fingered light--
        He will be thine aid:
        Canst thou feel afraid
    When _his_ torch above us burneth bright?"


  "Lo! the cressets of the night are waning--
    Old Orion hastens from the sky;
  Only thou of all things art remaining
    Unrefreshed by slumber--thou and I.
        Sound and sense are still;
        Even the distant rill
    Murmurs fainter now, and languidly."


  "Come and rest thee, husband!"--And no longer
    Could the young man that fond call resist:
  Vainly was he warned, for love was stronger--
    Warmly did he press her to his breast.
        Warmly met she his;
        Kiss succeeded kiss,
    Till their eyelids closed with sleep oppressed.


  Soon Aurora left her early pillow,
    And the heavens grew rosy-rich, and rare;
  Laughed the dewy plain and glassy billow,
    For the Golden God himself was there;
        And the vapour-screen
        Rose the hills between,
    Steaming up, like incense, in the air.


  O'er her husband sate Ione bending--
    Marble-like and marble-hued he lay;
  Underneath her raven locks descending,
    Paler seemed his face, and ashen gray,
        And so white his brow--
        White and cold as snow--
    "Husband! Gods! his soul hath passed away!"


  Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow--
    Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough!--
  And they raised the pile upon the meadow,
    And they heaped the mournful cypress too;
        And they laid the dead
        On his funeral bed,
    And they kindled up the flames below.


  Swiftly rose they, and the corse surrounded,
    Spreading out a pall into the air;
  And the sharp and sudden crackling sounded
    Mournfully to all the watchers there.
        Soon their force was spent,
        And the body blent
    With the embers' slow-expiring glare.


  Night again was come; but oh, how lonely
    To the mourner did that night appear!
  Peace nor rest it brought, but sorrow only,
    Vain repinings and unwonted fear.
        Dimly burned the lamp--
        Chill the air and damp--
    And the winds without were moaning drear.


  Hush! a voice in solemn whispers speaking
    Breaks within the twilight of the room;
  And Ione, loud and wildly shrieking,
    Starts and gazes through the ghastly gloom.
        Nothing sees she there--
        All is empty air,
    All is empty as a rifled tomb.


  Once again the voice beside her sounded,
    Low, and faint, and solemn was its tone--
  "Nor by form nor shade am I surrounded,
    Fleshly home and dwelling have I none.
        They are passed away--
        Woe is me! to-day
    Hath robbed me of myself, and made me lone."


  "Vainly were the words of parting spoken;
    Evermore must Charon turn from me.
  Still my thread of life remains unbroken,
    And unbroken ever it must be;
        Only they may rest
        Whom the Fates' behest
    From their mortal mansion setteth free."


  "I have seen the robes of Hermes glisten--
    Seen him wave afar his serpent-wand;
  But to me the Herald would not listen--
    When the dead swept by at his command,
        Not with that pale crew
        Durst I venture too--
    Ever shut for me the quiet land."


  "Day and night before the dreary portal,
    Phantom-shapes, the guards of Hades, lie;
  None of heavenly kind, nor yet of mortal,
    May unchallenged pass the warders by.
        None that path may go,
        If he cannot show
    His last passport to eternity."


  "Cruel was the spirit-power thou gavest--
    Fatal, O Apollo, was thy love!
  Pythian! Archer! brightest God and bravest,
    Hear, O hear me from thy throne above!
        Let me not, I pray,
        Thus be cast away:
    Plead for me--thy slave--O plead to Jove!"


  "I have heard thee with the Muses singing--
    Heard that full, melodious voice of thine,
  Silver-clear throughout the ether ringing--
    Seen thy locks in golden clusters shine;
        And thine eye, so bright
        With its innate light,
    Hath ere now been bent so low as mine."


  "Hast thou lost the wish--the will--to cherish
    Those who trusted in thy godlike power?
  Hyacinthus did not wholly perish;
    Still he lives, the firstling of thy bower;
        Still he feels thy rays,
        Fondly meets thy gaze,
    Though but now the spirit of a flower."


  "Hear me, Phoebus! Hear me and deliver!
    Lo! the morning breaketh from afar--
  God! thou comest bright and great as ever--
    Night goes back before thy burning car;
        All her lamps are gone--
        Lucifer alone
    Lingers still for thee--the blessed star!"


  "Hear me, Phoebus!"--And therewith descended
    Through the window-arch a glory-gleam,
  All effulgent--and with music blended,
    For such solemn sounds arose as stream
        From the Memnon-lyre,
        When the morning fire
    Gilds the giant's forehead with its beam.


  "Thou hast heard thy servant's prayer, Apollo;
    Thou dost call me, mighty God of Day!
  Fare-thee-well, Ione!"--And more hollow
    Came the phantom-voice, then died away.
        When the slaves arose,
        Not in calm repose,
    Not in sleep, but death, their mistress lay.


  On the holy mount of Ida,
    Where the pine and cypress grow,
  Sate a young and lovely woman,
    Weeping ever, weeping low.
  Drearily throughout the forest
    Did the winds of autumn blow,
  And the clouds above were flying,
    And Scamander rolled below.

  "Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!"
    Thus the poor deserted spake--
  "Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?
    Why thy loving bride forsake?
  Why no tender word at parting?
    Why no kiss, no farewell take?
  Would that I could but forget thee--
    Would this throbbing heart might break!

  "Is my face no longer blooming?
    Are my eyes no longer bright?
  Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,
    And my cheeks are pale and white.
  I have wept since early morning,
    I will weep the livelong night;
  Now I long for sullen darkness,
    As I once have longed for light.

  "Paris! canst thou then be cruel?
    Fair, and young, and brave thou art--
  Can it be that in thy bosom
    Lies so cold, so hard a heart?
  Children were we bred together--
    She who bore me suckled thee;
  I have been thine old companion,
    When thou hadst no more but me.

  "I have watched thee in thy slumbers,
    When the shadow of a dream
  Passed across thy smiling features,
    Like the ripple of a stream;
  And so sweetly were the visions
    Pictured there with lively grace,
  That I half could read their import
    By the changes on thy face.

  "When I sang of Ariadne,
    Sang the old and mournful tale,
  How her faithless lover, Theseus,
    Left her to lament and wail;
  Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
    Her complaint could soften thee:
  Thou hast wept for Ariadne--
    Theseus' self might weep for me!

  "Thou may'st find another maiden
    With a fairer face than mine--
  With a gayer voice, and sweeter,
    And a spirit liker thine:
  For if e'er my beauty bound thee,
    Lost and broken is the spell;
  But thou canst not find another
    That will love thee half so well.

  "O thou hollow ship that bearest
    Paris o'er the faithless deep,
  Wouldst thou leave him on some island,
    Where alone the waters weep?
  Where no human foot is moulded
    In the wet and yellow sand--
  Leave him there, thou hollow vessel!
    Leave him on that lonely land!

  "Then his heart will surely soften,
    When his foolish hopes decay,
  And his older love rekindle,
    As the new one dies away.
  Visionary hills will haunt him,
    Rising from the glassy sea,
  And his thoughts will wander homewards
    Unto Ida and to me.

  "O! that like a little swallow
    I could reach that lonely spot!
  All his errors would be pardoned,
    All the weary past forgot.
  Never should he wander from me--
    Never should he more depart,
  For these arms would be his prison,
    And his home would be my heart."

  Thus lamented fair Oenone,
    Weeping ever, weeping low,
  On the holy mount of Ida,
    Where the pine and cypress grow.
  In the self-same hour Cassandra
    Shrieked her prophecy of woe,
  And into the Spartan dwelling
    Did the faithless Paris go.


  In the silence of my chamber,
    When the night is still and deep,
  And the drowsy heave of ocean
    Mutters in its charmed sleep,

  Oft I hear the angel-voices
    That have thrilled me long ago,--
  Voices of my lost companions,
    Lying deep beneath the snow.

  O, the garden I remember,
    In the gay and sunny spring,
  When our laughter made the thickets
   And the arching alleys ring!

  O the merry burst of gladness!
    O the soft and tender tone!
  O the whisper never uttered
    Save to one fond ear alone!

  O the light of life that sparkled
    In those bright and bounteous eyes!
  O the blush of happy beauty,
    Tell-tale of the heart's surprise:

  O the radiant light that girdled
    Field and forest, land and sea,
  When we all were young together,
    And the earth was new to me:

  Where are now the flowers we tended?
    Withered, broken, branch and stem;
  Where are now the hopes we cherished?
    Scattered to the winds with them.

  For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones!
    Nursed in hope and reared in love,
  Looking fondly ever upward
    To the clear blue heaven above:

  Smiling on the sun that cheered us,
    Rising lightly from the rain,
  Never folding up your freshness
    Save to give it forth again:

  Never shaken, save by accents
    From a tongue that was not free,
  As the modest blossom trembles
    At the wooing of the bee.

  O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon
    All the days of faded youth,
  All the vows that we believed in,
    All the words we spoke in truth.

  Severed--were it severed only
    By an idle thought of strife,
  Such as time might knit together;
    Not the broken chord of life!

  O my heart! that once so truly
    Kept another's time and tune,
  Heart, that kindled in the spring-tide,
    Look around thee in the noon.

  Where are they who gave the impulse
    To thy earliest thought and flow?
  Look around the ruined garden--
    All are withered, dropped, or low!

  Seek the birth-place of the lily,
    Dearer to the boyish dream
  Than the golden cups of Eden,
    Floating on its slumbrous stream;

  Never more shalt thou behold her--
    She, the noblest, fairest, best:
  She that rose in fullest beauty,
    Like a queen, above the rest.

  Only still I keep her image
    As a thought that cannot die;
  He who raised the shade of Helen
    Had no greater power than I.

  O! I fling my spirit backward,
    And I pass o'er years of pain;
  All I loved is rising round me,
    All the lost returns again.

  Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes,
    Warmly as ye did before!
  Bloom again, ye happy gardens,
    With the radiant tints of yore!

  Warble out in spray and thicket,
    All ye choristers unseen;
  Let the leafy woodland echo
    With an anthem to its queen!

  Lo! she cometh in her beauty,
    Stately with a Juno grace,
  Raven locks, Madonna-braided
    O'er her sweet and blushing face:

  Eyes of deepest violet, beaming
    With the love that knows not shame--
  Lips, that thrill my inmost being
    With the utterance of a name.

  And I bend the knee before her,
    As a captive ought to bow,--
  Pray thee, listen to my pleading,
    Sovereign of my soul art thou!

  O my dear and gentle lady,
    Let me show thee all my pain,
  Ere the words that late were prisoned
    Sink into my heart again.

  Love, they say, is very fearful
    Ere its curtain be withdrawn,
  Trembling at the thought of error
    As the shadows scare the fawn.

  Love hath bound me to thee, lady,
    Since the well-remembered day
  When I first beheld thee coming
    In the light of lustrous May.

  Not a word I dared to utter--
    More than he who, long ago,
  Saw the heavenly shapes descending
    Over Ida's slopes of snow:

  When a low and solemn music
    Floated through the listening grove,
  And the throstle's song was silenced,
    And the doling of the dove:

  When immortal beauty opened
    All its grace to mortal sight,
  And the awe of worship blended
    With the throbbing of delight.

  As the shepherd stood before them
    Trembling in the Phrygian dell,
  Even so my soul and being
    Owned the magic of the spell;

  And I watched thee ever fondly,
    Watched thee, dearest! from afar,
  With the mute and humble homage
    Of the Indian to a star.

  Thou wert still the Lady Flora
    In her morning garb of bloom;
  Where thou wert was light and glory,
    Where thou wert not, dearth and gloom.

  So for many a day I followed
    For a long and weary while,
  Ere my heart rose up to bless thee
    For the yielding of a smile,--

  Ere thy words were few and broken
    As they answered back to mine,
  Ere my lips had power to thank thee
    For the gift vouchsafed by thine.

  Then a mighty gush of passion
    Through my inmost being ran;
  Then my older life was ended,
    And a dearer course began.

  Dearer!--O, I cannot tell thee
    What a load was swept away,
  What a world of doubt and darkness
    Faded in the dawning day!

  All my error, all my weakness,
    All my vain delusions fled:
  Hope again revived, and gladness
    Waved its wings above my head.

  Like the wanderer of the desert,
    When, across the dreary sand,
  Breathes the perfume from the thickets
    Bordering on the promised land;

  When afar he sees the palm-trees
    Cresting o'er the lonely well,
  When he hears the pleasant tinkle
    Of the distant camel's bell:

  So a fresh and glad emotion
    Rose within my swelling breast,
  And I hurried swiftly onwards
    To the haven of my rest.

  Thou wert there with word and welcome,
    With thy smile so purely sweet;
  And I laid my heart before thee,
    Laid it, darling, at thy feet!--

  O ye words that sound so hollow
    As I now recall your tone!
  What are ye but empty echoes
    Of a passion crushed and gone?

  Wherefore should I seek to kindle
    Light, when all around is gloom?
  Wherefore should I raise a phantom
    O'er the dark and silent tomb?

  Early wert thou taken, Mary!
    In thy fair and glorious prime,
  Ere the bees had ceased to murmur
    Through the umbrage of the lime.

  Buds were blowing, waters flowing,
    Birds were singing on the tree,
  Every thing was bright and glowing,
    When the angels came for thee.

  Death had laid aside his terror,
    And he found thee calm and mild,
  Lying in thy robes of whiteness,
    Like a pure and stainless child.

  Hardly had the mountain violet
    Spread its blossoms on the sod,
  Ere they laid the turf above thee,
    And thy spirit rose to God.

  Early wert thou taken, Mary!
    And I know 'tis vain to weep--
  Tears of mine can never wake thee
    From thy sad and silent sleep.

  O away! my thoughts are earthward!
    Not asleep, my love, art thou!
  Dwelling in the land of glory
    With the saints and angels now.

  Brighter, fairer far than living,
    With no trace of woe or pain,
  Robed in everlasting beauty,
    Shall I see thee once again,

  By the light that never fadeth,
    Underneath eternal skies,
  When the dawn of resurrection
    Breaks o'er deathless Paradise.




  There is a cloud before the sun,
    The wind is hushed and still,
  And silently the waters run
    Beneath the sombre hill.
  The sky is dark in every place,
    As is the earth below:
  Methinks it wore the self-same face
    Two thousand years ago.


  No light is on the ancient wall,
    No light upon the mound;
  The very trees, so thick and tall,
    Cast gloom, not shade, around.
  So silent is the place and cold,
    So far from human ken,
  It hath a look that makes me old,
    And spectres time again.


  I listen, half in thought to hear
    The Roman trumpet blow--
  I search for glint of helm and spear
    Amidst the forest bough:
  And armour rings, and voices swell--
    I hear the legion's tramp,
  And mark the lonely sentinel
    Who guards the lonely camp.


  Methinks I have no other home,
    No other hearth to find;
  For nothing save the thought of Rome
    Is stirring in my mind.
  And all that I have heard or dreamed,
    And all I had forgot,
  Are rising up, as though they seemed
    The household of the spot.


  And all the names that Romans knew
    Seem just as known to me,
  As if I were a Roman too--
    A Roman born and free:
  And I could rise at Cæsar's name,
    As though it were a charm
  To draw sharp lightning from the tame,
    And brace the coward's arm.


  And yet, if yonder sky were blue,
    And earth were sunny gay,
  If nature wore the summer hue
    That decked her yesterday,
  The mound, the trench, the rampart's space,
    Would move me nothing more
  Than many a sweet sequestred place
    That I have marked before.


  I could not feel the breezes bring
    Rich odours from the trees;
  I could not hear the linnets sing,
    And think on themes like these.
  The painted insects as they pass
    In swift and motley strife,
  The very lizard in the grass
    Would scare me back to life.


  Then is the past so gloomy now
    That it may never bear
  The open smile of nature's brow,
    Or meet the sunny air?
  I know not that--but joy is power,
    However short it last;
  And joy befits the present hour,
    If sadness fits the past.


  "Danube, Danube! wherefore com'st thou
    Red and raging to my caves?
  Wherefore leap thy swollen waters
    Madly through the broken waves?
  Wherefore is thy tide so sullied
    With a hue unknown to me;
  Wherefore dost thou bring pollution
    To the old and sacred sea?"

  "Ha! rejoice, old Father Euxine!
    I am brimming full and red;
  Noble tidings do I carry
    From my distant channel-bed.
  I have been a Christian river
    Dull and slow this many a year,
  Rolling down my torpid waters
    Through a silence morne and drear;
  Have not felt the tread of armies
    Trampling on my reedy shore;
  Have not heard the trumpet calling,
    Or the cannon's gladsome roar;
  Only listened to the laughter
    From the village and the town,
  And the church-bells, ever jangling,
    As the weary day went down.
  So I lay and sorely pondered
    On the days long since gone by,
  When my old primæval forests
    Echoed to the war-man's cry;
  When the race of Thor and Odin
    Held their battles by my side,
  And the blood of man was mingling
    Warmly with my chilly tide.
  Father Euxine! thou rememb'rest
    How I brought thee tribute then--
  Swollen corpses, gashed and gory,
    Heads and limbs of slaughter'd men?
  Father Euxine! be thou joyful!
    I am running red once more--
  Not with heathen blood, as early,
    But with gallant Christian gore!
  For the old times are returning,
    And the Cross is broken down,
  And I hear the tocsin sounding
    In the village and the town;
  And the glare of burning cities
    Soon shall light me on my way--
  Ha! my heart is big and jocund
    With the draught I drank to-day.
  Ha! I feel my strength awakened,
    And my brethren shout to me;
  Each is leaping red and joyous
    To his own awaiting sea.
  Rhine and Elbe are plunging downward
    Through their wild anarchic land,
  Everywhere are Christians falling
    By their brother Christians' hand!
  Yea, the old times are returning,
    And the olden gods are here!
  Take my tribute, Father Euxine,
    To thy waters dark and drear.
  Therefore come I with my torrents,
    Shaking castle, crag, and town;
  Therefore, with the shout of thunder,
    Sweep I herd and herdsman down;
  Therefore leap I to thy bosom,
    With a loud triumphal roar--
  Greet me, greet me, Father Euxine,
    I am Christian stream no more!"




  "Lift me without the tent, I say,--
    Me and my ottoman,--
  I'll see the messenger myself!
    It is the caravan
      From Africa, thou sayest,
        And they bring us news of war?
  Draw me without the tent, and quick!
    As at the desert well
  The freshness of the purling brook
    Delights the tired gazelle,
      So pant I for the voice of him
        That cometh from afar!"


  The Scheik was lifted from his tent,
    And thus outspake the Moor:--
  "I saw, old Chief, the Tricolor
    On Algiers' topmost tower--
      Upon its battlements the silks
        Of Lyons flutter free.
  Each morning, in the market-place,
    The muster-drum is beat,
  And to the war-hymn of Marseilles
    The squadrons pace the street.
      The armament from Toulon sailed:
        The Franks have crossed the sea."


  "Towards the south, the columns marched
    Beneath a cloudless sky:
  Their weapons glittered in the blaze
    Of the sun of Barbary;
      And with the dusty desert sand
        Their horses' manes were white.
  The wild marauding tribes dispersed
    In terror of their lives;
  They fled unto the mountains
    With their children and their wives,
      And urged the clumsy dromedary
        Up the Atlas' height."


  "The Moors have ta'en their vantage-ground,
    The volleys thunder fast--
  The dark defile is blazing
    Like a heated oven-blast;
      The lion hears the strange turmoil,
        And leaves his mangled prey--
  No place was that for him to feed;
    And thick and loud the cries,
  Feu!--Allah! Allah!--En avant!
    In mingled discord rise;
      The Franks have reached the summit--
        They have won the victory!"


  "With bristling steel, upon the top
    The victors take their stand:
  Beneath their feet, with all its towns,
    They see the promised land--
      From Tunis, even unto Fez,
        From Atlas to the seas.
  The cavaliers alight to gaze,
    And gaze full well they may,
  Where countless minarets stand up
    So solemnly and gray,
      Amidst the dark-green masses
        Of the flowering myrtle-trees."


  "The almond blossoms in the vale;
    The aloe from the rock
  Throws out its long and prickly leaves,
    Nor dreads the tempest's shock:
      A blessed land, I ween, is that,
        Though luckless is its Bey.
  There lies the sea--beyond lies France!
    Her banners in the air
  Float proudly and triumphantly--
    A salvo! come, prepare!
      And loud and long the mountains rang
        With that glad artillery."


  "'Tis they!" exclaimed the aged Scheik.
    "I've battled by their side--
  I fought beneath the Pyramids!
    That day of deathless pride--
      Red as thy turban, Moor, that eve,
        Was every creek in Nile!
  But tell me--" and he griped his hand--
    "Their Sultaun. Stranger, say--
  His form--his face--his posture, man?
    Thou saw'st him in the fray?
      His eye--what wore he?" But the Moor
        Sought in his vest awhile.


  "Their Sultaun, Scheik, remains at home
    Within his palace walls:
  He sends a Pasha in his stead
    To brave the bolts and balls.
      He was not there. An Aga burst
        For him through Atlas' hold.
  Yet I can show thee somewhat too.
    A Frankish Cavalier
  Told me his effigy was stamped
    Upon this medal here--
      He gave me with others
        For an Arab steed I sold."


  The old man took the golden coin:
    Gazed steadfastly awhile,
  If that could be the Sultaun
    Whom from the banks of Nile
      He guided o'er the desert path--
        Then sighed and thus spake he--
  "'Tis not _his_ eye--'tis not _his_ brow--
    Another face is there:
  I never saw this man before--
    His head is like a pear!
      Take back thy medal, Moor--'tis not
        That which I hoped to see."



  I am Constantine Kanaris:
    I, who lie beneath this stone,
  Twice into the air in thunder
    Have the Turkish galleys blown.

  In my bed I died--a Christian,
    Hoping straight with Christ to be;
  Yet one earthly wish is buried
    Deep within the grave with me--

  That upon the open ocean
    When the third Armada came,
  They and I had died together,
    Whirled aloft on wings of flame.

  Yet 'tis something that they've laid me
    In a land without a stain:
  Keep it thus, my God and Saviour,
    Till I rise from earth again!



  Why look the distant mountains
    So gloomy and so drear?
  Are rain-clouds passing o'er them,
    Or is the tempest near?
  No shadow of the temptest
    Is there, nor wind nor rain--
  'Tis Charon that is passing by,
    With all his gloomy train.

  The young men march before him,
    In all their strength and pride;
  The tender little infants,
    They totter by his side;
  The old men walk behind him,
    And earnestly they pray--
  Both old and young imploring him
    To grant some brief delay.

  "O Charon! halt, we pray thee,
    Beside some little town,
  Or near some sparkling fountain,
    Where the waters wimple down!
  The old will drink and be refreshed,
    The young the disc will fling,
  And the tender little children
    Pluck flowers beside the spring."

  "I will not stay my journey,
    Nor halt by any town,
  Near any sparkling fountain,
    Where the waters wimple down:
  The mothers coming to the well,
    Would know the babes they bore,
  The wives would clasp their husbands,
    Nor could I part them more."


[Footnote 4: According to the superstition of the modern Greeks, Charon
performs the function which their ancestors assigned to Hermes, of
conducting the souls of the dead to the other world.]


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