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picture of his person, and represented him as suffering by sea-sickness on his way to Ireland. James Hogg supposes it to be from the pen of some waggish cavalier, and says

he has often heard the two first verses sung as an interlude in a nursery tale. The song is whimsical rather than humorous : to ridicule William's prowess, was to attack him where he was least vulnerable-his courage was less questionable than his military capacity. Like many other Jacobite effusions, it begins with hope, and concludes with prophecy; but the true spirit of prophecy had long before passed out of song, and the Stuarts were gone-never to return.

LAMENT FOR LORD MAXWELL.

Green Nithisdale, make moan, for thy leaf's in the fa',
The lealest of thy warriors are drapping awa';
The rose in thy bonnet, that flourished sae and shone,
Has lost its white hue, and is faded and gone !
Our matrons may sigh, our hoary men may wail,
He's
gone,

for

ever, the Lord of Nithisdale ! But those that smile sweetest may have sadness ere

and gone

lang,

And some may mix sorrow with their merry merry sang.

Full loud was the merriment among our ladies a',
They sang in the parlour and danced in the ha'-

Jamie's coming hame again to chase the Whigs awa': But they cannot wipe the tears now so fast as they fa'. Our lady dow do nought now but wipe aye her eenHer heart's like to burst the gold-lace of her gown; Men silent gaze upon her, and minstrels make a wailO dool for our brave warrior, the Lord of Nithisdale !

Wae to thee, proud Preston to hissing and to hate
I give thee: may wailings be frequent at thy gate!
Now eighty summer shoots of the forest I have seen,
To the saddle-lapps in blude i' the battle I hae been,
But I never ken’d o' dool till I ken’d it yestreen.
O that I were laid where the sods are growing green !
I tint half mysel' when my gude lord I did tine-
He's a drop of dearest blood in this auld heart of mine.

By the bud of the leaf, by the rising of the flower,-
By the sang of the birds, where some stream tottles o'er,
I'll wander awa' there, and big a wee bit bower,
To hap my gray head frae the drap and the shower ;
And there I'll sit and moan till I sink into the

grave, For Nithsdale's bonnie Lord—ay the bravest of the

brave! O that I lay but with him, in sorrow and in pine, And the steel that harms his gentle neck wad do as The hero of this song, the Earl of Nithsdale, was taken prisoner, along with Viscount Kenmure and many other noblemen, at Preston in Lancashire, and sentenced to be beheaded. His countess, a lady of great presence of mind, contrived and accomplished his escape from the Tower-Her fortitude, her patience, and her intrepidity are yet unrivalled in the history of female heroism. A letter from the Countess, containing a lively and circumstantial account of the Earl's escape, is in Terreagles House in Nithsdale, dated from Rome in the year 1718. From the woman's cloak and hood, in which the Earl was disguised, the Jacobites of the north formed a new token of cognizance all the ladies who favoured the Stuarts wore “ Nithsdales," till fashion got the better of political love. I wish the royal clemency had extended to the ancient and noble name of Maxwell, when other names were restored to their honours. The house of Nithsdale is the representative of a numerous class in Dumfriesshire and Galloway. An old man once counted to me forty gentlemen's families, all of the name of Maxwell.—They are less numerous now.

much for mine!

WHAT NEWS TO ME, CUMMER.

Now what news to me, Cummer,

Now what news to me?
Enough o' news, quo' the Cammer,

The best that God can gie.
Has the Duke hanged himsel, Cummer,

Has the Duke hanged himsel,
Or taken frae the other Willie

The hottest nook o' hell?

The Duke's hale and fier, carle,

The blacker be his fa?!
But our gude Lord of Nithsdale

He's won frae 'mang them a'.
Now bring me my bonnet, Cummer,-

Bring me my shoon;
I'll gang and meet the gude Nithsdale,

As he comes to the town.

Alake the day! quo' the Cummer,

Alake the day! quoth she;
He's fled awa' to bonnie France,

Wi' nought but ae pennie!
We'll sell a' our corn, Cummer,-

We'll sell a' our bear;
And we'll send to our ain lord

A' our sett gear.

Make the piper blaw, Cummer

Make the piper blaw;
And let the lads and lasses both

Their souple shanks shaw.
We'll a' be glad, Cummer,

We'll a' be glad ;
And play · The Stuarts back again,"

To make the Whigs mad.

This rude song of welcome was first printed in the Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song. The second line of the second verse gives me occasion to notice a mistake made by Lord Byron, in one of his latest works, where he speaks so fondly of Scotland, and recalls the scenes where he had passed his youth. He quotes a rhyming proverb:

Brig of Balgonie,
Black be

yere

wa'!
Wi' a wife's ae wean,

And a mare's ae foal,
Down shall fa'.

ye

His lordship should have written

Brig of Balgonie,

Black be yere fa’ !

“ Black be yere fa', or fate,” is a common execration ; the word “ fa',” the Scottish synonyme of “ fate,” had

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