O fie, Mackay! what gart ye lie

I' the bush ayont the brankie-o?
Ye'd better kiss'd King Willie's loof,

Than come to Killicrankie-o.

It's nae shame, it's nae shame

It's nae shame to shank

ye-o;

There's sour slaes on Athol braes,

And deils at Killicrankie-o.

Of John Grahame, of Claverhouse, much has been written and much said; and over his fall at Killicrankie the Cameronians have shouted, and the Jacobites mourned. The former recognised him by the name of the Bloody Claver'se, imagined he had entered into a covenant with the enemy of mankind, and finally slew him with a silver button, for he was supposed to be proof against lead and steel: the latter admired him as a man bold and chivalrous, devoted to their cause, a soldier of no common capacity, and in whose untimely death they saw the downfall of their hopes. He was certainly a gallant commander, but a relentless and unsparing one; and his conduct in the Persecution has called all the generous and noble qualities in question which his admirers have assigned him. Sir Walter Scott has painted a stern and unbending hero, who shed human blood with as little compunction as one would drain a fen, and who thought all nobleness of nature was confined to the cavaliers. James Hogg pulled him down from this high station, made him a contemptible stabber and oppressor, and gave him a thirst for blood, which

was often allayed, but never appeased. The latter is far wrong, nor am I sure that the former is quite right. His death was according to his character he was following the vanquished enemy, and shouting and calling his men onward, with his sword waving over his head, when he received a ball under his arm, and instantly fell. He lived only till he wrote a short account of his victory to King James, and was buried at Blair Athol.

KING WILLIAM'S MARCH.:

O Willie, Willie Wanbeard,

He's awa' frae hame,

Wi' a budget at his back,

An' a wallet at his wame:
But some will sit on his seat,

Some will eat of his meat,

Some will stand i' his shoon,

Or he come again.

O Willie, Willie Wanbeard,
He's awa' to ride,

Wi' a bullet in his bortree,

And a shable by his side;

But some will whyte wi' Willie's knife,

Some will kiss Willie's wife

Some will wear his bonnet,

Or he come again.

In ridiculing the martial prowess of King William, the author of this song has drawn a very ungracious

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

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'-
O 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 een-
Hér heart's like to burst the gold-lace of her gown;
Men silent gaze upon her, and minstrels make a wail-
O 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 much for mine!