power, were conducted by the gallant Clunie. One of the bravest of them all was the laird of Borland, the leader of the Macintoshes: he was taken at Preston, and, with eighteen others, broke, sword in hand, out of Newgate prison, and escaped to France.

THE WHITE COCKADE.

My love was born in Aberdeen,
The bonniest lad that e'er was seen;
But now he makes our hearts fu' sad,
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade.
O, he's a ranting, roving blade!
O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad!
Betide what may, my heart is glad,
lad wi' his white cockade.

To see my

O, leeze me on the philabeg,
The hairy hough, and garter'd leg!
But aye the thing that glads my e'e
Is the white cockade aboon the bree.

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
My rippling kame, and spinning wheel,
To buy my lad a tartan plaid,

A braid sword and a white cockade.

I'll sell my rokelay and my tow,

My gude gray mare and hawkit cow,
That every loyal Buchan lad

May take the field wi' his white cockade.
O, he's a ranting, roving blade!
O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad!
Betide what will, my heart is glad

To see my lad wi' his white cockade.

The tune is beautiful, and the song has obtained most of its reputation from the air. Though it sings of the white cockade, the well-known cognizance of the house of Stuart, the strain is feeble and ineffectual. Other versions have more life in them, but far less delicacy. It is needless to attempt their purification.

THE YOUNG MAXWELL.

Where gang ye, ye silly auld carle,
Wi' yere staff and shepherd fare?

I'm

gaun to the hill, thou sodger-man,

To shift my hirsels' lair.

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,
An' a gude lang stride took he.

I trow thou art a freck auld carle,
Wilt thou show the way to me?

VOL. III.

P

For I have ridden down bonnie Nith,

Sae have I the silver Orr,

And a' for the blood of the young Maxwell,
Which I love as a gled loves gore.
And he is gone wi' the silly auld carle,
Adown by the rocks sae steep,

Until that they came to the auld castle
That hangs o'er Dee sae deep.

The rocks were high, the woods were dark,
The Dee roll'd in its pride;

Light down and gang, thou sodger-man,
For here ye mayna ride.

He drew the reins of his bonnie

And gaily down he sprang:

gray

steed,

His war-coat was of the scarlet fine,
Where the golden tassels hang.

He threw down his plaid, the silly auld carle,
The bonnet frae boon his bree:

And who was it but the young Maxwell?
And his good brown sword drew he.
Thou kill'd my father, thou base Southron,
Sae did ye my brethren three;
Which broke the heart of my ae sister,
I loved as the light o' my e'e.

Now draw thy sword, thou base Southron,
Red wet wi' blood o' my kin;

That sword, it cropt the fairest flower

E'er grew wi' a head to the sun.

There's ae stroke for my dear auld father,
There's twa for my brethren three;

And there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,
Whom I loved as the light of my e'e.

Instead of saying why or when I wrote this song; or telling the reasons that induced me to imitate the natural ballad style of the north, I will tell a little touching story, which has long been popular in my native place.

At the close of the last rebellion, a party of the Duke of Cumberland's dragoons passed through Nithsdale; they called at a lone house, where a widow lived, and demanded refreshments. She brought them milk; and her son, a youth of sixteen, prepared kale and butterthis, she said, was all her store. One of the party inquired how she lived on such slender means: "I live," she said, "on my cow, my kale-yard, and on the blessing of God." He went and killed the cow, destroyed her kale, and continued his march. The poor woman died of a broken heart, and her son wandered away from the inquiry of friends and the reach of compassion. It happened, afterwards, in the continental war, when the British army had gained a great victory, that the soldiers were seated on the ground, making merry with wine, and relating their exploits-" All this is nothing," cried a dragoon, "to what I once did in Scotland-I starved a witch in Nithsdale; I drank her milk, I killed her cow, destroyed her kale-yard, and left her to live upon God-and I dare say he had enough ado with her." "And don't you rue it ?" exclaimed a soldier

starting up" don't you rue it ?" "Rue what ?" said the ruffian; "what would you have me rue? she's dead and damned, and there's an end of her." "Then, by my God!" said the other, "that woman was my mother↔ draw your sword-draw." They fought on the spot, and while the Scottish soldier passed his sword through his body, and turned him over in the pangs of death, he said, “Had you but said you rued it, God should have punished you, not I."

JOHN CAMERON.

The weary sun sank down on a day of woe and care, The parting light shone sad on John Cameron's hoary

hair;

His dim eyes upturn'd unto Heaven seem'd to grow, His feeble hands he wrung, and his heart was full of woe. The steps of the spoiler were fresh by his hame,

The fires of the reaver in embers were warm;

He look'd ay, and sigh'd, as his heart would burst in twa, The cruel Duke of Cumberland has ruin'd us a'!

Three fair sons were mine, young, blooming, and bold;
They all lie at other's sides, bloody and cold:

I had a lovely daughter, the delight of every e'e,
And dear as the promise of Heaven unto me.

I had a pleasant hame, and a sweet wife there,

Wi' twa bonnie grandbairns, my smiling to share;