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Wi' plenty in my barn, and abundance in my ha
O the cruel Duke of Cumberland has ruin'd us a'!-

Our country's laid desolate, our houses are reft,
And nought but the wish for to right us is left;
Revenge and despair ay by turns weet my e'e;
The fall of the spoiler I long for to see.
Friendless I lie, and friendless I gang,
I've nane but kind Heaven to tell of
my wrang.
Thine old arm, quo' Heaven, cannot strike down the
proud,

I shall keep to myself the revenge of thy blood.

An imperfect copy of this song found its way out of Cromek's Remains into the Jacobite Relics. In my native county of Dumfries the memory of the Duke of Cumberland is most cordially detested among the peasantry, who hate cruelty, and love clemency and benevolence. They have many stories to tell of the miseries which came upon all those who hunted down the discomfited rebels, and conducted them to death. One unhappy man was followed so closely, that he ran up to the neck in a mill-dam; there his pursuers proposed to leave him, and were dispersing, when a farmer rode into the water and brought him out-he was taken to Carlisle and executed. In the wreck of the farmer's affairs, and in the misfortunes which befel him and his children, the peasantry saw the visitation of Heaven for spilt blood. Instances might be multiplied, but I shall desist. It is said of a wounded highlander, that when he was exhorted

to relinquish all thoughts of revenge against his enemy, inasmuch as revenge belonged to the Lord, "Aye, aye,” exclaimed the expiring man, " I thought it was owre sweet a morsel for a mortal."

CARLISLE YETTS.

White was the rose in my love's hat,
As he rowed me in his lowland plaidie;
His heart was true as death in love,
His hand was aye in battle ready.
His long, long hair, in yellow hanks,
Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddy;
But now it waves o'er Carlisle yetts,
In dripping ringlets, soil'd and bloody.

When I came first through fair Carlisle,
Ne'er was a town sae gladsome seeming;
The white rose flaunted o'er the wall,

The thistled pennons wide were streaming.
When I came next through fair Carlisle,

O sad, sad seem'd the town and eerie !
The old men sobb'd, and gray dames wept,
O lady! come ye to seek
your dearie?

I tarried on a heathery hill,

My tresses to my cheeks were frozen ;

And far adown the midnight wind
I heard the din of battle closing.
The gray day dawned-amang the snow
Lay many a young and gallant fellow;
And O! the sun shone bright in vain,

On twa blue een 'tween locks of yellow.

There's a tress of soil'd and yellow hair
Close in my bosom I am keeping-
Now I have done with delight and love,
And welcome woe, and want, and weeping.
Woe, woe upon that cruel heart,

Woe, woe upon that hand sae bloody,
That lordless leaves my true love's hall,
And makes me wail a virgin widow !

The heads of the rebels were fixed on many places throughout the kingdom; and an old lady of Dumfriesshire often mentioned to me the horror which she felt when she saw several heads on the Scottish gate of Carlisle, one of which was that of a youth with very long yellow hair. The story of a lady, young and beautiful, who came from a distant part, and gazed at this head every morning at sunrise, and every evening at sunset, is also told by many. At last the head and the lady disappeared. The name of the youth I have heard, but cannot remember it; that of the lady was ever a secret. It is said, from some sorrowful words which she dropt, that the youth was her brother.

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As I came by Lochmaben gate,

It's there I saw the Johnstones riding; Away they flew, and they fear'd no foe, With their drums a beating, colours flying. All the lads of Annandale

Came there, their gallant chief to follow; Brave Burleigh, Ford, and Ramerscales, With Winton and the gallant Rollo. J

I ask'd a man what meant the fray-
Good sir, said he, you seem a stranger :
This is the twenty-ninth of May-

Far better had you shun the danger.
These are rebels to the throne,

Reason have we all to know it; Popish dogs and knaves each one. Pray pass on, or you shall rue it.

I look'd the traitor in the face,

Drew out my brand and ettled at him: Deil send a' the whiggish race

Downward to the dad that gat 'em! Right sair he gloom'd, but naething said, While my heart was like to scunner; Cowards are they born and bred,

Ilka whinging, praying sinner.

My bonnet on my sword I bare,

And fast I spurr'd by knight and lady,
And thrice I waved it in the air,

Where a' our lads stood rank'd and ready.
Long live King James! aloud I cried,
Our nation's king, our nation's glory!
Long live King James! they all replied,
Welcome, welcome, gallant Tory!

There I shook hands wi' lord and knight,
And mony a braw and buskin'd lady;
But lang I'll mind Lochmaben gate,
And a' our lads for battle ready.
And when I gang by Locher-briggs,
And o'er the moor, at e'en or morrow,

I'll lend a curse unto the Whigs,

That wrought us a' this dool and sorrow.

This border song found a place among the Jacobite Relics. I have no doubt of its beauty, but much of its authenticity. That it was composed on a heartless or a drunken rising of some of the Jacobite gentlemen of the district is certain; that it was written near the time of the rebellion of 1715 is far more than questionable. It appears that, on the 29th of May, 1714, the two Maxwells of Tinwald, with Johnstone of Wamphray and Carruthers of Ramerscales, marched up to the cross of Lochmaben with drums beating and colours flying, where they drank the exiled king's health on their knees, and execrated all who refused to do the like. But

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