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I can find no farther proof of the folly of the name of Johnstone-the Maxwells persevered and suffered. The hand of royal vengeance fell heavy on many families, and on none heavier than on the ancient and warlike name of Halliday. For putting their foot in the stirrup for the Stuarts, the Hallidays had their name erased from among the proprietors of Annandale. Sir Andrew Halliday is one of the representatives of the old heroes of Corehead, and the descendant of Thomas Halliday, sister's son of the renowned Sir William Wallace. I am grieved to see possessions pass away from a name which warred so well and so willingly of old for the freedom of Scotland.

YOUNG AIRLY.

Ken ye ought of brave Lochiel?
Or ken ye ought of Airly?

They have belted on their bright broad-swords,
And aff and awa' wi' Charlie.

Now bring me fire, my merry, merry men,
And bring it red and yarely—

At mirk midnight there flashed a light
O'er the topmost towers of Airly.

What lowe is yon, quo' the gude Lochiel,
Which gleams so red and rarely?

By the God of my kin, quo' young Ogilvie,
It's my ain bonnie hame of Airly!

Put up your sword, said the brave Lochiel,
And calm your mood, quo' Charlie;
Ere morning glow we'll raise a lowe
Far brighter than bonnie Airly.

O, yon fair tower's my native tower !
Nor will it soothe my mourning,
Were London palace, tower, and town,
As fast and brightly burning.
It's no my hame-my father's hame,
That reddens my cheek sae sairlie,
But my wife and twa sweet babes I left
To smoor in the smoke of Airly.

The lady of young Ogilvie of Airly, a Johnstone of Westerhall, accompanied him through the vicissitudes of the rebellion, marched with him into England, was with him during the whole of the disastrous retreat from Derby to Culloden; and her love for her husband, and attachment to the house of Stuart, is yet the theme of story and tradition. I believe the burning of Airly is a gratuitous piece of poetical mischief; and though his Grace the Duke of Cumberland had much to answer for, Lady Ogilvie and her children cannot be numbered among those who suffered by fire, abundantly as they suffered in other respects. There is an old ballad commemorating the destruction of Airly by the Earl of Argyle.

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Jocky's gane to France,

And Montgomery's lady;
There they'll learn to dance
"Madam, are ye ready?"
They'll be back belive,
Belted, brisk, and lordly;
Brawly may they thrive
To dance a jig wi' Geordie.

Hey for Sandy Don!

Hey for Cockolorum !

Hey for bobbing John

And his Highland quorum!
Mony a sword and lance

Swings at Highland hurdie;
How they'll skip and dance

O'er the bum o' Geordie!

Some of this song is new, much of it is old, and much of it obscure. The suspicious and dubious story of Koningsmark is alluded to in the second and third verses; but the volatile bard skips away from that tragic occurrence as if it only furnished fresh matter for his mirth, and loses himself in the obscurity of wild plots and wilder prophecies. It is not easy to guess at his meaning; but the lively image of Jacobite triumph with which the song terminates cannot fail to be understood: the attempt to realize it caused much blood to be shed, and filled the north with mourning. Count Koningsmark was of great personal beauty; and his barbarous

murder of Mr. Thynne showed that his ferocity was equal to his outward accomplishments. That the electoral princess loved him many have doubted; that she favoured him few have denied. His vanity aspired to her person, and his presumption was rewarded by an immediate order of banishment. He besought a parting kiss of the princess's hand, and she indulged him with this in her chamber. He left the room, and never went farther; for he was seized and destroyed, and his body was secreted under her dressing-room, where it was discovered in the succeeding reign.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

There liv'd a lass in Inverness,

She was the pride o' a' the town;
Blithe as the lark on gowan top,
When frae the nest it's newly flown.
At kirk she wan the auld folks' love,
At dance she wan the lads's een;
She was the blithest o' the blithe,
At wooster-trystes or Halloween.

As I came in by Inverness,

The simmer sun was sinking down;

O there I saw the weelfaur'd lass,

And she was greeting through the town.

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