family of the Macdonnells. It is full of animation and bustle. It resembles very closely, in several passages, the inimitable “ Pibroch of Donuil Dhu," by Sir Walter Scott.

THE JACOBITE MUSTER-ROLL.

Duncan's coming, Donald's coming
Colin's coming, Ronald's coming,
Dugald's coming, Lachlan's coming,
Alister and a's coming.

Little wat ye wha's coming
Jock, and Tam, and a's coming.

Borland and his men's coming,
Cameron and M‘Lean's coming,
Gordon and M Gregor's coming,
Ilka Dunywastle's coming-

Little wat ye wha's coming,
M'Gillavry and a's coming.

Wigton's coming, Nithsdale's coming,
Carnwath's coming, Kenmure's coming,
Derwentwater and Foster's coming,
Withrington and Nairn’s coming-

Little wat ye wha's coming,
Blythe Cowhill and a's coming

1

U .. The laird of MʻIntosh is coming,

M Crabie and M Donald's coming, på 4 M.Kenzie and M-Pherson's coming,

And the wild M‘Craws are coming

Little wat ye wha's coming,
Donald Gun and a's coming.

They gloom, they glour, they look sae big,
At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig ;
They'll fright the fuds of the pockpuds,
For many a buttock bare's coming-

Little wat ye wha's coming,
Jock, and Tam, and a's coming.

This lyric is a curious example of highland song, but it gives a very imperfect list of the noblemen and gentlemen who followed the fortunes of the house of Stuart. It seems to have been written about the time of the Earl of Marr's march to Sheriffmuir, yet many of the principal chiefs are forgotten: where is Athol, Breadalbane, Ogilvie, Keith, and Stuart? I shall not attempt any account of all the names signalized in this song--some are known to history, and others are beyond the historian's power. The Gordons were the first to join, and the first to run away; the Macgregors loved plunder better than the line of the Stuarts; the laird of Macintosh was the leader of ten small combined clans; the Macdonalds brought four powerful and independent clans; the Mackenzies of Seaforth appeared at the head of their warlike name; and the Macphersons, next to the Macintoshes in 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,
To see my lad wi' his white cockade.

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 gray steed,

And gaily down he sprang:
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.

my

kin;

Now draw thy sword, thou base Southron,

Red wet wi' blood o'
That sword, it cropt the fairest flower

E’er grew wi' a head to the sun.