The volunteers prick'd up their ears,

And vow gin they were crouse, man; But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, They were not worth a louse, man; Maist feck gade hame-O fy for shame! They'd better stay'd awa', man, Than wi' cockade to make parade, And do nae good at a', man.

Menteith the great, when hersell shit,
Un'wares did ding him o'er, man;

Yet wadna stand to bear a hand,
But aff fou fast did scour, man;
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still,
Before he tasted meat, man:
Troth he may brag of his swift nag,
That bare him aff sae fleet, man.

And Simpson keen, to clear the een
Of rebels far in wrang, man,

Did never strive wi' pistols five,

But gallop'd with the thrang, man:
He turn'd his back, and in a crack
Was cleanly out of sight, man;
And thought it best; it was nae jest
Wi' Highlanders to fight, man.

'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang
But twa, and ane was tane, man ;
For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,
And sair he paid the kain, man;

Fell skelps he got, was waur than shot,
Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man;
Frae many a spout came running out
His reeking-het red gore, man.

But Gard'ner brave did still behave
Like to a hero bright, man;
His courage true, like him were few,
That still despised flight, man;
For king and laws, and country's cause,
In honour's bed he lay, man;
His life, but not his courage, fled,

While he had breath to draw, man.

And Major Bowle, that worthy soul,
Was brought down to the ground, man ;

His horse being shot, it was his lot

For to get mony a wound, man: Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, And wadna be gainsaid, man.

He made sic haste, sae spurr'd his beast, 'Twas little there he saw, man;

To Berwick rade, and safely said,

The Scots were rebels a', man:
But let that end, for well 'tis kend
His use and wont to lie, man;

The Teague is naught, he never fought,
When he had room to flee, man.

And Cadell drest, amang the rest,

With gun and good claymore, man,
On gelding gray he rode that way,
With pistols set before, man;

The cause was good, he'd spend his blood,
Before that he would yield, man;
But the night before, he left the core,
And never fac'd the field, man.

But gallant Roger, like a soger,
Stood and bravely fought, man;
I'm wae to tell, at last he fell,

But mae down wi' him brought, man:
At point of death, wi' his last breath,
(Some standing round in ring, man),
On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat,
And cry'd, God save the king, man.

Some highland rogues, like hungry dogs,
Neglecting to pursue, man,
About they fac'd, and in great haste
Upon the booty flew, man;

And they, as gain for all their pain,

Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man, Fu' bauld can tell how her nainsell Was ne'er sae pra before, man.

At the thorn-tree, which you may sce
Bewest the meadow-mill, man,

There mony slain lay on the plain,
The clans pursuing still, man.

Sie unco' hacks, and deadly whacks,

Lost hands and heads cost them their deads,

That fell near Preston-dyke, man.

That afternoon, when a' was done,
I gaed to see the fray, man;
But had I wist what after past,

I'd better staid awa', man,
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands,

They pick'd my pockets bare, man;

But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear,

For a' the sum and mair, max.

This very popular and clever song was written by Mr. Skirving, a farmer near Haddington. Some of the names which it celebrates are well known; others are become obscure. On the three generals whom Prince Charles and his little band of adventurers foiled, some punning person made the following ludicrous but accurate epigram:

Cope could not cope, nor Wade wade thro' the snow,
Nor Hawley hawl his cannon on the foe.

For the death of Colonel Gardiner, a brave and devout soldier, general lamentation was made: he was cut

down by a highlander, armed with a scythe blade, after his soldiers had basely deserted him. The story of the wildness of his youth and of his mysterious conversion is well known. He was the last of a class of gentlemen who sought to unite the discordant qualities of war and religion; who prayed and preached one hour, and stormed a city and filled it with bloodshed the next. Lieutenant Smith was deeply offended at the freedom which the rustic poet took with his name, and sent a challenge to the author by the hands of a brother officer. "Go back," said Skirving to the messenger," and tell Lieutenant Smith to come here, and I will take a look at him; if I think I can fight him, I'll fight him; if I think I canna, I'll just do as he did-I'll rin awa.” Whenever the song was sung the story of the challenge was told, and the unfortunate Irishman was obliged to endure the scoffing verses and sarcastic commentary.

CALLUM-A-GLEN.

Was ever old warrior of suff'ring so weary?
Was ever the wild-beast so bay'd in his den?
The Southron blood-hounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me;
No child to protect me, where once there were ten:
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen.