Be they covenanting traitors,
Or the brood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
Let them tell their pale Convention
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honour
Is not to be bought nor sold,
That we scorn the prince's anger
As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike! and when the fight is over,
If look in vain for me,
ye

.

Where the dead are lying thickest

Search for him that was Dundee!"

Loudly then the hills reëchoed
With our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.

For the lands of wide Breadelbane
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath;
For their souls were strong within them,
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,

And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe:

Down we crouched amid the bracken,

Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the plain beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armèd men!
Like a tempest down the ridges
Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald, -

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell!
Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band
On we poured until we met them,
Foot to foot and hand to hand.

Horse and man went down like driftwood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling

In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us
Living foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie,

When that stubborn fight was done!

And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,

Stretched upon the cumbered plain,

As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer;
So, amidst the battle's thunder,

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,

In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY

THE Revolution was hardly accomplished when the men who were friendly to James or were disappointed in William and Mary, began plotting for the restoration of the Stuart line. In 1696, a conspiracy was formed to assassinate the king. The plot was betrayed, however, and the leaders arrested and executed.

He tripp'd up the steps with a bow and a smile,
Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,

A rose at his button-hole that afternoon 'Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was

June.

Then shrugging his shoulders he look'd at the man With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to

see

The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.

He look'd at the mob, as they roar'd, with a stare,
And took snuff again with a cynical air.

"I'm happy to give but a moment's delight
To the flower of my country agog for a sight."

Then he look'd at the block, and with scented cravat Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat,

Kiss'd his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd, Then smiling, turn'd round to the headsman and bow'd.

"God save King James!" he cried bravely and shrill, And the cry reach'd the houses at foot of the hill, "My friend with the axe, à votre service," he said; And ran his white thumb long the edge of the blade.

When the multitude hiss'd he stood firm as a rock; Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block; He kiss'd a white rose, -in a moment 'twas red With the life of the bravest of any that bled.

THE AGE OF QUEEN ANNE

ALEXANDER POPE

(From "The Rape of the Lock," Canto III)

QUEEN ANNE, who succeeded to the throne on the death of Mary's husband (1702), was a woman of feeble intellect. She had so little will of her own that she never came into conflict with her subjects. The affairs of state were managed for her by certain favorites, of whom Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, was chief.

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flowers,
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers,
There stands a structure of majestic frame,
Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its

name.

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom
Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;

Here thou, great ANNA! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take and sometimes tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;
In various talk the instructive hours they passed,
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;
One speaks the glory of the British Queen,
And one describes a charming Indian screen;
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;
At every word a reputation dies.

Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.