have naught to say, except that there must be some warlockwork in the matter to tempt even a squaw to frisk round a Maypole with such as you."

Morton, sullen, silent, and disarmed, was meantime led to the boat between Alden and Howland, the other men after, and last of all Standish, muttering,

"Better if there had been a garrison strong enough to hold the position. Then we might have burned the house and haply slain the traitor in hot blood."

THE AULD STUARTS BACK AGAIN.

THE auld Stuarts back again,

The auld Stuarts back again;

Let howlet Whig do what they can,
The Stuarts will be back again.
Wha cares for a' their creeshy duds,
And a' Kilmarnock sowen suds?

We'll wauk their hides and file their fuds,
And bring the Stuarts back again.

Give ear unto my loyal sang,
A' ye that ken the right frae wrang,
And a' that look and think it lang,
For auld Stuarts back again.
Were ye wi' me to chase the rae,
Out owre the hills and far away,
And saw the lords were there that day,
To bring the Stuarts back again.

There ye might see the noble Mar,
Wi' Athol, Huntly, and Traquair,
Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldubair,
And mony mae, whatreck, again.
Then what are a' their westland crews?
We'll gar the tailors tack again :
Can they forestand the tartan trews,
And auld Stuarts back again?

Anonymous.

743

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN.

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE. A Scottish humorist; born in Edinburgh, June 21, 1813; died at Blackhills, near Elgin, August 4, 1865. He joined the editorial staff of "Blackwood's Magazine" in 1844, and to his death continued an unwearying and fertile contributor to its pages. Professor of literature in the University of Edinburgh, 1845-64. After John Wilson's death (1854), he was considered the most important man of letters in Scotland during his life, famous for his humor, satire, and criticism. His most celebrated work is "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers " (1848, 29th ed. 1883), a series of ballads replete with genuine poetry, glorifying the champions of the Stuart cause. Noteworthy is his critical and annotated collection of the "Ballads of Scotland" (1858, 4th ed. 1870). With Theodore Martin he wrote the famous "Bon Gaultier Ballads" (1844, 13th ed. 1877), and translated "Poems and Ballads of Goethe " (1858).

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

(From "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers.")

COME hither, Evan Cameron !
Come, stand beside my knee-

I hear the river roaring down
Toward the wintry sea.

There's shouting on the mountain-side,

There's war within the blast

Old faces look upon me,

Old forms go trooping past.

I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.

"T was I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.

I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,

And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore;

I've told thee how we swept Dundee,

And tamed the Lindsays' pride:
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes:
A deed of deathless shame!
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name, -
Be it upon the mountain's side
Or yet within the glen,

Stand he in martial gear alone,

Or backed by armèd men,

Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wronged thy sire's renown:
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.

They set him high upon a cart,—

The hangman rode below,

They drew his hands behind his back
And bared his noble brow.

Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
They cheered, the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout,
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.

There stood the Whig West-country lords

In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all arow.

And every open window

Was full as full might be

ith black-robed Covenanting carles,

hat goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,

And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder

Through all the people crept,

And some that came to scoff at him
Now turned aside and wept.

But onwards always onwards,

In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labored,

Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud,

And an angry cry and hiss arose

From the heart of the tossing crowd; Then, as the Græme looked upwards, He saw the ugly smile

Of him who sold his king for gold -
The master-fiend Argyle!

The Marquis gazed a moment,

And nothing did he say,

But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,

And he turned his eyes away.

The painted harlot by his side,
She shook through every limb,

For a roar like thunder swept the street,
And hands were clenched at him;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
"Back, coward, from thy place!

For seven long years thou hast not dared
To look him in the face."

Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,

That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had pealed the slogan-cry.

Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailèd men —
Not all the rebels in the South

Had borne us backward then!

Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,

Or I, and all who bore my name,

Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,

Where once the Scottish kings were throned
Amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,

And perjured traitors filled the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warriston
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.

"Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,

And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there,

I have not sought in battle-field

A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown.

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave,

But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my father's grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,

And ye raise it up for a witness still

In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower

Give every town a limb

---

And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him!"

The morning dawned full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,

And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town.