"Let them cease that dismal knelling!

It is time enough to ring, When the fortress-strength of Scotland Stoops to ruin like its King.

Let the bells be kept for warning, Not for terror or alarm; When they next are heard to thunder, Let each man and stripling arm.

Bid the women leave their wailing,-- Do they think that woeful strain, From the b.l.o.o.d.y heaps of Flodden Can redeem their dearest slain?

Bid them cease,--or rather hasten To the churches, every one; There to pray to Mary Mother, And to her anointed Son, That the thunderbolt above us May not fall in ruin yet; That in fire, and blood, and rapine, Scotland's glory may not set.

Let them pray,--for never women Stood in need of such a prayer!

England's yeomen shall not find them Clinging to the altars there.

No! if we are doomed to perish, Man and maiden, let us fall; And a common gulf of ruin Open wide to whelm us all!

Never shall the ruthless spoiler Lay his hot insulting hand On the sisters of our heroes, Whilst we bear a torch or brand!

Up! and rouse ye, then, my brothers, But when next ye hear the bell Sounding forth the sullen summons That may be our funeral knell, Once more let us meet together, Once more see each other's face; Then, like men that need not tremble, Go to our appointed place.

G.o.d, our Father, will not fail us In that last tremendous hour,-- If all other bulwarks crumble, HE will be our strength and tower: Though the ramparts rock beneath us, And the walls go crashing down, Though the roar of conflagration Bellow o'er the sinking town; There is yet one place of shelter, Where the foeman cannot come, Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum.

There again we'll meet our children, Who, on Flodden's trampled sod, For their king and for their country Rendered up their souls to G.o.d.

There shall we find rest and refuge, With our dear departed brave; And the ashes of the city Be our universal grave!"

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

The most poetical chronicler would find it impossible to render the incidents of Montrose's brilliant career more picturesque than the reality. Among the devoted champions who, during the wildest and most stormy period of our history, maintained the cause of Church and King, "the Great Marquis" undoubtedly is ent.i.tled to the foremost place. Even party malevolence, by no means extinct at the present day, has been unable to detract from the eulogy p.r.o.nounced upon him by the famous Cardinal de Retz, the friend of Conde and Turenne, when he thus summed up his character:--"Montrose, a Scottish n.o.bleman, head of the house of Grahame--the only man in the world that has ever realised to me the ideas of certain heroes, whom we now discover nowhere but in the lives of Plutarch--has sustained in his own country the cause of the King his master, with a greatness of soul that has not found its equal in our age."

But the success of the victorious leader and patriot is almost thrown into the shade by the n.o.ble magnanimity and Christian heroism of the man in the hour of defeat and death. Without wishing, in any degree, to revive a controversy long maintained by writers of opposite political and polemical opinions, it may fairly be stated that Scottish history does not present us with a tragedy of parallel interest. That the execution of Montrose was the natural, nay, the inevitable, consequence of his capture, may be freely admitted even by the fiercest partisan of the cause for which he staked his life. In those times, neither party was disposed to lenity; and Montrose was far too conspicuous a character, and too dangerous a man, to be forgiven. But the ignominious and savage treatment which he received at the hands of those whose station and descent should at least have taught them to respect misfortune, has left an indelible stain upon the memory of the Covenanting chiefs, and more especially upon that of Argyle.

The perfect serenity of the man in the hour of trial and death, the courage and magnanimity which he displayed to the last, have been dwelt upon with admiration by writers of every cla.s.s. He heard his sentence delivered without any apparent emotion, and afterwards told the magistrates who waited upon him in prison, "that he was much indebted to the Parliament for the great honour they had decreed him"; adding, "that he was prouder to have his head placed upon the top of the prison, than if they had decreed a golden statue to be erected to him in the market-place, or that his picture should be hung in the King's bedchamber." He said, "he thanked them for their care to preserve the remembrance of his loyalty, by transmitting such monuments to the different parts of the kingdom; and only wished that he had flesh enough to have sent a piece to every city in Christendom, as a token of his unshaken love and fidelity to his king and country." On the night before his execution, he inscribed the following lines with a diamond on the window of his jail:--

"Let them bestow on every airth a limb, Then, open all my veins, that I may swim To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake; Then place my parboiled head upon a stake-- Scatter my ashes--strew them in the air: Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are, I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust, And confident thou'lt raise me with the just."

After the Restoration, the dust _was_ recovered, the scattered remnants collected, and the bones of the hero conveyed to their final resting-place by a numerous a.s.semblage of gentlemen of his family and name.

There is no ingredient of fiction in the historical incidents recorded in the following ballad. The indignities that were heaped upon Montrose during his procession through Edinburgh, his appearance before the Estates, and his last pa.s.sage to the scaffold, as well as his undaunted bearing, have all been spoken to by eyewitnesses of the scene. A graphic and vivid sketch of the whole will be found in Mr. Mark Napier's volume, _The Life and Times of Montrose_--a work as chivalrous in its tone as the _Chronicles_ of Froissart, and abounding in original and most interesting materials; but, in order to satisfy all scruple, the authorities for each fact are given in the shape of notes. The ballad may be considered as a narrative of the transactions, related by an aged Highlander, who had followed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to his grandson, shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

I.

Come hither, Evan Cameron!

Come, stand beside my knee-- I hear the river roaring down Towards 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!

II.

'Twas 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 sh.o.r.e.

I've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsay's pride; But never have I told thee yet How the Great Marquis died!

III.

A traitor sold him to his foes; O deed of deathless shame!

I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of a.s.synt's name-- Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed 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!

IV.

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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.s along.

V.

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 a-row; And every open window Was full as full might be, With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see!

VI.

But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high, So n.o.ble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye;-- The rabble rout forebore 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 turn'd aside and wept.

VII.

But onwards--always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant laboured, Till it reach'd the house of doom: Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd: Then, as the Graeme looked upwards, He met the ugly smile Of him who sold his King for gold-- The master-fiend Argyle!

VIII.

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."

IX.

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 mailed men-- Not all the rebels of the south Had borne us backwards 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!

X.