I may think on the day that's gane,
And sigh and sab till I grow weary.
I ne'er could brook, I ne'er could brook,
A foreign loon to own or flatter;
But I will sing a ranting sang,

That day our king comes o'er the water.

O gin I live to see the day,

That I ha'e begged, and begged frae Heaven, I'll fling my rock and reel away,

And dance and sing frae morn till even : For there is ane I winna name,

That comes the reigning bike to scatter; And I'll put on my bridal gown,

That day our king comes o'er the water.

I ha'e seen the gude auld day,

The day o' pride and chieftain glory, When royal Stuarts bare the sway,

And ne'er heard tell o' Whig nor Tory. Though lyart be my locks and grey,

And eild has crook'd me down-what matter;

I'll dance and sing ae ither day,

That day our king comes o'er the water.

A curse on dull and drawling Whig,
The whining, ranting, low deceiver,
Wi' heart sae black, and look sae big,
And canting tongue o' clishmaclaver!
My father was a good lord's son,

My mother was an earl's daughter,
And I'll be Lady Keith again,

That day our king comes o'er the water.

YOU'RE WELCOME, WHIGS, FROM BOTHWELL
BRIGS.*

YOU'RE Welcome, Whigs, from Bothwell Brigs,
Your malice is but zeal, boys;
Most holy sprites, the hypocrites,
'Tis sack ye drink, not ale, boys;
I must aver, ye cannot err,

In breaking God's commands, boys;
If ye infringe bishops or kings,

You've heaven in your hands, boys.

Suppose ye cheat, disturb the state,
And steep the land with blood, boys;
If secretly your treachery

Be acted, it is good, boys.
The fiend himsel', in midst of hell,
The pope, with his intrigues, boys,
You'll equalize in forgeries;

Fair fa' you, pious Whigs, boys.

You'll God beseech, in homely speech,
To his coat-tail you'll claim, boys;
Seek lippies of grace frae his gawcie face,
And bless and not blaspheme, boys.
Your teachers they can kiss and pray,
In zealous ladies' closets;
Your wits convert by Venus' art;
Your kirk has holy roset.

It has been well remarked, that in proportion to the desperate state of their master's affairs, the songs of the Jacobites used to become angry, bitter, and outrageous; this song affords evidence of the fact. It was written obviously just after the Revolution in 1688, and is accordingly full of gall and ill humour. It is, perhaps, one of the best specimens that remains of the spleen and intemperance of the enemies of the whigs.

B

Which death will tie promiscuously,
Her members on the vail, boys,
For horned beasts the truth attest,
That live in Annandale, boys.
But if one drink, or shrewdly think
A bishop ere was saved,
No charity from presbytrye,

For that need once be craved.

You lie, you lust, you break your trust,
And act all kinds of evil,
Your covenant makes you a saint,
Although you live a devil.

From murders, too, as soldiers true,
You are advanced well, boys;
You fought like devils, your only rivals,
When you were at Dunkeld, boys.

Your wondrous things great slaughter brings,
You kill'd more than you saw, boys;
At Pentland hills ye got your fills,
And now you seem to craw, boys.
Let Websters preach, and laddies teach
The art of cuckoldry, boys,
When cruel zeal comes in their tail,
Then welcome presbytrye, boys.

King William's hands, with lovely bands,
You're decking with good speed, boys;
If you get leave, you'll reach his sleeve,
And then have at his head, boys.
You're welcome, Jack, we'll join a plack,
To drink your last confusion,

That grace and truth we may possess
Once more without delusion.

KILLICRANKIE.

CLAVERS and his Highlandmen,
Came down upon the raw, man,
Who, being stout, gave many a clout,
The lads began to claw, then.
With sword and terge into their hand,
Wi' which they were na slaw, man,
Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh,
The lads began to claw, then.

The battle of Killicrankie was fought on the 17th of July, 1689, between a body of 3000 Highlanders, under the command of Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, and an English and Scotch force, of from 4 to 5000 men, commanded by General Mackay. The two armies came in sight of one another about two o'clock of the day, but it was not till the evening that the battle began. Dundee, it is said, wished for the approach of night, which suited him either for victory or flight. Within an hour of sunset, therefore, the signal was given by the latter, and the Highlanders descended from the hill on which they were posted, in thick and separate columns to the attack. After a single desultory discharge, they rushed forward with the sword, before the regulars, whose bayonets were then inserted within the muskets, could be prepared to receive or resist their furious attack. Their columns soon pierced through the thin and straggling line, where Mackay commanded in person, and their ponderous swords completed the rout. Within a few minutes the victors and the vanquished intermixed together in the field, in the pursuit, and in the river below, disappeared from view. Mackay, alone, when deserted by his horse and surrounded, forced his way with a few infantry to the right wing, where two regiments had maintained their ground. While the enemy were intent on plundering the baggage, he conducted these remaining troops in silence and in obscurity across the river, and continued his flight through the mountains till he reached Stirling. But Dundee, whose pursuit he dreaded, was himself no more. After a desperate and successful charge on the English artillery, while in the act of extending his arm, to encourage his men forward, at the moment of victory, he received a shot in his side, through an opening in his armour, and dropt from horseback as he rode off the field. He survived, however, to write a concise and dignified account of the battle to King James. With the loss of 900 of his men, 2000 of his oppon. ents were killed or taken. A rude stone was erected on the spot to mark the victory to future times. His memory, though hateful to the whigs, was long lamented by his own party, and he is still cele. brated by some of them as the last of the Scots. The modern whigs say that Sir Walter Scott has prostituted his genius in making a hero

O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank,
She flang amang them a', man;
The Butter-box got mony knocks,
Their riggings paid for a' then.
They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks,
Which to their grief they saw, man;
Wi' clinkum clankum o'er their crowns,
The lads began to fa' then.

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about,
And flang amang them a', man;
The English blades got broken heads,
Their crowns were cleav'd in twa then.
The durk and door made their last hour,
And prov❜d their final fa', man;
They thought the devil had been there,
That play'd them sic a paw then.

The solemn league and covenant,
Cam whigging up the hills, man,
Thought Highland trews durst not refuse
For to subscribe their bills then :
In Willie's name they thought nae ane
Durst stop their course at a', man,
But hur nane-sell, wi' mony a knock,
Cried, "Furich, whigs awa', man.”

*

Sir Evan-Dhut, and his men true,
Came linking up the brink, man;
The Hogan Dutch they feared such,
They bred a horrid stink then.

of this man, since it is indisputable that through life he was nothing but a blood-thirsty political ruffian, and only heroic in the accidental circumstance of his death.

The Prince of Orange.

† Sir Evan Cameron of Lochiel.