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“ There's Cappie the cobbler, an' Tammie the tinman, An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman, An' Geordie our deacon, for want of a better, An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her. 0, worthy St Andrew, we canna compel ye, But ye

ken as weel as a body can tell ye, If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit, Your garret o’ blue will but thinly be stockit.

“ But for a’ the rest, for the women's sake, save them,
Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them;
But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma’ it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails.
An' save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk's bonny daughters, an' Bell in particular;

ye ken that their beauty's the pride an’the staple Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple!"

NORTH (aside to TICKLER.) Hogg's, bad.


What's that you twa are speaking about? Speak up!


These fine lines must be preserved, James. Pray, are they allegorical ?


Preserve's, what a dracht's in that lum! &c.— Noctes AMBROSIANÆ, No. XXVI.

Christopher might well ask such a question, for I cannot conceive what could induce me to write a song like this. It must undoubtedly have some allusion to circumstances which I have quite forgot.


The air of this Jacobite song is to be found in Smith's Scottish Minstrel. It was first published by Captain Fraser.

Was ever old warrior of suffering so weary?

Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den? The southron bloodhounds 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 wo to the grey hairs of Callum-a-Glen!

The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,

The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view; The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,

To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew :

For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,

It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen ; The pride of my country is fallen for ever

Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen ?

The sun in his glory has look’d on our sorrow,

The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea; O! is there no day-spring for Scotland—no morrow

Of bright renovation for souls of the free? Yes, One above all hath beheld our devotion,

Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken; The day is abiding of stern retribution

On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.


This ballad is beautifully set to music by Thomson ;—the accompaniments by the immortal Haydn. The editor adds, that he has given this excellent ballad as it came to him ; but though it commemorates three worthies only, it has been said that there were six of them, namely, the three trusty Macdonalds, Peter Grant, Hugh Chisholm, and Colin Fraser, by whom the Prince was concealed and supported in a cave in Glen-Moriston, for above five weeks. One of the Macdonalds went often in disguise into the English camp, to procure some wheaten bread for their guest, and pick up what intelligence he could. There he regularly heard, at the drum-head, a proclamation in Eng. lish and Gaelic, of a reward of fifty thousand pounds, to any one who would produce the Pretender. But though the guardians of the cave had not a shilling among them all, they despised enriching themselves by an act of treachery. How painful it is to add, what the editor has been assured is true, that one of these magnanimous poor fellows was afterwards banged for stealing a cow ! On the ladder he declared that he had never taken either sheep or cow from any of his own clan or their friends, nor from any man who had not risen against the house of Stuart. Consequently,

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