But onwards-always onwards,

In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant laboured,

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 a 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 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!

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 Warristoun
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-
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—
And oh, that such should be!—
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me—

I have not sought in battlefield
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day,
To win the martyr's crown!

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:

The thunder crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;

Yet

aye broke in with muffled beat,

The 'larum of the drum.

There was madness on the earth below,
And anger in the sky,

And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.

Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!

How dismal 'tis to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,

The ladder and the tree !

Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms

The bells begin to toll"He is coming! he is coming!

God's mercy on his soul!" One last long peal of thunder

The clouds are cleared away,

And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die: There was colour in his visage,

Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he looked upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The

eye of God shone through! Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,

And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away;

For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder
As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
And no man dared to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush, and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky—
The work of death was done!

MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. A.D. 1692.

Oн tell me, harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody?

Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle that from high
Screams chorus to thy melody?