Next Shewalton, and noble Grange,
Stair, and Gilmilnecroft, join the range;

And dress'd in linen scarf and band,
The notables of half the land;

With lairds, and cits, and rustics round,
In sections line the castle-ground.

Now great Sir Archibald is laid In coffin of the yew-tree made; A Popish manual, through life The bane of his religious strife, Is now his pillow, and his breast With cross and rosary is drest; And through the vale of Death, to light The footsteps of the bigot Knight,

A consecrated taper meet

Is roll'd up in his winding sheet,
With reigning Pontiff's coin, to pay
At purgatory porch his way,
Lest gold, of vile heretic state,
Should not be current at the gate.
As carried through the lighted hall,
The noble bearers of his pall

Are Lord Kilmarnock, Lord Dundee, *
Lord Irvine, and Lord Ochiltree;
Upon the coffin lid are laid

His baldric, casque, cuirass, and blade ;
True emblems of his dauntless fire
When dark religion raised his ire.
Though he had been the great Argyle,
For whom ten thousand Braemen toil.
To his remains the honour paid
Might surely gratify his shade.

By previous arrangement made, Each takes his place in the parade; Postilions mount, and forward slow All on in solemn silence go,

Except the saullies, who anon

,

Proclaim in front,-" Sir Arch'bald's gone!"

Is there a scene in Fancy's power

More grand, than at the midnight hour
To see, by flames of varied hue,

The dark-plumed hearse brought half in view;

The reader may see that historical fact is not here attended to, as Lord Dundee fell in the battle of Killiecrankie, fought in 1699, and Sir Archibald died in 1710.

With here and there the fun'ral train,
Like mighty grampus in the main,

A moment seen, and lost again?

How many paupers would have been Spectators of this mournful scene, With hinds from each surrounding height, Had it not been so wild a night!

Portentous of the coming blast,

The grey-gull from the ocean pass'd;
And far from the turmoil of men,

The black-cock sought his moorland den;

Deep shaded in her apogee,

The moon for ever seem'd to be:

Not darker was the funeral pall,

Than now the sky appear'd to all.
Fast falls the rain, and pelting hail
Hiss loudly through the furious gale;
The livid lightning's spreading gleam,
Like flapping wings of demon seem,
Who bellow forth the awful peal,
Loud roaring over hill and dale,
As if in wrath, from shades below,
They came the world to overthrow.

Since Satan first his legions rose
The host of heaven to oppose,
If e'er infernal spirits were
In lower region of the air
Call'd visibly in mass to fight,
It was upon that awful night!
Before the dark procession on
Their solemn journey far had gone,
A thousand forms of livid flame
Durrain'd around the coffin came;

But other spirits soon advance,

Attack the first with sword and lance;
Alternately they fight and flee,

Wheel, charge, and route the enemy;
And as the hearse becomes their prize,

Shouts from the victor's ranks arise:
But where's the pen that could impart
The agitation of each heart,

When steeds, impell'd by whip and spur,

Can neither hearse nor coffin stir?

Though martingal, nor bit, nor rein,
No other horse can there restrain;
Till over all, from front to rear,
Confusion ev'ry where appear.

Much dreading that his zeal sincere Could not insure his safety there,

The Abbot of Crossraguel fled,

Nor Litany said for the dead;
But finding home no road to take,
He fondly sought the mountain brake;
As did both lord, and knight, and hind,
Nor guard nor guest was left behind.
Morn after Bothwell's bloody fight
Presented not so sad a sight;

Here crape and weepers strew'd the way,
There horse and man promiscuous lay;
The greenwood sapling down was blown,
The carriages were overthrown;
By the resistless fire of heaven,

The hearse was singed, the coffin riven;
And old Sir Arch'bald's corpse, they say,
Was ta'en that night by fiends away.