Down we crouch’d amid the bracken, till the Lowland ranks drew near,
  Panting like the hounds in summer when they scent the stately deer. 
  From the dark defile emerging, next we saw the squadrons come,
  Leslie’s foot and Leven’s troopers marching to the tuck of drum;
  Through the scatter’d wood of birches, o’er the broken ground and heath,
  Wound the long battalion slowly till they gain’d the field beneath,
  Then we bounded from our covert.—­Judge how look’d the Saxons then,
  When they saw the rugged mountain start to life with armed men! 
  Like a tempest down the ridges swept the hurricane of steel,
  Rose the slogan of Macdonald—­flash’d the broadsword of Lochiel! 
  Vainly sped the withering volley ’mongst the foremost of our band,
  On we pour’d until we met them, foot to foot, and hand to hand. 
  Horse and man went down like drift-wood, when the floods are black at
        Yule,
  And their carcasses are whirling in the Garry’s deepest pool. 
  Horse and man went down before us—­living foe there tarried none
  On the field of Killiecrankie, when that stubborn fight was done!

  And the evening star was shining on Schehallion’s distant head,
  When we wiped our bloody broadswords and return’d to count the dead. 
  There we found him, gash’d and gory, stretch’d upon the cumber’d plain,
  As he told us where to seek him, in the thickest of the slain. 
  And a smile was on his visage, for within his dying ear
  Peal’d the joyful note of triumph and the clansmen’s clamorous cheer;
  So, amidst the battle’s thunder, shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
  In the glory of his manhood pass’d the spirit of the Graeme!

  Open wide the vaults of Athol, where the bones of heroes rest—­
  Open wide the hallow’d portals to receive another guest! 
  Last of Scots, and last of freemen—­last of all that dauntless race,
  Who would rather die unsullied than outlive the land’s disgrace! 
  O thou lion-hearted warrior! reck not of the after-time,
  Honour may be deem’d dishonour, loyalty be called a crime. 
  Sleep in peace with kindred ashes of the noble and the true,
  Hands that never fail’d their country, hearts that never baseness knew. 
  Sleep, and till the latest trumpet wakes the dead from earth and sea,
  Scotland shall not boast a braver chieftain than our own Dundee!

  W.E.A.

* * * * *

LORD ELLENBOROUGH AND THE WHIGS.

The period of a single year but just elapsed has exhibited in the neighbourhood of the Indus events of the most memorable and momentous kind.  Disasters the most disgraceful have been endured—­victories the most brilliant have been achieved.  The policy and the fortunes of a mighty empire under one governor, have been wholly reversed under another.  Safety and security have been substituted for danger and