“Na, na, freend.  He that setteth his hand to the plough, let him not look back,” answered the Borderer. “‘Gin I win oot o’ this, I trow I’ll ‘hew Agag in pieces before the Lord,’ or a’s dune.  We will yet smite the Philistines, destroy utterly the Amalakites!  Aye! smite them hip and thigh, even from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof!”

This fiery Borderer, Ringan Oliver by name, a man of gigantic strength and great courage, a strong pillar of the Covenant, was a native of Jedwater, where he and his fathers before him had for generations occupied the small holding of Smailcleuchfoot.  From the turmoil of the disastrous flight after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and from the close search of the pursuing soldiers, Ringan Oliver did eventually escape, sore battered, and not without much difficulty and danger, and for many a month thereafter he lay in hiding; caves, holes in the moors, and dripping peat hags, were his shelter, heather and ferns his bed, many a time when the hunt waxed hot.  And in 1680, hearing of the return from Holland of the outlawed Hall of Haughhead, he speedily joined that noted Covenanter, hiding with him, “lurking as privily as they could about Borrowstounness and other places on both sides of the Firth of Forth”; and he was with Hall and “worthy Mr. Cargill” when “these two bloody hounds, the curates of Borrowstounness and Carriden, smelled out Mr. Cargill and his companion,” and sent to the Governor of Borrowstounness that information which led to the death of one of the three Covenanters.  Mr. Cargill and Ringan Oliver got clear away from the house at Queensferry where Colonel Middleton, single-handed, tried to arrest them, but Hall, severely wounded in the head, was taken, and died before he could be carried even so far as Edinburgh.

For some years after this we have no record of Ringan’s doings; possibly part of the time he spent on his farm at Smailcleuchfoot.  In 1689, however, he was with General Mackay at Killiecrankie.  And again, as at Bothwell Bridge, sorely against his inclination he experienced the horrors of headlong flight in company of a broken rabble.  Reaching Dunkeld in an exhausted condition early in the following morning, he and a few comrades found shelter in the house of a friend.  But as they sat, about to fall to on a much needed meal, down the little street came the “rat-tat-tat” of a drum, and past the window swaggered an unkempt Highland drummer, halting at intervals to hurl defiance at all Whigs, and a challenge to them to fight the famous Highland champion, Rory Dhu Mhor.  And this is something after the fashion of what Ringan and his weary comrades heard drawled out with fine nasal whine: 

“This will pe to pe kiving notice to aal it may pe concerning, tat Rory Dhu Mhor of ta Clan Donachy will pe keeping ta crown of ta causeway in ta toun of Tunkel for wan hour and mhore.  And he iss civilly tesiring it to pe known tat if there will pe any canting, poo-hooing, psalm-singing whig repellioner in ta toun, and he will pe so pould as to pe coming forth his hiding holes, and looking ta said Rory Dhu Mhor in ta face, ta said Rory Dhu Mhor herepy kifs promise to pe so ferry condescending as to pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter by ta legs, for ta honour of King Tchames.  Ochilow!  Cot save King Tchames!”