McClure was dying of consumption as everybody knew but himself; he could not believe that he had come so far from home only to die, and he joined the revellers at the camp fire.  He said to kindly enquirers that he felt quite well, and would soon regain his strength.  Before that terrible journey over the mountains he had been the life and soul of the Port.  He could play on the violin, on the bagpipes—­both Scotch and Irish—­and he was always so pleasant and cheerful, looking as innocent as a child, that no one could be long dispirited in his company, and the most impatient growler became ashamed of himself.

McClure was persuaded to bring out his violin once more—­it had been long silent—­and he began playing the liveliest of tunes, strathspeys, jigs, and reels, until some of the men could hardly keep their heels still, but it is hard to dance on loose sand, and they had to be contented with expressing their feelings in song.  Davy sang “Ye Mariners of England,” and other songs of the sea; and Pateley Jim gave the “Angel’s Whisper,” followed by an old ballad of the days of Robin Hood called “The Wedding of Aythur O’Braidley,” the violin accompanying the airs and putting the very soul of music into every song.

But by degrees the musician grew weary, and began to play odds and ends of old tunes, sacred and profane.  He dwelt some time on an ancient “Kyrie Eleeson,” and at last glided, unconsciously as it were, into the “Land o’ the Leal.”

I’m wearin’ away, Jean,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, Jean,
I’m wearin’ awa, Jean,
To the Land o’ the Leal.

There’s nae sorrow there, Jean,
There’s nae caul or care, Jean,
The days aye fair, Jean,
I’ the Land of the Leal.

At last McClure rose from his seat, and said, “I’ll pit awa the fiddle, and bid ye a good nicht.  I think I’ll be going hame to my mither the morn.”

He went into his tent.  It was high tide, and there was a gentle swish of long low waves lapping the sandy beach.  The night wind sighed a soothing lullaby through the spines of the she-oak, and his spirit passed peacefully away with the ebb.  He was the first man who died at the Old Port, and he was buried on the bank of the river where Friday first saw its waters flowing towards the mountain.

Thirty years afterwards I saw two old men, Campbell and Montgomery, pulling up the long grass which had covered his neglected grave.

GLENGARRY IN GIPPSLAND.

Jack Shay was not sorry to leave the Old Port.  The nocturnal feast made to celebrate the repulse of the blackfellows could not conceal the state of famine which prevailed, and he was pleased to remember that he had brought plenty of flour, tea, and sugar as far as the Thomson river.  Davy had no saddle, but John Campbell lent him one for the journey, and also sold him shot and powder on credit.  So early in the morning the two men took a “tightener”