Killiecrankie's wild pass saw the hero fall,
'Mid the drum-beat and musket rattle;
'Twas enough the stoutest heart to appal,
The shock of that furious battle.

He died on the field as a soldier should die,

Where the proudest of laurel wreaths crowned him, And instead of the mass, he was cheered with the cry Of victory shouting around him.

Let Bigotry sleep his arm pulled it down :
The Gordian knot he did sever ;1

He fought for his prince, he defended the crown,
And patriots will bless him for ever.

Not a wavering doubt nor a shade of fear
Can be traced through a page of his story;
No! noble Dundee closed his gallant career
In the fulness of mortal glory.

'It is difficult to understand the allusion here, if it refers to anything accomplished by the battle of Killiecrankie, in which Dundee fell.

JOHN BRECKENRIDGE

1790-1840

ALL the available information regarding the life of the author of "The Humours o' Gleska Fair" is owed to the late Alexander G. Murdoch, who had an opportunity of procuring facts from surviving friends of the poet, and has preserved them in his valuable work, "Recent and Living Scottish Poets." John Breckenridge was born at Parkhead, and bred to the trade of a handloom weaver, but, joining the Lanarkshire militia, served a term of five years in Ireland. On his return he married, succeeded his mother in a small grocery business in his native place, and settled down to the life of a decent citizen. He was an excellent weaver, could write "like copperplate," made famous rhymes, and fiddles whose reputation brought high prices from London. Yet he neither wished riches for himself nor fame for his poetry, and when his end approached he made his wife bring the drawer in which his papers were kept, and throw them all into the fire. His "Gleska Fair" only escaped by an accident. A copy of the piece had come into possession of Livingstone, the Scottish vocalist, and he sang it into public knowledge. Only a few other scattered verses survive, but this poem, following the same vein as Mayne's "Siller Gun," and James V.'s "Christ's Kirk on the Green," gives Breckenridge a title to remembrance. It is certainly not the finest vein of poetry, but it has all the merit and more than the humour of a Dutch picture, and in this case the manners of the people are pourtrayed by one of the people themselves.

The poet is described as "small in stature and rotund in form, with a blythe expression of countenance, dark bright eyes, and a brow so ample that he was nick-named 'brooie' when a boy." He was 66 deilfond o' fun, and whiles sae fu' o' mischief that there was nae fen'in' wi' him"; and on his deathbed he told his wife she "wasna to be sair on the folks that were awn (owing) them, as she would maybe manage to fen' in a decent way without it." He died of a lingering internal disease.

THE HUMOURS O' GLESKA FAIR

The sun frae the eastward was peeping,

And braid through the winnocks did stare,
When Willie cried, "Tam, are ye sleeping?
Mak' haste, man, and rise to the Fair!
For the lads and the lasses are thranging,
And a' body's now in a steer,

Fye, haste ye, and let us be ganging,
Or, faith, we'll be langsome, I fear."

Then Tam he got up in a hurry,

And wow but he made himsel' snod,
And a pint o' milk brose he did worry,

To mak' him mair teugh for the road.
On his head his blue bannet he slippit,
His whip o'er his shouther he flang,
And a clumsy oak cudgel he grippit,
On purpose the loons for to bang.

Now Willock had trysted wi' Jenny,
For she was a braw, canty quean;
Word gaed that she had a gey penny,
For whilk Willie fondly did grien.
Now Tam he was blaming the liquor:
Ae night he had got himsel' fu',
And trysted glied Maggie MacVicar,
And faith, he thocht shame for to rue.

The carles, fu' cadgie, sat cocking

Upon their white nags and their brown, Wi' snuffing and laughing and joking

They soon cantered into the town. "Twas there was the funning and sporting; Eh, lord! what a swarm o' braw folkRowly-powly, wild beasts, wheels o' fortune, Sweetie stan's, Maister Punch, and Black Jock.

Now Willock and Tam, geyan bouzie,
By this time had met wi' their joes;
Consented wi' Gibbie and Susie

To gang awa' doun to the shows.

"Twas there was the fiddling and drumming;
Sic a crowd they could scarcely get through—
Fiddles, trumpets, and organs a-bumming;
O sirs! what a hully-baloo.

Then hie to the tents at the paling,

Weel theekit wi' blankets and mats,
And deals seated round like a tap-room,
Supported on stanes and on pats.
The whisky like water they're selling,
And porter as sma' as their yill,
And aye as you're pouring they're telling,
"Troth, dear, it's just sixpence a gill!"

Says Meg, "See yon beast wi' the claes on't,
Wi' the face o't as black as the soot !
Preserve's! it has fingers and taes on't—
Eh, sirs! it's an unco like brute!"

"O woman, but ye are a gomeral

To mak' sic a won'er at that!

D'ye na ken, ye daft gowk, that's a mongrel
That's bred 'twixt a dog and a cat.

"See yon souple jaud, how she's dancing,

Wi' the white ruffled breeks and red shoon! Frae the tap to the tae she's a' glancing Wi' gowd, and a feather abune. My troth, she's a braw decent kimmer As I have yet seen in the Fair!" "Her decent!" quo' Meg, "she's a limmer, Or, faith, she would never be there."

Now Gibbie was wanting a toothfu';

Says he, "I'm right tired o' the fun : D'ye think we'd be the waur o' a mouthfu' O' gude nappy yill and a bun?"

"Wi' a' my heart," Tam says, "I'm willing-
'Tis best for to water the corn:

By jing, I've a bonnie white shilling,
And a saxpence that ne'er saw the morn."

Before they got out o' the bustle

Poor Tam got his fairing, I trow,

For a stick at the ginge' breid play'd whistle,
And knockit him down like a cow.

Says Tam, "Wha did that? deil confound him!
Fair play, let me win at the loon!"

And he whirled his stick round and round him, And swore like a very dragoon.