young Barbara o' Birkenshaw, and the third, the loveliest and the last, was a maiden swathed in a black mantle, even her whose loss we lament, bonnie Jeanie Morison.' 'Maiden,' said the old woman, seating herself erect as she spoke, is not that a sweet vision? It's sweet to see the form of a first love, coming fast on a first tryste. It's sweet to hear the music and the din of dancers heels, at our own bridal with the man we love, and it's sweet to see our first-born smiling in our bosom, when the birth time pang is o'er, but maiden, there's something sweeter than all three, Revenge, revenge,-revenge.' she laughed aloud, in the raptures of this foretaste of enjoyment. And "The powers of Janet Morison might well inspire awe in so young a maiden as Mary Macmukle, and it was evident, after this vision in the haunted linn, that the old woman was no longer regarded as an aged and feeble dame, borne down by infirmities and sorrow, but as one who could exercise command over regions where the flesh has no acknowledged rule. Full of this belief, the Cameronian maiden, willing, perhaps, to shorten her visit in a place so fearfully attended, presented her basket, and said, Janet Morison, here are sax cakes, buttered and brown, I kneaded them wi' my ain eight knuckles, and hardened them oure the red embers wi' a tenty hand. Here's some ewe milk cheese, milked wi' my ain hand, steeped wi' my ain hand, pressed and chiselled wi' my ain hand, and fatter or feller never kitchened an honest man's cake; besides, there are sundry other things gude for auld age, gude for the hiccup and the hoast, and insuring soundness o' sleep, sae gude day, and mickle gude may they do thee." Soundness o' sleep,' said Janet Morison, the sternness of her look vanishing as she spoke, lang and sound shall be my sleep, my bonny maiden, and soon shall I go to my long hame aneath the brekan; sit down, therefore, maiden, and sing me a soothing sang, for the sun is fast sinking,-my race and his will be run together, and I wish to depart in peace of mind and tranquillity of spirit.' "The Cameronian songstress seated herself on the sod-shook back a profusion of curls from her eyes, and said, Father, what song shall I sing.' 'Sing! Vor. VII. 6 re-echoed John Macmukle, Sing her the sang o' sweet Sandie Pedenthe sang o' rejoicing when he saw the first blood of saints shed for the cause in Scotland-and if thou hast it not wholly by heart,. I sall help thee wie't.' Sing me no song of controversy,' eagerly interrupted Janet,'let creeds sleep in peace,-nor sing me no new song either-the spirit of ancient song-making has left the land,— love inspires the lover with verse no longer, the gift of heaven is become a trade, and the sangs of old Scotland are filled with Greek names and goddesses-with conjured-up love and unfelt affections—with a birken-tree or a tasselled hawthorn,-what comes not from the heart my heart cannot endure.' 'I canna say yere far wrang anent the songs o' the latter days,' said John Macmukle, they lack the life and marrow o' halesome holy love, and when they're sung with the sweetest lips o' the country-side, ane's neither dafter or wiser when the lilt is conoluded. What would you say to sound Sandie Rutherford's devout version of John, come kiss me now,' o'er the open profanity o' the auld sang he passed the flail o' the spirit, and oh! the chaff that he dadded out o' that foul sheaf o' abomination, leaving the sweet and savory smelling behind.' 'I tell thee,' said Janet Morison, I care not for the divinest labours of Alexander Rutherford's spiritual flail, though the Professor's Gospel Letters' are delightful to young maidens, as they talk greatly about courtship and kisses; I love them not, I would rather hearken to some old ballad of chivalrous bravery, even though it sung of the battle of Dryfesands, where the best of the Morisons' blood ran as rife as wateror the strife of Culloden Moor, where I lost two bold sons, and a brother I loved as dear as them both. Long, long has the house of the Morisons been sinking, but it's come to it's ruin at last, woes me! Maiden, I'll hear thy song.' The old woman seemed deeply affected, and anxiously sought refuge in the sweetness of the Cameronian maiden's voice, from the sorrow that overcame her. Mary Macmukle passed her white hand over her lips, like roses touched by lilies, waved back her curls that had began to intercept the liquid and sparkling benediction of her mild blue eye, which 3 B had made me mentally lift up my voice with the preacher against the unloveliness of love-locks,' and sung a Cameronian song with the purest pathos of feeling. CAMERONIAN SONG. 1. Blood lies on the valley, blood lies on the mountain; 2. Lo! him who has spilt it, I hearken him crying, As a babe at the birth time, beneath the sword dying :- 3. O ye proud one's of Scotland, dark woes are preparing, For the spilt blood of saints, and for covenants broken. 4. O mourn for the gray dame, and weep for the daughter, 5. And yet, though I weep for the nobles' revilement, Alas,' said Janet Morison, I love not the rhyme which sounds the lykewake dirge over hapless old Scotland. One old, brave, and noble name descends to dust and darkness, another rises from darkness to light-and so the world will be, and so the world has been-but the evil hour that shall swallow all up, accursed be it in the calendar and cursed be the tongue that foretold it, and the villain minstrel who wrought it into rhyme lending it poetic wings to fly abroad with, and sound Scotland's doomsnote in the ear of envious nations-maiden sing not that song againit blunts the brave man's sword, and makes his manly sinews like the heart strings of a baby.' And I shall never sing it again then,' said Mary Macmukle-for though Scotland's nobles are mightier with the sword than the word, and her princes are great covenant breakers-it is not seemly that her name should perish among nations-Eh! help me, to think that some far away damosel should milk my bonnie curliedody on the hill-side-and far away foreign songs should be sung amang our bonnie broomy hollows-it's grievous to think on't-it can never be endured.' And what shall hinder't to be endured,' said her father, alarmed at the patriotism of his daughter-whose love of cow-milking and song-singing among the broomy braes was triumphing over all the creeds and prophecies of the Cameronians since the days of Alexander Peden- What shall hinder't to be endured, my bairn—it maun be endured what canna be cured has it not been said—not in anger but in sorrow-not sung in profane verse, but in sound Scripture prosenot said over the bruised grape and the foaming flagon-but o'er the shorn and torn members of God's chief saints, spread as a feast to the mountain crows by the swords of the un 1820. The Witch of Ae. righteous-that the doom's day of Scotland was nigh-that the trumpet would be sounded against her, and the banner of the destroyer spreadtill the eye could not see a reeking house, nor the ear hear a cock crow, from fertile Dumfries to the distant Merse! Aye, but father,' said the maiden, whose affection was not all on one side like an ill roasted eggset saying against saying-rhyme against rhyme, and prophecy against prophecy and I think auld Scotland shall clap its wings, and crow as crousely as the best o' them-what say ye to the battle o' Sorrowsyke moor-where a bairn, wha they say is already born, shall haud the bridles of three kings' horses, till Scotland be thrice lost and thrice won-the sorrow an' the grief o' Alexander Peden made him say strong things-and give pictures of desolation in grand figures-but he didnae think such disasters would happen as he terrified us wi'-I hae sma' doubt o' that-besides this is nae expounding o' mine, but the saying o' John Farley-a man who wishes weel to our souls and our bodies baith-else he would never be called the poor man's minister-an' a' the auld dames and young damosels on a hale hill side wadnae bless him and binge to him as they do.' "In questioning the prophetic accuracy of Alexander Peden, the maiden had touched the controversial string of her father's mind, and he already stood a-gape and a-ghast-mustering up the fulness and abundance of testimony, traditional and written-prophecies fulfilled and fulfilling-with the deathbed horrors of bloody persecutors, and confessions of the torturers of the MAY CAMERON. 1. May Cameron, my loved one, my best and my fairest, 2. May Cameron, my loved one, remember-remember- There shall be men's shouts, and the bright eyes of women 3. May Cameron, my loved one, why dost thou sit weeping? 4. May Cameron, hearest thou not our war-horses prancing; If I live, and that chieftain escape from the slaughter, 5. May Cameron, May Cameron, all silent and weeping, 6. Yestreen, sick of heart, and mine eyes dim with weeping, And there came a light in, for the moon of December Was down, and the glory-flood filled all my chamber; And my father's voice came, saying, 'sleepest thou my daughter, I awoke, and I shaped my bride garment, and nearer She grew to his breast, and clasped dearer and dearer. 7. May Cameron, he says, and his darkened brow brightens, "The old stern Cameronian, John Macmukle, was deeply moved by his daughter's song; the gloom of his face waxed softer as the song proceeded, and the moisture on his long black eye-lashes, showed that Alexander Peden's dubious prophecies were utterly forgotten. The admiration of Janet Morison was still less equivocal, she sobbed audibly, drew her dark mantle over her head, and long after the song terminated, she unshrouded herself, and showed a face, down which tears had gushed in abundance, 'Oh my bonnie bairn,' said Janet, laying her withered hand on the plump lily hand of the songstress thy voice is too sweet-thy heart too kind and tender-to remain long a blessing to this green earth. There is a wisdom about thee, which learning doth not give; there is a beauty in thy face, which belongs not to this world; and there is a colour, pale lily, polished with pure dew on thy temples, spreading to thy high brent forehead, which is the token of an early flight. The good and the noble-minded are cut in green youth, while the wretched and the base ripen full ere they fall. Oh that the lot of Janet Morison had been such a proud, such a saintly one as thine. She has lived long in the world after life was bitter. Death came to the new made bride, and the joyous heir; to the maiden in her teens, and the sedate dame, smiling among her children; to the gray-haired sage and the bairn on the nurse's knee. He called at high house and at low, stopped with men in the field, and with men at the feast, but to me he never came, though I have wished for his presence these forty years.' "Assheuttered this, there came a wild light into her eyes, and she continued, "I am of an ancient faith, and long have I held it secret; but there are days when all things are divulged, and this shall be one of them.' From her bosom she took a small wooden crucifix, ornamented at the extremities with sockets of gold, and suspended by a massy chain of the same metal; and hanging this ancient and beautiful relic round the neck of the weeping maiden, she proceeded,- This gift of a king hung on the neck of a line of heroes; it has been on Mount Carmel, and Mount Calvary, and in the bloody plain of Gaza, and the sack of Jerusalem. It has been worn with shirts of hair, and covered with ashes and fast, and penance, and penitence but nothing could atone, else the last of the name would not have hung it to day on thy neck; keep it for my sake, and keep it long, but that is not doomed to beThe Cameronian elder heard with fear, over which his faith sought in vain to triumph, the early doom that awaited his youngest and loveliest daughter; but the fear for her person was overcome by fear for her soul, when he saw the cross' of the ancient house of Morison glit tering on her bosom; the assurance, however, that it was pure gold, kept his wrath temperate, and he even inwardly rejoiced, that the virtue of his child had prevented the Romish bauble,' and the accursed thing of pure gold,' from remaining longer in the world as a stumbling block and an idol. Janet Morison perceived that her kindred's 'cross' had dropped into the vacant spot, or debateable land, on which faith and practice fight so many drawn battles; and she knew enough of mankind, to know that the Cameronian would not cast the costly relic into the fire, even were he assured that it had been worn round the neck of the scarlet lady of the seven hills herself. Nor am I prepared to say, that Mary Macmukle looked upon it with the devotional reverence due to such a venerable and holy emblem, or with the pathetic affection which the dying gift of the last of a famous line deserved, but rather with a mixture of both, overcome by a knowledge of its great value, and the rank she might assume in young men's eyes from having added to her paternal dower a massy chain and cross of pure gold. She bestowed one look on the shining relic, and in that glance she measured her increased importance with that of the proudest of the provincial ladies who frequented the broomy glen of Quarrelwood at the midsummer festival. But the natural kindness of her heart soon trampled over vanity-she concealed the gift in her bosom, and seating herself by the side of Janet Morison, remained silent, and, ready to burst into tears, she dared not to trust her speech, lest the anguish of her heart should stream through her eyes before words came to her tongue. Her father stood gathering together sundry choice scraps of religious consolation, quotations from the gravest of Cameronian divines, from the prophetic and poetical vigour of Peden, to the prolonged and barren quotations of Browne, and uniting the whole together with the strong and homely thread of his own reflections. All this he intended for the Catholic dame's particular use and instruction; but the visible and alarming change which now took place in her appearance, drove Peden and his prophecies away, and caused nature to assume her power over all the creeds and formalities with which men, looking to ex |