Hackstone.--My sword received it--and a stroke from Nesbit laid
the foeman’s hand and sword in the dust. He fainted and tumbled
from the saddle. We reined our horses, and galloped to our main
body. But what a scene presented itself here! These misguided men
had their eyes now fully opened on their fatal errors. The enemy
were bringing up their whole force against them. I was not long
a near spectator of it; for a ball grazed my courser. He plunged
and reared--then shot off like an arrow. Several of our officers
drew to the same place. On the knoll we faced about--the battle
raged below us. We beheld our commander doing every thing that a
brave soldier could do with factious men against an overpowering
foe. Burley and his troops were in close conflict with Clavers’
dragoons. We saw him dismount three troopers with his own hand.
He could not turn the tide of battle, but he was covering the
retreat of these misguided men. Before we could rejoin him, a party
threw themselves in our way. Kennoway, one of Clavers’ officers
led them on. ‘Would to God that this was Grahame himself,’ some
of my comrades ejaculated aloud. ‘He falls to my share,’ said I,
‘whoever the officer be.’--I advanced--he met me, I parried several
thrusts, he received a cut on the left arm; and the sword by the
same stroke, shore off one of his horse’s ears; it plunged and
reared. We closed again. I received a stroke on the left shoulder.
My blow fell on his sword arm. He reined his horse around,
retreated a few paces, then returned at full gallop. My courser
reared instinctively as he approached; I received his stroke on the
back of my ferrara, and by a back stroke, I gave him a deep cut on
the cheek. And before he could recover a position of defence, my
sword fell with a terrible blow on his steel cap. Stunned by the
blow, he bent himself forward--and, grasping the mane, he tumbled
from his saddle, and his steed galloped over the field. I did not
repeat the blow. His left hand presented his sword; his right arm
was disabled; his life was given to him. My companions having
disposed of their antagonists, (and some of them had two a-piece,)
we paused to see the fate of the battle. Dalzell and Livingstone
were riding over the field like furies, cutting down all in their
way. Monmouth was galloping from rank to rank, and calling on his
men to give quarter. Clavers, to wipe off the disgrace of Drumclog,
was committing dreadful havoc. ‘Can we not find Clavers,’ said
Halhead, ‘no,’ said Captain Paton, ‘the gallant Colonel takes care
to have a solid guard of his rogues about him. I have sought him
over the field; but I found him, as I now perceive him, with a mass
of his guards about him.’ At this instant we saw our General, at
some distance, disentangling himself from the men who had tumbled
over him in the _mêlée_. His face, his hands, and clothes, were
covered with gore. He had been dismounted, and was fighting on
foot. We rushed to the spot, and cheered him. Our party drove back
the scattered bands of Dalzell. ‘My friends’ said Sir Robert, as
we mounted him on a stray horse, ‘the day is lost! But--you Paton;
you Brownlee of Torfoot, and you Halhead; let not that flag fall
into the hands of these incarnate devils. We have lost the battle,
but by the grace of God, neither Dalzell, nor Clavers shall say
that he took our colours. My ensign has done his duty. He is down.
This sword has saved it twice. I leave it to your care. You see its
perilous situation.’ He pointed with his sword to the spot.--We
collected some of our scattered troops, and flew to the place. The
standard bearer was down, but he was borne upright by the mass of
men who had thrown themselves in fierce contest around it. Its well
known blue and scarlet colours, and its motto, ‘CHRIST’S CROWN AND
COVENANT,’ in brilliant gold letters, inspired us with a sacred
enthusiasm. We gave a loud cheer to the wounded ensign, and rushed
into the combat. The redemption of that flag cost the foe many a
gallant man. They fell beneath our broad swords; and, with horrible
execrations dying on their lips, they gave up their souls to their
Judge.
Here I met in front that ferocious dragoon of Clavers, named Tam
Halliday, who had more than once, in his raids, plundered my halls;
and had snatched the bread from my weeping babes. He had just
seized the white staff of the flag. But his tremenduous oath of
exultation, (we of the covenant never swear)--his oath had scarcely
passed its polluted threshold, when this Andrew Ferrara fell on
the guard of his steel and shivered it to pieces. ‘Recreant loon!’
said I, ‘thou shalt this day remember thy evil deeds.’ Another blow
on his helmet laid him at his huge length, and made him bite the
dust. In the _mêlée_ that followed, I lost sight of him. We fought
like lions--but with the hearts of Christians. While my gallant
companions stemmed the tide of battle, the standard, rent to
tatters, fell across my breast. I tore it from the staff, and wrapt
it round my body. We cut our way through the enemy, and carried our
General off the field.
Having gained a small knoll, we beheld once more the dreadful
spectacle below. Thick volumes of smoke and dust rolled in a
hazy cloud over the dark bands mingled in deadly fray. It was no
longer a battle, but a massacre. In the struggle of my feelings
I turned my eyes on the General and Paton. I saw, in the face
of the latter, an indiscribable conflict of passions. His long
and shaggy eye-brows were drawn over his eyes. His hand grasped
his sword. ‘I cannot yet leave the field’ said the undaunted
Paton--‘With the General’s permission, I shall try to save some
of our wretched men beset by those hell-hounds. Who will go?’--At
Kilsyth I saw service. When deserted by my troops, I cut my way
through Montrose’s men, and reached the spot where Colonels Halket
and Strachan were. We left the field together. Fifteen dragoons
attacked us. We cut down thirteen, and two fled. Thirteen next
assailed us. We left ten on the field, and three fled. Eleven
Highlanders next met us. We paused and cheered each other: ‘Now,
Johnny,’ cried Halket to me, ‘put forth your metal, else we
are gone,’ nine others we sent after their comrades, and two
fled--‘Now, who will join this raid!’[A] ‘I will be your leader,’
said Sir Robert, as we fell into the ranks.
We marched on the enemy’s flank. ‘Yonder is Clavers,’ said Paton,
while he directed his courser on him. The bloody man was, at that
moment, nearly alone, hacking to pieces some poor fellows already
on their knees disarmed, and imploring him by the common feelings
of humanity to spare their lives. He had just finished his usual
oath against their ‘feelings of humanity,’ when Paton presented
himself. He instantly let go his prey and slunk back into the midst
of his troopers. Having formed them, he advanced.--We formed,
and made a furious onset. At our first charge his troop reeled.
Clavers was dismounted.--But at that moment Dalzell assailed us on
the flank and rear.--Our men fell around us like grass before the
mower. The buglemen sounded a retreat. Once more in the _mêlée_ I
fell in with the General and Paton, we were covered with wounds.
We directed our flight in the rear of our broken troops. By the
direction of the General I had unfurled the standard. It was borne
off the field flying at the sword’s point. But that honour cost
me much. I was assailed by three fierce dragoons; five followed
close in the rear. I called to Paton,--in a moment he was by my
side. I threw the standard to the General, and we rushed on the
foe. They fell beneath our swords; but my faithful steed, which
had carried me through all my dangers was mortally wounded. He
fell. I was thrown in among the fallen enemy. I fainted. I opened
my eyes on misery. I found myself in the presence of Monmouth--a
prisoner--with other wretched creatures, awaiting, in awful
suspense, their ultimate destiny. * * * *
W. C. B.
LONG CREDIT.
Soon after the battle of Preston, two Highlanders, in roaming
through the south of Mid-Lothian, entered the farm-house of
Swanston, near the Pentland Hills, where they found no one at home
but an old woman. They immediately proceeded to search the house,
and soon finding a web of coarse home-spun cloth, made no scruple
to unroll and cut off as much as they thought would make a coat to
each. The woman was exceedingly incenced at their rapacity, roared
and cried, and even had the hardihood to invoke divine vengeance
upon their heads. “Ye villains!” she cried, “ye’ll ha’e to account
for this yet!”--“And when will we pe account for’t?” asked one of
the Highlanders.--“At the last day, ye blackguards!” exclaimed
the woman. “Ta last tay!” replied the Highlander: “Tat pe cood
long credit--we’ll e’en pe tak a waistcoat too!” at the same time
cutting off a few additional yards of the cloth.
DEATH OF A WATCH.
After the battle of Falkirk, in 1746, a Highlandman was observed
extracting a gold watch from the fob of an English officer who had
been killed. His comrade viewed him with a greedy eye; which the
man taking notice of, said to him “Tamn you gapin’ creedy bitch,
gang an’ shoot a shentleman for hersel’, an no envie me o’ my pit
watch.” Next morning finding his watch motionless, and meeting his
comrade, says to him, “Och! she no be care muckle about a watch,
an’ you be like mine what will you gie me for her?” The other
replied, “I be venture a kinny.”--“Weel then,” said the other,
“Shust tak her, an’ welcome, for she be die yester night.”
CAPTAIN SILK.
In a party of ladies, on it being reported that a Captain Silk had
arrived in town, they exclaimed, with one exception, ‘What a name
for a soldier!’ ‘The fittest name in the world,’ replied a witty
female, ‘for Silk never can be Worsted!’
[Illustration: FINIS.]
FOOTNOTE:
[A] This chivalrous defence is recorded, I find, in the life of
Captain Paton, in the ‘Scots Worthies,’ Edin. edit. of A. D. 1812.
This celebrated Officer was trained up to warfare in the army of
Charles Gustavus, King of Sweden. This is a specimen of these
heroic Whigs, who brought about the Revolution of A. D. 1688.
AN ELEGY
IN MEMORY
OF THAT VALIANT CHAMPION,
SIR R. GRIERSON,
LATE LAIRD OF LAG,
Who died Dec. 23d, 1733.
WHEREIN
THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS
Commends many of his best friends, who were
THE CHIEF MANAGERS,
of the late Persecution.
[Illustration]
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
AN
ELEGY
IN MEMORY OF
SIR ROBERT GRIERSON,
_OF LAG_.