astonished man, “what have I done?” and to convince British officers, as he supposed, of his loyalty, exclaimed, “Hurrah for the King, and damn the Yankees.” As he was marched to the rear, the poor fellow was cut down by a grape shot. In another part of the field, an American aid pulled up suddenly on a body of men under full march. In reply to his demand, “What regiment is that?” he was answered, “The Royal Scots.” With great presence of mind, he replied, “Halt! Royal Scots’, till further orders,” and then turning his horse’s head, galloped from their dangerous proximity. It was a horrid conflict. Humanity sighs over the slaughter of the brave men that fell in it. But here we are, at the grave-yard, with its drooping willows and flowering locusts. Still—still—and quiet now. No armed men disturb its calmness and repose—no ponderous artillery wheels rudely cut its consecrated mounds—no ruffian jest—no savage execration—no moan of anguish, break now upon its hallowed silence. The long grass and blossoming heather waive green alike over the graves of friend and enemy. The marble tells the story of the few—the many, their very parents know not their resting place. See this broken wooden slab—it has rotted off even with the ground, and lies face downwards, the earthworm burrowing under it, in this neglected corner. Pull the grass aside; turn it over with your foot. What, the nearly effaced inscription? “Sacred TO THE MEMORY OF CAPT’N —— BROWN, OF THE 21st Regiment WHO DIED OF WOUNDS RECEIVED IN ACTION, WITH THE ENEMY, ON THE 25TH OF JULY, 1814.” And this is honour! This is fame! Why, brave man! e’en now, I read the tribute to thy bravery in the bulletin of the action. Thou had’st comrades—father, mother, sisters—to mourn thy loss—and _now_, the stranger’s foot carelessly spurns thy frail memento; nor father, mother, sisters, nor human hand can point to the spot where rest thy ashes. Peace to thy manes! brave countrymen, where’er they sleep.