We landed, lads, in India, When in our bosom's core One bitter memory burn'd like hell-- The shambles at Cawnpore. Weel ye mind our march through the furnace-heats, Weel ye mind the heaps of slain, As we follow'd through his score of fights Brave "Havelock the Dane." Hurrah for the Highland glory! Hurrah for the Highland names! God bless you, noble gentlemen! God love you, bonny dames! And sneer not at the brawny limbs, And the strength of our Highland men-- When the bayonets next are levell'd, They may all be needed then. These verses I had no sooner copied out in my best hand than, looking up, I found that the rain had ceased from sheer fatigue, and that great white vapours were rising up from the damp valleys. Here was release at last--the beleaguering army had raised the siege; and, better than all, pleasant as the sound of Blucher's cannon on the evening of Waterloo, I heard the sound of wheels on the boggy ground: and just when the stanched rain-clouds were burning into a sullen red at sunset, I had the Brians, father and son, in my bothy, and pleasant human intercourse. They came to carry me off with them. [Sidenote: Blaavin.] I am to stay with Mr M'Ian to-night. A wedding has taken place up among the hills, and the whole party have been asked to make a night of it. The mighty kitchen has been cleared for the occasion; torches are stuck up, ready to be lighted; and I already hear the first mutterings of the bagpipes' storm of sound. The old gentleman wears a look of brightness and hilarity, and vows that he will lead off the first reel with the bride. Everything is prepared; and even now the bridal party are coming down the steep hill-road. I must go out to meet them. To-morrow I return to my bothy to watch; for the weather has become fine now, the sunny mists congregating on the crests of Blaavin--Blaavin on which the level heaven seems to lean. END OF VOLUME I.