“Far have I been and much have I seen, Both as a man and boy, But never have I set forth a foot On so perilous an employ.” It fell in the dusk of the night When unco things betide, That he was aware of a captain-man Drew near to the waterside. He was aware of his coming Down in the gloaming alone; And he looked in the face of the man And lo! the face was his own. “This is my weird,” he said, “And now I ken the worst; For many shall fall the morn, But I shall fall with the first. O, you of the outland tongue, You of the painted face, This is the place of my death; Can you tell me the name of the place?” “Since the Frenchmen have been here They have called it Sault-Marie; But that is a name for priests, And not for you and me. It went by another word,” Quoth he of the shaven head: “It was called Ticonderoga In the days of the great dead.” And it fell on the morrow’s morning, In the fiercest of the fight, That the Cameron bit the dust As he foretold at night; And far from the hills of heather Far from the isles of the sea, He sleeps in the place of the name As it was doomed to be. NOTES TO TICONDEROGA INTRODUCTION.—I first heard this legend of my own country from that friend of men of letters, Mr. Alfred Nutt, “there in roaring London’s central stream,” and since the ballad first saw the light of day in _Scribner’s Magazine_, Mr. Nutt and Lord Archibald Campbell have been in public controversy on the facts. Two clans, the Camerons and the Campbells, lay claim to this bracing story; and they do well: the man who preferred his plighted troth to the commands and menaces of the dead is an ancestor worth disputing. But the Campbells must rest content: they have the broad lands and the broad page of history; this appanage must be denied them; for between the name of _Cameron_ and that of _Campbell_, the muse will never hesitate. {103} Note 1, page 103. Mr. Nutt reminds me it was “by my sword and Ben Cruachan” the Cameron swore. {109} Note 2, page 109. “_A periwig’d lord of London_.” The first Pitt. {111} Note 3, page 111. “_Cathay_.” There must be some omission in General Stewart’s charming _History of the Highland Regiments_, a book that might well be republished and continued; or it scarce appears how our friend could have got to China. HEATHER ALE A GALLOWAY LEGEND HEATHER ALE FROM the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground.