So died with the calmness and intrepidity of a martyr this reverend and learned prelate, maligned indeed by the fanatics of his own and succeeding ages, but reverenced and beloved by those who best knew his innate worth, unostentatious charity, and pure piety of soul. In the words of a worthy Presbyterian divine of last century,--"His inveterate enemies are agreed in ascribing to him the high praise of a beneficent and humane disposition. He bestowed a considerable part of his income in ministering to pressing indigence, and relieving the wants of private distress. In the exercise of his charity, he had no contracted views. The widows and orphans of the Presbyterian brethren richly shared his bounty without knowing whence it came. He died with the intrepidity of a hero, and the piety of a Christian, praying for the assassins with his latest breath." Gently ye fall, ye summer showers, On blade, and leaf, and tree; Ye bring a blessing to the earth, But nane--O nane, to me! Ye cannot wash this red right hand Free from its deadly stain, Ye cannot cool the burning ban That lies within my brain. O be ye still, ye blithesome birds, Within the woodland spray, And keep your songs within your hearts Until another day: And cease to fill the blooming brae With warblings light and clear, For there's a sweeter song than yours That I maun never hear. It was upon the Magus Muir Within the lanesome glen, That in the gloaming hour I met Wi' Burley and his men. Our hearts were hard as was the steel We bore within the hand; But harder was the heart of him That led that bluidy band. Dark lay the clouds upon the west Like mountains huge and still: And fast the summer lightning leaped Behind the distant hill. It shone on grim Rathillet's brow With pale and ghastly glare: I caught the glimpse of his cold gray eye-- There was MURDER glittering there! * * * * * Away, away! o'er bent and hill, Through moss and muir we sped: Around us roared the midnight storm, Behind us lay the dead. We spoke no word, we made no sign But blindly rade we on, For an angry voice was in our ears That bade us to begone, We were brothers all baptised in blood, Yet sought to be alone! Away, away! with headlong speed We rade through wind and rain, And never more upon the earth Did we all meet again. There's some have died upon the field, And some upon the tree, And some are bent and broken men Within a far countrie, But the heaviest curse hath lighted down On him that tempted me! O hame, hame, hame!--that holy place-- There is nae hame for me! There's not a child that sees my face But runs to its mither's knee.