The death of their brave general, and the loss of so many of their friends, were inexhaustible fountains of grief and sorrow. They closed the last scene of this mournful tragedy in obsequies of their lamented general, and of the other gentlemen who fell with him, and interred them in the church of Blair of Atholl with a real funeral solemnity, there not being present one single person who did not participate in the general affliction." I close this notice of a great soldier and devoted loyalist, by transcribing the beautiful epitaph composed by Dr. Pitcairn:-- "Ultime Scotorum! potuit, quo sospite solo, Libertas patriæ salva fuisse tuæ: Te moriente, novos accepit Scotia cives, Accepitque novos, te moriente, deos. Illa nequit superesse tibi, tu non potes illi, Ergo Caledoniæ nomen inane, vale. Tuque vale, gentis priscæ fortissime ductor, Ultime Scotorum, ac ultime Grame, vale!" THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE Sound the fife, and cry the slogan-- Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day; Never, since the valiant Douglas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart--the priceless-- To our dear Redeemer's shore! Lo! we bring with us the hero-- Lo! we bring the conquering Græme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame; Fresh and bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, And the thunder of the fight! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, As we march o'er moor and lea! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim! Wail ye may full well for Scotland-- Let none dare to mourn for him! See! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's fold-- See! his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold. See! how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See--Oh never more, my comrades! Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh; Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field or fall! On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay: Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the pass was wrapped in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, And our bonnets down we drew,