"Two sons of Glencoe's were the only persons that escaped in that quarter of the country; for, growing jealous of some ill designs from the behaviour of the soldiers, they stole from their beds a few minutes before the tragedy began, and, chancing to overhear two of them discoursing plainly of the matter, they endeavoured to have advertised their father, but, finding that impracticable, they ran to the other end of the country and alarmed the inhabitants. There was another accident that contributed much to their safety; for the night was so excessively stormy and tempestuous, that four hundred soldiers, who were appointed to murder these people, were stopped in their march from Inverlochy, and could not get up till they had time to save themselves. To cover the deformity of so dreadful a sight, the soldiers burned all the houses to the ground, after having rifled them, carried away nine hundred cows, two hundred horses, numberless herds of sheep and goats, and every thing else that belonged to these miserable people. Lamentable was the case of the women and children that escaped the butchery; the mountains were covered with a deep snow, the rivers impassable, storm and tempest filled the air and added to the horrors and darkness of the night, and there were no houses to shelter them within many miles."[1] Such was the awful massacre of Glencoe, an event which has left an indelible and execrable stain upon the memory of William of Orange. The records of Indian warfare can hardly afford a parallel instance of atrocity: and this deed, coupled with his deliberate treachery in the Darien scheme, whereby Scotland was for a time absolutely ruined, is sufficient to account for the little estimation in which the name of the "great Whig deliverer" is still regarded in the valleys of the North. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _Memoirs of Sir Ewen Cameron of Locheill_.] THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave him lying where he fell-- Better bier ye cannot fashion: None beseems him half so well As the bare and broken heather, And the hard and trampled sod, Whence his angry soul ascended To the judgment-seat of God! Winding-sheet we cannot give him-- Seek no mantle for the dead, Save the cold and spotless covering Showered from heaven upon his head. Leave his broadsword, as we found it, Bent and broken with the blow, That, before he died, avenged him On the foremost of the foe. Leave the blood upon his bosom-- Wash not off that sacred stain: Let it stiffen on the tartan, Let his wounds unclosed remain, Till the day when he shall show them At the throne of God on high, When the murderer and the murdered Meet before their Judge's eye!