and that he had sold himself, for temporal greatness, to the seducer of mankind. It is still believed, that a cup of wine, presented to him by his butler, changed into clotted blood; and that, when he plunged his feet into cold water, their touch caused it to boil. The steed, which bore him, was supposed to be the gift of Satan; and precipices are shewn, where a fox could hardly keep his feet, down which the infernal charger conveyed him safely, in pursuit of the wanderers. It is remembered, with terror, that Claverhouse was successful in every engagement with the whigs, except that at Drumclog, or Loudon-hill, which is the subject of the following ballad. The history of Burly, the hero of the piece, will bring us immediately to the causes and circumstances of that event. [Footnote A: Peden complained heavily, that, after a heavy struggle with the devil, he had got above him, _spur-galled_ him hard, and obtained a wind to carry him from Ireland to Scotland, when, behold! another person had set sail, and reaped the advantage of his _prayer-wind,_ before he could embark.] [Footnote B: Cleland thus describes this extraordinary army: --Those, who were their chief commanders, As sach who bore the pirnie standarts. Who led the van, and drove the rear, Were right well mounted of their gear; With brogues, and trews, and pirnie plaids, With good blue bonnets on their heads, Which, oil the one side, had a flipe, Adorn'd with a tobacco pipe, With durk, and snap-work, and snuff-mill, A bag which they with onions fill; And, as their strict observers say, A tup-born filled with usquebay; A slasht out coat beneath her plaides, A targe of timber, nails, and hides; With a long two-handed sword, As good's the country can afford. Had they not need of bulk-and bones. Who fought with all these arms at once? * * * * Of moral honestie they're clean, Nought like religion they retain; In nothing they're accounted sharp, Except in bag-pipe, and in harp; For a misobliging word, She'll durk her neighbour o'er the boord, And then she'll flee like fire from flint, She'll scarcely ward the second dint; If any ask her of her thrift. Forsooth her nainsell lives by thift. _Cleland's Poems,_ Edin. 1697, p. 12. ]