She slept like a child on her father's floor In the flecking of woodbine-shade, When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is staid. It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopeless waiting for death; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep; and I had my dream Of an English village-lane, And wall and garden;--but one wild scream Brought me back to the roar again. There Jessie Brown stood listening Till a sudden gladness broke All over her face, and she caught my hand And drew me near, as she spoke:-- "The Hielanders! Oh! dinna ye hear The slogan far awa? The McGregor's? Oh! I ken it weel; It's the grandest o' them a'! "God bless thae bonny Hielanders! We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; And fell on her knees; and thanks to God Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back;--they were there to die; But was life so near them, then? They listened for life; the rattling fire Far off, and the far-off roar, Were all; and the colonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done; But winna ye hear it noo, _The Campbells are comin'_? It's no a dream; Our succors hae broken through!" We heard the roar and the rattle afar, But the pipes we could not hear; So the men plied their work of hopeless war, And knew that the end was near. It was not long ere it made its way,-- A shrilling, ceaseless sound: It was no noise from the strife afar, Or the sappers under ground. It _was_ the pipes of the Highlanders! And now they played _Auld Lang Syne_; It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. And they wept and shook one another's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd; And every one knelt down where he stood, And we all thanked God aloud. That happy time, when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the general gave her his hand, and cheers Like a storm from the soldiers burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed, Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears As the pipes played _Auld Lang Syne_. NEW ENGLAND MINISTERS. Dr. Sprague, of Albany, has added to the literature of our country two large octavo volumes, containing biographical accounts of the Congregational clergy of New England, from its earliest settlement until the year 1841. The book has been for the most part compiled from letters furnished by different individuals, who, either through personal knowledge or through tradition, had the most intimate acquaintance with the subjects of which they wrote.