The green leaves fell, an’ the river swell’d. An’ the brigg was guardit to the key; O, ever alak! said Hamilton That sic a day I should ever see! As ever ye saw the rain down fa’, Or yet the arrow gae from the bow— “No, that’s not it—my memory is gane wi’ my last warldly hope—Hech! dear bairn, but it is a sad warld to live in, without hope or love for ony that’s in’t—I had aye some hope till now! but sic a dream as I had last night!—I saw him aince again—Yes, I saw him bodily, or may I never steer aff this bit.”—Here Nanny sobbed hard, and drew her arms across her eyes.—“Come, come,” continued she, “gie me a bit sang, dear bairn, an’ let it be an auld thing—they do ane’s heart gude thae bits o’ auld sangs.” “Rather tell me, Nanny—for we live in ignorance in this wild place—what you think of all that blude that has been shed in our country since the killing–time began? Do you think it has been lawfully and rightfully shed?” “Wha doubts it, dear bairn?—Wha doubts that?—But it will soon be ower now—the traitors will soon be a’ strappit and strung—ay, ay—the last o’ them will soon be hackit and hewed, an’ his bloody head stannin ower the Wast Port—an’ there will be braw days than—we’ll be a’ right than.” Katharine sat silent and thoughtful, eyeing old Nanny with fixed attention; but the muscles of her contracted face and wild unstable eye were unintelligible. She therefore, with a desponding mien, went out, and left the crazy dame to discourse and sing to herself. Nanny ceased her baking, stood upright, and listened to the maid’s departing steps, till judging her out of hearing; she then sung out, in what is now termed the true _bravura_ style, “Then shall the black gown flap O’er desk and true man; Then shall the horny cap Shine like the new moon; An’ the kist fu’ o’ whistles That maks sic a cleary, Lool away, bool away, Till we grow weary. Till we grow weary, &c. Charlie, the cypher–man, Drink till ye stew dame; Jamie, the wafer–man, Eat till ye spue them; Lauderdale lick–my–fud, Binny and Geordie, Leish away, link away. Hell is afore ye. Hell is afore ye, &c. Græme will gang ower the brink, Down wi’ a flaughter; Lagg an’ Drumlandrick Will soon follow after; Johnston and Lithgow, Bruce and Macleary, Scowder their harigalds, Deils, wi’ a bleery. Till ye grow weary,” &c.