It is only fair to add that the tune, under another name, is said to have been a favourite Irish air in London in the time of Queen Elizabeth. If this was so, the explanation probably is that the Irish who came to Scotland, and the Scots who went to Ireland, each carried their music with them, and that there are many tunes common to both peoples. “I HAVE HAD A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND.” Pipers of old times always had “a guid conceit o’ themsel’s,” and Patrick _Mòr_ Mac Crimmon, who flourished in 1660, was no exception to the rule. His master, Roderick Mac Leod of Mac Leod, went to London after the Restoration to pay his homage to Charles II., and was very warmly received. He had taken his piper with him, and the King was so pleased with his fine appearance and his music that he allowed Mac Crimmon to kiss his hand. Patrick was highly elated over this, and commemorated the honour that had been paid him by composing the tune _Fhŭair mi pòg o laimh an Righ_, which, to those acquainted with the language and music, seems to speak forth the pride and gratitude of the performer, the words expressed by the opening measure being:— “I have had a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, I have had a kiss of the King’s hand; No one who blew in a sheep’s skin Has received such honour as I have.” “RORY MOR’S LAMENT.” Sir Roderick Mac Leod of Dunvegan, who died somewhere about 1630, was a man of noble spirit, celebrated for great military prowess and resource. His hospitality was unbounded, and he was in all respects entitled to be called _Mòr_ or great, in all the qualities that went to constitute a great Highland chief and leader of men. The Gaelic bards were enthusiastic in his praises, and his piper, Patrick _Mòr_ Mac Crimmon— the same Mac Crimmon presumably—taking his death very much to heart, could not live at Dunvegan afterwards. Shouldering his great pipe, he made for his own house at Boreraig, composing and playing as he went _Cumha Ruaraidh Mhoir_ (Rory _Mòr’s_ Lament), which is considered the most melodious, feeling, and melancholy lament known. The following are some of the words, translated by “Fionn”:— “Give me my pipes, I’ll home them carry, In these sad halls I dare not tarry, My pipes hand o’er, my heart is sore, For Rory Mor, my Rory Mor. Fetch me my pipes, my heart is breaking, For Rory Mor his rest is taking, He walks no more, and to its core My heart is sore for Rory Mor. Give me my pipes, I’m sad and weary, These halls are silent, dark, and eerie, The pipe no more cheers as of yore, Thy race is o’er, brave Rory Mor.” “THE CLAN FARLANE PIBROCH.”