strange instrument on the sons of Caledonia is well known. "In halls of joy and in scenes of mourning it has prevailed,—it has animated her warriors in battle, and welcomed them back after their toils to the homes of their love and the hills of their nativity. Its strains were the first sounded in the ears of infancy, and they are the last to be forgotten in the wanderings of age. Even Highlanders will allow that it is not the gentlest of instruments; but when far from their mountain-homes, what sounds, however melodious, could thrill their hearts like one burst of their own wild native pipe? The feelings which other instruments awaken are general and undefined, because they talk alike to Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, and Highlanders, for they are common to all; but the bag-pipe is sacred to Scotland, and speaks a language which Scotsmen only feel. It talks to them of home and all _the past_, and brings before them, on the burning shores of India, the wild hills and oft-frequented streams of Caledonia,—the friends that are thinking of them, and the sweethearts and wives that are weeping for them there. And need it be told here to how many fields of danger and victory its proud strains have led? There is not a battle that is honourable to Britain in which its war-blast has not sounded; when every other instrument has been hushed by the confusion and carnage of the scene, it has been borne into the thick of the battle, and far in the advance its bleeding but devoted bearer, sinking to the earth, has sounded at once encouragement to his countrymen—and his own coronach!"[*] [*] Preface to Macdonald’s "Ancient Martial Music of Scotland." Ranald-dhu with his comrades strove to call up the "fierce native daring" of the Highlanders, who continued to move quickly forward. The balls now began to hiss and tear up the turf around them, now and then striking down some poor fellow, who was left rolling on the ground in agony. "The battalion will form line on the grenadiers," cried Fassifem,—"double quick!" The movement was performed with the rapidity and precision of a home-review. As the covering-serjeant of the light company took up the ground of alignement, holding his long pike aloft, a shot struck him in the head, passing through his right eye, and he fell dead. The line formed across his body, and the word of command from Seaton, "Light company; halt,—front,—dress!" had scarcely been heard on the left, before the orderly bugler, who stood by Cameron’s side, sounded to fire, and the hoarse braying _piobrachd_ now rang along the line.