iers, who were appointed
to murder these people, were stopped in their march from Inverlochy, and
could not get up till they had time to save themselves. To cover the
deformity of so dreadful a sight, the soldiers burned all the houses to
the ground, after having rifled them, carried away nine hundred cows,
two hundred horses, numberless herds of sheep and goats, and every thing
else that belonged to these miserable people. Lamentable was the case of
the women and children that escaped the butchery; the mountains were
covered with a deep snow, the rivers impassable, storm and tempest
filled the air and added to the horrors and darkness of the night, and
there were no houses to shelter them within many miles."[1]

Such was the awful massacre of Glencoe, an event which has left an
indelible and execrable stain upon the memory of William of Orange. The
records of Indian warfare can hardly afford a parallel instance of
atrocity: and this deed, coupled with his deliberate treachery in the
Darien scheme, whereby Scotland was for a time absolutely ruined, is
sufficient to account for the little estimation in which the name of the
"great Whig deliverer" is still regarded in the valleys of the North.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _Memoirs of Sir Ewen Cameron of Locheill_.]

THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE

Do not lift him from the bracken,
Leave him lying where he fell--
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
Winding-sheet we cannot give him--
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword, as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
That, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom--
Wash not off that sacred stain:
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered
Meet before their Judge's eye!

Nay--ye should not weep, my children!
Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon--
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
Weep not, children of Macdonald!
Weep not thou, his orphan heir--
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered f