en of Dundee's veterans were
alive. The author concludes thus,--"And thus was dissolved one of the
best companies that ever marched under command! Gentlemen, who, in the
midst of all their pressures and obscurity, never forgot they were
gentlemen; and whom the sweets of a brave, a just, and honourable
conscience, rendered perhaps more happy under those sufferings, than the
most prosperous and triumphant in iniquity, since our minds stamp our
happiness."

Some years ago, while visiting the ancient Scottish convent at Ratisbon,
my attention was drawn to the monumental inscriptions on the walls of
the dormitory, many of which bear reference to gentlemen of family and
distinction, whose political principles had involved them in the
troubles of 1688, 1715, and 1745. Whether the cloister which now holds
their dust had afforded them a shelter in the later years of their
misfortunes, I know not; but for one that is so commemorated, hundreds
of the exiles must have passed away in obscurity, buried in the field on
which they fell, or carried from the damp vaults of the military
hospital to the trench, without any token of remembrance, or any other
wish beyond that which the minstrels have ascribed to one of the
greatest of our olden heroes--

"Oh bury me by the bracken bush,
Beneath the blooming brier:
Let never living mortal ken
That a kindly Scot lies here!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: _An account of Dundee's Officers after they went to
France_. By an Officer of the Army. London, 1714.]

THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS

I.

The Rhine is running deep and red,
The island lies before--
"Now is there one of all the host
Will dare to venture o'er?
For not alone the river's sweep
Might make a brave man quail:
The foe are on the further side,
Their shot comes fast as hail.
God help us, if the middle isle
We may not hope to win!
Now, is there any of the host
Will dare to venture in?"

II.

"The ford is deep, the banks are steep,
The island-shore lies wide:
Nor man nor horse could stem its force,
Or reach the further side.
See there! amidst the willow boughs
The serried bayonets gleam;
They've flung their bridge--they've won the isle;
The foe have crossed the stream!
Their volley flashes sharp and strong--
By all the Saints, I trow,
There never yet was soldier born
Could force that passage now!"

III

So spoke the b