preserve the
remembrance of his loyalty, by transmitting such monuments to the
different parts of the kingdom; and only wished that he had flesh enough
to have sent a piece to every city in Christendom, as a token of his
unshaken love and fidelity to his king and country." On the night before
his execution, he inscribed the following lines with a diamond on the
window of his jail:--

"Let them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then, open all my veins, that I may swim
To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake--
Scatter my ashes--strew them in the air:
Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful thou'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou'lt raise me with the just."

After the Restoration, the dust _was_ recovered, the scattered remnants
collected, and the bones of the hero conveyed to their final
resting-place by a numerous assemblage of gentlemen of his family and
name.

There is no ingredient of fiction in the historical incidents recorded
in the following ballad. The indignities that were heaped upon Montrose
during his procession through Edinburgh, his appearance before the
Estates, and his last passage to the scaffold, as well as his undaunted
bearing, have all been spoken to by eyewitnesses of the scene. A graphic
and vivid sketch of the whole will be found in Mr. Mark Napier's
volume, _The Life and Times of Montrose_--a work as chivalrous in its
tone as the _Chronicles_ of Froissart, and abounding in original and
most interesting materials; but, in order to satisfy all scruple, the
authorities for each fact are given in the shape of notes. The ballad
may be considered as a narrative of the transactions, related by an aged
Highlander, who had followed Montrose throughout his campaigns, to his
grandson, shortly before the battle of Killiecrankie.

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

I.

Come hither, Evan Cameron!
Come, stand beside my knee--
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain side,
There's war within the blast--
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go trooping past.
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night!

II.

'Twas I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I've told t