to their geniality, and soon the laugh and song went round our
camp. Argile himself for a time joined in our diversion. He came out of
his tent and lay in his plaid among his more immediate followers, and
gave his quota to the story or the guess. In the deportment of his
lordship now there was none of the vexatious hesitancy that helped him
to a part so poor as he played in his frowning tower at home among the
soothing and softening effects of his family's domestic affairs. He was
true Diarmaid the bold, with a calm eye and steadfast, a worthy general
for us his children, who sat round in the light of the cheerful fire.
So sat his forebears and ours on the close of many a weary march, on the
eve of many a perilous enterprise. That cold pride that cocked his
head so high on the causeway-stones of Inneraora relinquished to a mien
generous, even affectionate, and he brought out, as only affection may,
the best that was of accomplishment and grace in his officers around.

"Craignure," he would say, "I remember your story of the young King of
Easaidh Ruadh; might we have it anew?" Or, "Donald, is the Glassary song
of the Target in your mind? It haunts me like a charm."

And the stories came free, and in the owercome of the songs the dark of
Glen Noe joined most lustily.

Songs will be failing from the memory in the ranging of the years, the
passions that rose to them of old burned low in the ash, so that many
of the sweetest ditties I heard on that night in Glen Noe have long syne
left me for ever--all but one that yet I hum to the children at my knee.
It was one of John Splendid's; the words and air were his as well as the
performance of them, and though the English is a poor language wherein
to render any fine Gaelic sentiment, I cannot forbear to give something
of its semblance here. He called it in the Gaelic "The Sergeant of
Pikes," and a few of its verses as I mind them might be Scotticed so--

When I sat in the service o' foreign commanders,
Selling a sword for a beggar man's fee,
Learning the trade o' the warrior who wanders,
To mak' ilka stranger a sworn enemie;
There was ae thought that nerved roe, and brawly it served me.
With pith to the claymore wherever I won,--
'Twas the auld sodger's story, that, gallows or glory,
The Hielan's, the Hielan's were crying me on!

I tossed upon swinging seas, splashed to my kilted knees,
Ocean or ditch, it was