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I LOOK'D upon his brow,-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there,

He stood as proud by that death-shrine

As even o'er Despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that Death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He raised them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it waved now;
Around he looked with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh;

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And graved with many dint, that told

Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,

And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,
The headsman by his side,

The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near:
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than did his now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame
A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot and her latest one.




THE old barony of Gorbals, which now forms an important suburb of Glasgow, was in former times celebrated for its manufactory of swords, harquebusses, and other implements of war. People who could not command the real Ferraras were accustomed to uphold the blades of the Gorbals, as being little inferior to them in temper and delicacy of edge; and its harquebusses or hand-guns were on all hands admitted to equal those of Ghent, Milan, or Paris. Dim shadows of this ancient renown may be traced down even to the present day. Families still exist who through a long line of ancestry have figured as gunsmiths, cutlers, or turners; and it is a remarkable fact, that, till within these few years, the only individuals in the west of Scotland who manufactured guns, were to be found in this old barony.

During the wars between England and Scotland, few places were busier or merrier than the Gorbals, or Gorbells, as it was then called -a name perhaps derived in some way from corbells, a term used in fortification and architecture. But at no time had it ever presented such an appearance of business and bustle, as when the Regent Murray, in the year 1568, was lying at Glasgow with his forces, and news arrived of the escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven Castle. Night and day the smithy's furnace belched forth its sparkling smoke, and the cutler's wheel found no pause to its gyrations. The Laird of Elphinston was at that period Baron of the Gorbals, and formed one of the confederated lords who had compelled Mary to renounce her crown, and nominated Murray to the regency during the minority of her infant son. His castle or rather tower (which the modern Goths of the Gorbals first converted into a police office and afterwards abandoned and dismantled) was situated in the heart of the village, and as it had a chapel attached to it, and numerous buildings belonging to the ecclesiastics, he was able to accommodate a large proportion of the Regent's followers. It was here, on the 12th of May, 1568, that the Regent's army rendezvoused, and from this place it issued, to meet and give battle to the Queen's forces, who were, with their unfortunate lady, on their way to Dumbarton castle. The Queen's road from Hamilton to that stronghold passed through the village of Langside, a place not two miles south from the Gorbals, and there Murray pitched his camp, with the resolution of disputing

This place is still distinguished by the name of the Chapel Close, and, (thanks to our Irish friends,) contains, we believe, as many Catholics at this day as ever it did before the Reformation.

the passage. The result is well known. The Queen's army was defeated, and she herself-obliged to fly-sought shelter and protection in England, where, to the everlasting infamy of her cousin Elizabeth, she only found a prison, an axe, and a block.

In Glasgow, the sound of the cannon was distinctly heard, and from some of its elevations the movements even of the hostile armies were seen. Most of the people were of the reformed religion, and therefore in favour of the Regent and his army; but still there were many hearts that sympathized with the cause of their young and beautiful Queen, for, whatever wicked men might say, she had ever been gentle and generous to her people-no acts of oppression had stained her reign-and even in that which she held dearest-her religionshe had displayed more tolerance, a thousand times, than those who opposed her and who boasted a purer faith. For two or three hours a dreadful anxiety prevailed as to the result of the contest, and rumours of every kind were afloat, till at first stragglers, and at length a portion of the Regent's army, announced, too truly, that Mary Queen of Scotland was miserably defeated, and flying, like a hunted deer, before her savage subjects.

Though many wished such a result, there was little rejoicing over it; for however the Queen's cause might be disliked while her fortunes were doubtful, nou that she was driven to the wall and overtaken by calamity, old prejudices gave way to compassion, and all her grace and generosity-her youth, her beauty, and her accomplishments-her kind looks, words, and actions, to high and low alike, even when insulted by rude and uncivil tongues, were remembered in her favour. The women, especially, who are ever strong in gentle pity, and who judge of the right and wrong of a cause merely as it affects their own feelings, began to wail for their poor young Queen, and some of them hesitated not to use the privilege of their tongues in attacking her triumphant enemies. Regent's army returned to the Gorbals bloody swords on their horses' manes clamations as these:-"Hech, sirs! been at, nae doubt, and manly-chasing out o' the kingdom a poor bit lassie, that was just owre gude for ye-and a' to favour that bas tard brither o' hers, wha might think shame to haud up his head in honest men's company, seeing the way he has used her! Gae wa', and sing psalms, ye ill-faured loons, now that your dirty day's darg's owre; for, after what ye have done, ye dinna deserve to look a bonny lassie in the face again!"

As party after party of the some of them wiping their they were saluted by such exhech sirs! bonny wark ye've

Besides a sympathy in the fate of the Queen, there were other causes at work to check any strong exultation over the victory. Many of the victors themselves had friends and relations in the Queen's

army, and now that the fervour of the combat was over, a very natural interest arose regarding them. In this situation was Baron Elphinston, whose young son, Master Patrick, as he was called, had, in the teeth of his father's will, espoused the cause of Queen Mary. Master Patrick was a universal favourite throughout the barony, being handsome, generous, brave, and accessible; and deep was the interest which all felt as to his probable fate. Rumours were abroad that he had fallen in the field, and some even went so far as to affirm, that they had seen him lying desperately wounded; but no certain or satisfactory intelligence could be gained respecting him, and several days passed over in this tantalizing state.

It might be nearly a week after the battle, when the excitement it created had in some measure subsided, that a numerous and heterogeneous party were assembled in the large hall of Mrs Ogilvie's hostelry, which was dignified by the sign of the Boar's Head, and which then formed the only house of public entertainment in the Gorbals. Many of the wounded had been carried there; and upon the numerous benches which graced the hall might be seen some lying with bandaged heads or freshly amputated limbs, among whom stalked a chirurgeon, or physician, inquiring into their different cases. Others, apparently unhurt, were formed into clusters, and enjoying themselves over their "mugs of nappy ale," in discussing the signs of the times, and the accidents of the day. In one corner sat a core of cutlers,-fellows of infinite dexterity in giving an edge to a sword, -who, after the great exertions which the battle called forth, thought themselves entitled to no measured relaxation. They were reckless dogs, all-caring little for any cause-and dividing their time between violent exertion at their grinding wheels, and violent drinking at the Boar's Head, the last being by far the heaviest work of the two. In spite of invalids, or any other consideration, one of them was singing, with clenched fists, shut teeth, and gleaming eye, the following ditty, which received no attention from any but his own company, who cheered him on by such exclamations as-" Well done, Ralph Munn!-Go on, my pretty fellow!"

Three things that do make a man lean-
Small beer, bread and cheese, and a bold quean,
And sing Fal!

Three things that do make a man fat

Roast beef, boiled beef, and the ale tap,

And sing Fal!

* The building of this ancient hostelry was taken down not very many years ago, and a new common-place house put in its stead. In the new building, there is a small spirit-shop, which still honourably retains the sign of the Boar's Head.

Three things that do make a man poor-
Hunting, hawking, and keeping ane
And sing Fal!

(Burthen)-It's an auld sang, and a true sang,

Never let man trust woman too lang!

(Chorus)—Fal·lal-lillillilla, Fal-lal-lillillilla, &c. &c.*

It would be impossible to convey to the reader any conception of the maniacal fury with which the chorus of "Fal-lal-lillillilla" was received. The cutlers simultaneously rose, and, flinging up their arms to heaven, screamed it out, in yells that drowned every other noise in the hostelry. But they were speedily checked by the remonstrances of their landlady. "For shame, Sirs! yelling at sic a rate, and your poor young mistress lying in a sick bed!"

"What! is pretty Mistress Martha ailing?" said one of the cutlers; for Martha, the daughter of their mistress, who carried on the business on the death of their master, was a mighty favourite with the workmen.

"Ailing? She has not had a hale hour ever since the battle-and it sets ye ill to be sitting there routing, as if there were na a sair head or a sair heart in the town."

"Nay, landlady, we did not know any thing was wrong-and here we shall drink a bumper to pretty Martha's health-and if any one says she is not the prettiest, as well as best, lady on both sides of the water, we shall hold his nose to the roughening stone."

"Well, that's spoken like civil gentlemen," said the landlady. "And now I will be able to let myself be heard. Dr Macclutch!" she exclaimed at the top of her voice. "Where's the Doctor? Ay, Doctor, there's an express here for you. You're to gang and wait on the Baron without delay. Poor gentleman! I doubt he's takin' his son's death to heart."

The Doctor, or chirurgeon-an officious, formal, good-natured man-was not a little gratified to find that he was in demand in such a high quarter, and particularly that the fact was made known to so many auditors. He buckled up a wound which he had been dressing, with little attention to the wry faces of his patient, and adjusting his cloak about him, proceeded with all decent dexterity to wait upon Baron Elphinston. The Baron ushered him into one of his private apartments. "My son, doctor," said the Baron,-" poor Patrickhas at length been found. Some of my own knaves whose hearts he had gained, have, it seems, been keeping him in hiding ever since the battle, for he was sorely wounded, and he instructed them not to disclose his situation. But he was yesterday seized with a giddy fever,

*This was the favourite song of the last of the Gorbals cutlers, and for his sake we preserve it.

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