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93. This point is made at the expense of a contradiction.

See v. 27.

95-7. _The Cock of the North_ is an honorary popular title of the Duke of Gordon. Carnegy of Finhaven.


James Radcliff, Earl of Derwentwater, fell into the hands of the Whigs at the surrender of Preston, on the very day of the battle of Sheriff-Muir, and suffered death in February, 1716, for his participation in the rebellion. Smollet has described him as an amiable youth,--brave, open, generous, hospitable, and humane. "His fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to the country in which he lived. He gave bread to multitudes of people whom he employed on his estate;--the poor, the widow, and the orphan rejoiced in his bounty." (_History of England_, quoted by Cromek.) We are told that the _aurora borealis_ was remarkably vivid on the night of the earl's execution, and that this phenomenon is consequently still known in the north by the name of "Lord Derwentwater's Lights."

Although this ballad is said to have been extremely popular in the North of England for a long time after the event which gave rise to it, no good copy has as yet been recovered. The following was obtained by Motherwell (_Minstrelsy_, p. 349) from the recitation of an old woman. Another copy, also from recitation but "restored to poetical propriety," is given in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, for June, 1825 (p.

489), and fragments of a third in _Notes and Queries_, vol. xii. p.

492. Two spurious ballads on the death of Lord Derwentwater have been sometimes received as genuine: one by Allan Cunningham, first published in Cromek's _Nithsdale and Galloway Song_, p. 129, another (_Lord Derwentwater's Goodnight_) by Surtees, printed in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 31. Still another modern imitation is _Young Ratcliffe_, in Sheldon's _Minstrelsy of the English Border_, p. 401.

There is a ballad on the disgraceful capitulation of Preston in Hogg's _Jacobite Relics_, ii. 102, also, _Northumberland Garland_, p. 85, beginning "Mackintosh was a soldier brave."

Our King has wrote a long letter, And sealed it ower with gold; He sent it to my lord Dunwaters, To read it if he could.

He has not sent it with a boy, 5 Nor with any Scots lord; But he's sent it with the noblest knight E'er Scotland could afford.

The very first line that my lord did read, He gave a smirkling smile; 10 Before he had the half of it read, The tears from his eyes did fall.

"Come saddle to me my horse," he said, "Come saddle to me with speed; For I must away to fair London town, 15 For to me there was ne'er more need."

Out and spoke his lady gay, In childbed where she lay: "I would have you make your will, my lord Dunwaters, Before you go away." 20

"I leave to you, my eldest son, My houses and my land; I leave to you, my youngest son, Ten thousand pounds in hand.

"I leave to you, my lady gay, -- 25 You are my wedded wife, -- I leave to you, the third of my estate, That'll keep you in a lady's life."

They had not rode a mile but one, Till his horse fell owre a stane: 30 "It's a warning good enough," my lord Dunwaters said, "Alive I'll ne'er come hame."

When they came to fair London town, Into the courtiers' hall, The lords and knights of fair London town 35 Did him a traitor call.

"A traitor! a traitor!" says my lord, "A traitor! how can that be?

An it be nae for the keeping five thousand men, To fight for King Jamie. 40

"O all you lords and knights in fair London town, Come out and see me die; O all you lords and knights in fair London town, Be kind to my ladie.

"There's fifty pounds in my right pocket, 45 Divide it to the poor; There's other fifty in my left pocket, Divide it from door to door."


Herd's _Scottish Songs_, i. 166: Ritson's _Scotish Songs_, ii. 76.

This ballad is the work of Adam Skirving, a clever and opulent farmer, father of Archibald Skirving, the portrait painter. It was printed shortly after the battle as a broadside, and next appeared in _The Charmer_, vol. ii. p. 349, Edinb. 1751. Neither of those editions contains the eleventh stanza. The foot-notes commonly attached to the subsequent reprints are found in _The Charmer_. (Laing in Johnson's _Museum_, iv. 189*.)

To Skirving is also attributed with great probability the excellent satirical song of _Johnnie Cope_, or _Cope are you waking yet_. The original words are in Ritson, _Scotish Songs_, ii. 84: another set at p. 82: a third, with alterations and additions by Burns, in Johnson's _Museum_, p. 242. Allan Cunningham once heard a peasant boast that he could sing _Johnnie Cope_ with all its _nineteen_ variations. See Appendix.

The battle took place on the 22d of September, 1745, between the villages of Tranent and Prestonpans, a few miles from Edinburgh. The king's lieutenant-general, Sir John Cope, was disgracefully defeated by the Highlanders under Charles Edward, and nearly all his army killed or taken. The details of the conflict are vividly described in the 46th and 47th chapters of Waverley.

The Chevalier, being void of fear, Did march up Birsle brae, man, And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent, As fast as he could gae, man: While General Cope did taunt and mock, 5 Wi' mony a loud huzza, man; But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, We heard another craw, man.

The brave Lochiel, as I heard tell, Led Camerons on in clouds, man; 10 The morning fair, and clear the air, They loos'd with devilish thuds, man.

Down guns they threw, and swords they drew And soon did chace them aff, man; On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, 15 And gart them rin like daft, man.

The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, They'd make the rebels run, man; And yet they flee when them they see, And winna fire a gun, man: 20 They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, Such terror seiz'd them a', man; Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breeks, And some for fear did fa', man.

The volunteers prick'd up their ears, 25 And vow gin they were crouse, man; But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'st, They were not worth a louse man.

Maist feck gade hame; O fy for shame!

They'd better stay'd awa', man, 30 Than wi' cockade to make parade, And do nae good at a', man.

Menteith the great, when hersell sh--,[L33]

Un'wares did ding him o'er man; Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, 35 But aff fou fast did scour, man; O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood still, Before he tasted meat, man: Troth he may brag of his swift nag, That bare him aff sae fleet, man. 40

And Simpson keen, to clear the een[L41]

Of rebels far in wrang, man, Did never strive wi' pistols five, But gallop'd with the thrang, man: He turn'd his back, and in a crack 45 Was cleanly out of sight man; And thought it best; it was nae jest W' Highlanders to fight, man.

'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang But twa, and ane was tane, man; 50 For Campbell rade, but Myrie staid,[L51]

And sair he paid the kain, man; Fell skelps he got, was war than shot, Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man; Frae many a spout came running out 55 His reeking-het red gore, man.

But Gard'ner brave did still behave Like to a hero bright, man; His courage true, like him were few That still despised flight, man; 60 For king and laws, and country's cause, In honour's bed he lay, man; His life, but not his courage, fled, While he had breath to draw, man.

And Major Bowle, that worthy soul, 65 Was brought down to the ground, man; His horse being shot, it was his lot For to get mony a wound, man: Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth,[L69]

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, 70 Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, And wadna be gainsaid, man.

He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 'Twas little there he saw, man; To Berwick rade, and safely said, 75 The Scots were rebels a', man.

But let that end, for well 'tis kend His use and wont to lie, man; The Teague is naught, he never faught, When he had room to flee, man. 80

And Caddell drest, amang the rest, With gun and good claymore, man, On gelding grey he rode that way, With pistols set before, man; The cause was good, he'd spend his blood, 85 Before that he would yield, man; But the night before, he left the cor, And never fac'd the field, man.

But gallant Roger, like a soger, Stood and bravely fought, man; 90 I'm wae to tell, at last he fell, But mae down wi' him brought, man: At point of death, wi' his last breath, (Some standing round in ring, man,) On's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat, 95 And cry'd, God save the King, man.

Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs, Neglecting to pursue, man, About they fac'd, and in great haste Upon the booty flew, man; 100 And they, as gain for all their pain, Are deck'd wi' spoils of war, man; Fu' bald can tell how hernainsell Was ne'er sae pra before, man.

At the thorn-tree, which you may see 105 Bewest the meadow-mill, man, There mony slain lay on the plain, The clans pursuing still, man.

Sick unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, I never saw the like, man; 110 Lost hands and heads cost them their deads, That fell near Preston-dyke, man.

That afternoon, when a was done, I gaed to see the fray, man; But had I wist what after past, 115 I'd better staid away, man: On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, They pick'd my pockets bare, man; But I wish ne'er to drie sick fear, For a' the sum and mair, man. 120

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