Howe’er he liv’d we cannot tell_.
      The head cutter first took a glass,
      Then came to ask him forgiv’ness;
      Yet drink did not quite drown his fears,
      At the awful scene he burst in tears:
      But the Earl bade him not be afraid,
      As it must be done by some, he said,
      Gave him five guineas in a purse,
      And bade him strike without remorse,
      When I let my handkerchief fall,
      Do you proceed by that signal.
      With eyes and hands lift up in pray’r,
      Most earnestly he did require,
      The pray’rs of’s greatest enemie,
      And all the crowd around that be,
      In the fatal moment of _exit_,
      That JESUS might receive his sp’rit,
      Pray’d for King George most fervently,
      And bless’d his royal Family.
      As he promis’d to do at his end,
      Upon that day he was condemn’d.

        Then for the block he did prepare,
      His gentleman ty’d up his hair,
      Took off the bag and the big coat,
      His neck made bare all ’round the throat,
      On a black cushion he kneel’d down,
      While friends stood weeping all around:
      The mournings off the rails they threw,
      That all around might have a view,
      His neck right on the block it lay,
      With hands stretcht out to swim away,
      And when he let the handkerchief go,
      He did receive the fatal blow,
      Which cut the head off to a tack
      Of skin, cut by a second hack.

        Thus did a brave Lord end his days,
      Whose head was kept upon red baize,
      And with his body in coffin laid,
      By Forester with his servants aid,
      Which quickly to the hearse they bore,
      And clear’d the block and stage of gore,
      By sprinkling fresh saw-dust thereon,
      That sign of slaughter there was none.

        Then Balmerino he came forth,
      Like a bold hero from the North,
      Who of death itself was not afraid,
      At least, he show’d but small regard,
      Cloth’d in his regimental _Blue_,
      Trimmed with gold, a warlike hue.
      He pray’d to God, and mercy sought;
      But fear of men was past his thought:
      Drank to’s friends ere he left the room,
      And charg’d them all for to drink round,
      _Ain degree to heaven for me_
      And wish’d them better times to see:
      Then said, _Gentlemen a long adieu,
      I’m detaining both myself and you_.
      Then to the scaffold he went full brief,
      No signs of sorrow, fear or grief,
      And round it walk’d a turn or two,
      Where he saw acquaintance, gave a bow:
      The inscription on his coffin read,
      Said, _That is right_, and shook his head.
      The block he call’d, His pillow of rest,
      And said, That ax has been well drest,
      The executioner’s shoulder did clap,
      And said, My friend, give a free chap,
      You ask my pardon, but that’s a fable,
      Your business is commendable:
      Here’s but three guineas, it is not much;
      For in my life I ne’er was rich,
      I’m sorry I can add no more to it,
      But my coat and vest, I will allow it,
      The buttons, indeed, they are but brass;
      But do thy bus’ness ne’ertheless,
      Stript off his coat and neck-cloth too,
      And them upon his coffin threw:
      A flannel waist-coat then put on,
      With a tartan cap his head upon,
      Then said, For honour of the Clan,
      This day I die as a Scots-man.
      Then adjusted his posture on the block,
      Shewing his signal for the stroke,
      Was by dropping of his arms down:
      Then turning to his friends aroun’,
      He once more of them took farewel,
      And to the crowd around did wheel,
      Perhaps you’ll think that I’m too bold,
      This to a gentleman he told,
      Whom he perceived standing near,
      But, Sir, I solemnly declare,
      ’Tis all through confidence in God,
      A sound conscience, and cause avow’d,
      If I dissemble with signs of fear,
      I were unworthy of dying here.
      Then to the executioner said,
      Strike resolute and have no dread:
      For I’ll surely count you for a foe,
      Unless you give a hearty blow,
      To the stage side did then retire,
      And call’d the Warder to come nigh’r,
      Asking which was the hearse for him,
      Bade the driver come nearer in,
      Immediately kneel’d to the block,
      Stretch’d out his arms, and thus he spoke,
      “O Lord reward my friends, he cries,
      “And now forgive mine enemies,
      “Receive my soul, good Lord, I crave,”
      So his arms fell, the signal gave.
      At this unlook’d for suddenness,
      Th’ executioner surpriz’d was,
      Did unprepar’d direct the blow,
      That deep enough it did not go,
      Before the second he turn’d his head,
      As if in anger his jaws they _gade_,
      Gnashing his teeth so veh’mently,
      The head went off by blows three.
      Upon red baize, the chopt-off head,
      Was in coffin with his body laid.
      Then the two hearses drove away,
      To the grave where Tullibardine lay,
      In St. Peter’s Church, into the Tower,
      Is these three Scots Lords’ sepulchre,
      All for one cause, into one grave,
      Whom French delusion did deceive.

        Next Charles Ratcliff was execute
      For an old heroic exploit,
      In the rebellious year fifteen,
      Had with his brother at Preston been,
      James the Earl of Derwentwater,
      Who likewise suffer’d for the matter.
      About thirty years before,
      He lost his life and land therefore,
      This Charles too was condemned;
      But he from Newgate safely fled,
      By slipping through a private door,
      Along with other thirteen more,
      Who by good fortune had the chance,
      For to get safe away to France:
      And he with King James went to Rome,
      And zealous Papist did become.
      Twice return’d to England again,
      Thinking his pardon to obtain;
      But when he found it would not do,
      A French commission he clapt into,
      And there remain’d till Forty-Six,
      When he thought, as heir, to refix
      Upon the lands of Derwentwater;
      But yet he did not mend the matter:
      For as he did for Scotland steer,
      On board of a French privateer,
      The Sheerness catched him at sea,
      With Scots and Irish more than he,
      Bold officers for the Pretender,
      Who yet were forced to surrender.
      His Sire was Sir Francis of Derwentwater,
      By extract from a Royal fornicator:
      His mother’s name was Mary Tudor,
      From Charles the second, a nat’ral brooder,
      Her mother’s name was Mary Davis,
      Whom the King lov’d as any _mavis_:
      By this he came of Stewarts’ line,
      And blood to blood doth much incline;
      Yet, b’ equivocation to get free,
      Deny’d himself Ratcliff to be,
      After the identic body’s prov’d,
      He for arrest of judgment mov’d,
      Said, He was a French officer,
      Claim’d usage as a prisoner,
      Being taken in a lawful war,
      To touch him did them boldly dare:
      But all this prov’d of no effect,
      For the old crime he lost his neck,
      Committed in the year Fifteen,
      Though three and thirty years between.
      Upon December the eighth day,
      He to Tow’r-hill was led away
      Where stage and block they did up-fix,
      And cut his head off at three licks,
      Yet of his death he was right vain,
      Gave his neck-cutter guineas ten.
      His coffin was made super-fine,
      Its handles all like gold did shine.

        In Roman faith he liv’d and pray’d,
      And in that sort of faith he dy’d:
      All seeming repentance he declin’d
      As in Purgatory to be refin’d:
      And had salvation so a cooking,
      As to think no more of death than ducking,
      Being so stout a Pope’s believer,
      Went to death as he would swim a river;
      The priest’ clear’d all the passes for him,
      Invok’d the saints full well to store him:
      So in his death there were no bands,
      Although his neck did feel some pains.
      He smil’d his coffin to look upon,
      Whereon was this inscription,
        CAROLUS COMES DE DERWENTWATER,
          DECOLLATUS DIE 8_vo_ DECEMBRIS,
            MDCCXLVI. AETATIS LIII.
              _Requiescat in pace._
      After the cutting off the head,
      His corpse were in the coffin laid,
      And carry’d back into the Tow’r,
      Where they lay till th’ eleventh hour,
      That a procession of mourning coaches,
      Unto St. Giles with him approaches,
      To the Earl of Derwentwater’s grave;
      And here poor Ratcliff we shall leave.

        Now comes Lord Lovat, an aged man,
      And Chief of all the Frazer’s Clan,
      Was next before his Peers try’d,
      Most of th’ impeachments he deny’d,
      Half dead with age, and almost deaf,
      Which did them plague, and caus’d mischief:
      For when they cry’d and cry’d again,
      He answer’d on some other strain,
      And told them, it was no fair trade,
      As he did not hear one word they said,
      And did not see what they could do,
      As he ’gainst George his sword ne’er drew;
      But always was governments’ friend:
      Therefore he wonder’d what they mean’d.
      In the year _Fifteen_ it was well known,
      How much his loyalty was shown,
      In quenching that rebellious storm,
      What brave exploits he did perform.
      Now, said he, I’m old and _faild_,
      And cannot walk without a _hald_,
      Without cause, ye need not my blood spill,
      For death right soon will come a will:
      If you judge I have been kind to foes,
      It is but what the world allows.

        Yet his servants were witness led
      Of every deed done and said,
      In supporting the rebellious way,
      And so their proof bore heavy sway,
      What Charles drank that afternoon,
      When from Culloden he did run.
      Then for his life was no remead,
      He was condemn’d to lose his head,
      Which he bore in a heroic way,
      As an ancient Roman thus did say,
      DULCE ET DECORUM PRO PATRIA MORI,
      _’Tis sweet and glorious a patriot to die_.
      The proof was strong, though he deny’d,
      His letters also were apply’d,
      Which he to Lord President sent,
      When he advis’d him to repent,
      And recal his son and men again,
      Which counsel he held all in vain,
      Saying, He had six hundred Frazers got,
      To guard his body from the King’s hate,
      And ask’d from whence such law could come,
      As punish a father for the son?
      If’s son and the young clan were lost,
      Yet of the old he made a boast,
      That if his person were attack’d
      His foes should be in collops hack’d,
      Such were the brags in a letter sent,
      Was writ unto Lord President,
      When he advis’d him for his good,
      To call his clan from Charlie’s croud:
      Fight! that he would, and die at home,
      As it was not far unto his tomb.
      When dead, his countrywives he’d have
      _Cronoch_ to sing around his grave.
      Likewise he wrote, I understand,
      Unto the Duke of Cumberland,
      Reminding him, that he with joy,
      Us’d him to carry when a boy,
      Through Kingston park and Hampton Court
      And to his Royal Sire made sport.
      So, of his Grace he did demand
      The favour, but to kiss his hand,
      And told him he would do more good,
      Than what they really understood.
      Says he, ’twill be a better way,
      Than take a poor man’s life away,
      Who cannot stand, ride or walk;
      But only ly, or sit and talk.

        To this the Duke no answer gave,
      ’Tis like, he wish’d him in his grave.

        A zealous Roman did to him write,
      And had in him so great delight,
      That he offer’d to suffer in his stead,
      Whereat he smil’d, and jeering said,
      This man’s contrair Scripture, I see,
      For a righteous man one’ll hardly die:
      But for me, indeed, I’se no regard;
      For I doubt he’ll hardly be preferr’d.

        When to the scaffold he was born,
      He looked round the croud with scorn:
      _Preserve me Sirs_, then did he say,
      _What’s brought a thir fowk here the day?
      To see an auld grey head cut aff,
      That canna gang, no wi’ a staff,
      But maun be born here by men,
      The like o’ this we ne’er did ken._
      Then view’d the hatchet and the block,
      Said, a strange way of killing fowk,
      To th’ executioner, said he too,
      There’s nae man works, friend, after you,
      But you’ll have a _kittle_ job of me,
      My neck’s sae short, strike _cannilie_,
      Here’s a _bit_ purse, _gi’t a guid drive_,
      I needna wish your trade to _thrive_.
      Then fell a scaffold which rais’d a roar,
      He did enquire the cause therefore:
      They said, A scaffold’s fall’n, and many kill’d.
      “_A-weel_, said he, Their time’s fulfill’d,
      “I thought, this day, to dy’d my _lane_:
      “But the best of _fowk_ will be _mistane_:
      “I cannot say, I am sorry for’t,
      “For the mair mischief, the better sport.”
      Then after _Ave Maria_ and pray’r,
      With _Salve Regina_, in a heroic air,
      He laid his head upon the block,
      And there receiv’d the fatal stroke,
      In the eighty-third year of his age,
      Thus dy’d on Tow’r-hill, on open stage,
      Old Simon Frazer, Lord Lovat,
      ’Gainst rebellious Plots a _Caveat_.

CHAP. XV.

_Conclusion. Charles interrupts the Congress. Is seized at the
Opera. Carried to the Castle of Vincennes. And forced to leave
France._

      Now France was hemm’d on ev’ry side,
      And Charles’ reward was humbling’s pride.
      By sea, by land, poor France was done;
      She begg’d for peace to _draw her win_.
      No ship durst from her harbours steer,
      Man of war, merchant, or privateer,
      Her trade was stopt by sea and land,
      Bold Britain did the seas command:
      She sued for peace at any price,
      But Charles’ affairs made it right nice.
      At Aix la Chapelle did the Congress hold,
      And when Charles thereof was told,
      He protested ’gainst what might be done,
      In prejudice of his pretension:
      For all his titles he would keep still,
      Let Britain and France do what they will:
      And this perplexed Lewis sore,
      And anger’d Britain still the more,
      So with France no peace there could be made,
      While She the Pretender harboured:
      France durst not on her part say No,
      Lest she should get the fatal blow.
      Britain now ask what you will,
      France can promise and not fulfil.

        The Articles were all agreed,
      But neither sign’d nor ratify’d,
      Until poor Charlie was sent away,
      Which he postponed every day,
      And instead of hastening to go,
      He gave the King’s gold-smith to know,
      That he wanted a service of plate,
      At twenty thousand crowns in rate,
      Charg’d to be ready ’gainst such a day,
      Without excuses or delay.
      Before this work was well begun,
      Another the King must have as soon,
      This put the jeweller in dread,
      Straight to the Prince he did proceed,
      Told him the matter, begg’d more time,
      No, said he, the first order’s mine,
      Go to the King and let him know----
      Then said Lewis, _Let it be so_,
      Thinking that he was going away,
      But yet this caus’d some more delay.
      The plate was made and to him sent,
      Ev’n by the King’s commandement,
      And his Comptroller the charge to pay,
      Hoping ’twould hasten him away:
      But Charles told him very plain,
      That he in France would still remain,
      For he had full right to do so    }
      By an alliance treaty long ago    }
      And this he might let Lewis know. }

        On this the King wrote straight to Rome,
      To advise what plan he might assume.
      The Pope and Pretender did approve,
      That Charles should from France remove.
      As the King for him would provide,
      At Tribourg, a palace to reside,
      On what yearly pension he should demand,
      Sent him a Blank from his own hand,
      To name the sum though e’er so high,
      Sign’d by’s most Christian Majesty.
      The Duke de Graves with it was sent,
      Who begg’d he’d write the sum’s content
      Into the Blank with his own pen,
      But down he threw it with disdain,
      Saying, Bills and Bonds will seem but froth,
      If Sovereigns cannot keep their troth.
      Then came the Count de Maurepas,
      With Charles to argument the cause;
      As it was the King’s express command,
      That he should forthwith leave the land,
      If he chus’d not in peace to do it,
      Their scheme was to compel him to it,
      That the ministry were greatly struck,
      At his behaviour and conduct,
      In stopping the whole of their affairs
      This is what the Count’s commission bears.

        Your Ministry, cry’d he, with disdain,
      You’ll oblige me, tell your King and them,
      I’m born, I trust their schemes to break,
      And how to do’t, I could direct;
      But, I hope, the time will soon draw on,
      When that good work it will be done.

        About this time from London came,
      Two hostages of worthy fame,
      As pledges of the peace to be,
      And Articles to ratifie,
      While the French had none to London sent:
      At which the Prince a squib did vent,
      What! is Britain conquer’d, he did say,
      That their hostages are here away?
      And is FRENCH FAITH so current grown,
      That hostages they ask for none?
      This league shall yet like poor mine go,
      Which was sworn to a few years ago.
      This did the Ministry enrage,
      And nought’s for Charlie but the cage,
      As the scheme was fully contriv’d,
      A courier from Rome arriv’d,
      Where the Pope and old Pretender too
      Did his whole conduct disavow,
      Ord’ring him forthwith to retire,
      To which he yet gave a deaf ear;
      But knowing that he must fall their prey,
      Order’d his plate and jewels away.
      His behaviour did through Paris spread,
      And all did own him, hard bestead.

        Then by the King an order’s sign’d,
      Directly to have him confin’d,
      Twelve hundred guards did close parade,
      Horse and grenadiers were had
      All armed and _Cap-a-pee_,
      Set round the Opera carefullie,
      The Duke de Biron had command,
      But loth to take the deed in hand;
      Caus’d Major Venderville execute,
      Who did not with much honour do’t.
      Six lusty ruffians were prepar’d,
      Who waiting stood within the guard,
      And as he entred the Opera door,
      They seiz’d him fast, and squeezed sore
      His hands and arms in the squabble,
      The guards around kept off the rabble,
      Who had the Prince in great esteem,
      And wish’d their help him to redeem,
      His servants and each favourite
      Were strictly order’d to retreat;
      Sword and pistols from him did wrest,
      This comes French vows to at the best.
      His arms and thighs with cords were knit,
      And in a coach they have him set,
      With a Major upon every side;
      In this posture they made him ride
      Unto the castle of Vincennes,
      While soldiers guarded all the lanes,
      Until that length they did proceed,
      As there an uproar was indeed;
      For ’mong the croud it was current told,
      That he was to the English sold:
      Some said this, and some said that,
      And thousands told they knew not what.
      The governor did him imbrace,
      And cried, “Ah my friend, Alas!
      “A noble Prince so bound with cord,
      “Upon my word, I’m sorry for’t.”
      And then in haste with his own hands,
      Respectfully unloos’d his bands:
      But to a dark apartment led him in,
      Was only ten feet square within,
      No window to look any way,
      A sky-light shew’d some peep of day.
      When he view’d his prison round and round,
      Said, he’d been worse into Scots ground;
      Poor Charlie this was hard to _thole_,
      To clap thee in a French _black-hole_!
      And there he was confin’d to ly,
      Till to depart he did comply,
      As the Pope and King James did desire,
      That he from French ground should retire.
      When finding that it must be so,
      He freely did consent to go.
      Two col’nels went, as it appears,
      To see him pass the French frontiers:
      They took the rout to Fountainbleau,
      And to his dungeon bade adieu,
      He did not love to be confin’d,
      So now the peace was fairly sign’d,
      And Charlie banish’d like a fool,
      Who was only us’d as a French tool,
      And to Scotland a scourge and curse,
      I mean by waste of blood and purse.
      But in time to come, dear countrymen,
      O do not do the like again!
      The Popish oaths ye’ll find a puff,
      When ye get on the neck a cuff;
      For in ages past you may see plain,
      These are the tricks of France and Spain,
      For to be peaceable and good,
      Till they are in a fighting mood,
      And then a quarrel they will breed
      For any thing they stand in need.

_A Quaker’s Address to Prince Charles, shewing what was the Cause
and Ground of his Misfortunes._

      Now Charles, If thou want’st more sorrow,
      Thou may return if ’twere to-morrow,
      I know, the Pulpit and the Press
      Were the great means of thy distress,
      And thou hadst got no wit to guide it,
      No Principle thou had provided.
      Hadst thou, like Oliver appear’d
      In devout mood, thou might been heard:
      But a Prince without a principle!
      What thou couldst be, I cannot tell.
      The Protestants look’d badly on thee,
      So many wicked hang upon thee,
      And of thy forbearers, they plainly tell,
      Of Popery thou bearst a smell.
      Thou trustedst nought to ordination,
      But thought to force a crown and nation.
      I tell thee, Kings reign not by men,
      ’Tis a higher pow’r, thou’lt find it plain.
      The Pope, the Pagan, and the Turk,
      ’Tis all by fire and sword they work:
      We Quakers are of greater merit.
      We conquer none but by the Spirit;
      But thou, and each thy like’s a cheat,
      That pretend to rule the turns of fate,
      And will fight against the great decree,
      As of winds and waves would ruler be,----
      The Pope pretends to curse and bless,
      And yet cannot create a Louse,
      Nor make a dead beast live again,
      For all the might he does preten’:
      Yet claims a power in heav’n and earth,
      Of judgment here there is a dearth,
      But O! what madness fills their head?
      To pray to saints thousand years dead!
      If dead men had such power to sell,
      Many of them wou’d been living still.
      And if those dead men they could hear us,
      They might sometimes send news to cheer us.

        By Yea and Nay, the Popes are thieves,
      And he’s as stupid that believes
      These roguish priests, who pardons sell,
      Or yet pray back a soul from hell.
      He’s surely of the devil’s kind,
      Who thus deludes the vulgar blind;
      And who adheres to such a college,
      Will be destroy’d for lake of knowledge,
      With Beads and Waffers, the Devil’s batter,
      Your musty Mass, and Holy Water,
      Wherewith ye blind the souls of men,
      For to encrease your worldly gain,
      Done with pretence of holiness:
      O hypocrites, why live ye thus?
      You thump, you mump, with face awray,
      And at one time ye rob and pray,
      Pretend so much to chastitie,
      None of your priests can married be,
      Yet run like rams, and lead lewd lives,
      Ye’re but a pack of venereal thieves:
      You practise cuckoldom and whoredom,
      That innocents have no freedom,
      Dreading the power of curse and bless,
      You thus put modesty in distress,
      Pretending Miracles and Charms,
      To keep from evil spirits harms,
      Such as Clover-leaves, and branch of Yew,
      Will keep the devil from man or cow,
      And that Holy Water has such effect,
      As make him run and break his neck;
      Ay, to the vulgar too you’ll tell,
      Of sending letters to heaven or hell,
      Bring half burnt souls from Purgatory,
      For gold you’ll harle them out in hurry,
      And those who cannot money raise,
      You’ll do it for butter, beef or cheese;
      But they may there stay, eternalie,
      Whose friends will not pay you a fee:
      I think a stronger delusion,
      Was never in any ages known,
      The Turk, the Pagan and the Jew,
      More mercy have to show than you,
      Your ceremonies so ye cook,
      The devil gets none but poor fo’k,
      Who cannot pay the priest his fee;
      Accurs’d be such belief for me.----

        And now, dear Charles, how dost thou think,
      Such doctrine would in Britain stink,
      Into a Presbyterian’s nose,
      Or any who good plain sense knows?
      Dissenters and we they Quakers call,
      Protest, they’re not of Israel,
      Who pretend a power to damn or save,
      Or bear a rule beyond the grave.
      All is given us from above,
      And souls are saved by mere love;
      But the sp’rit of men, which some hold money,
      I term it but the devil’s honey,
      Wherewith you blind the ignorant,
      And cozen them who hate repent:
      But as thou profess no principle,
      Thou might have turn’d a _What ye will_:
      But those who no profession own,
      Are of kin to the beasts alone:
      They surely have but little wits,
      Who esteem no God above their guts.
      What wa’st thou sought? What wa’st thou got?
      Surely ’twas nothing but thy lot.
      Though Popes pretend to rule the earth,
      They cause nought but a sp’ritual dearth,
      As they can neither rule earth nor sea,
      Witness what has behappen’d thee:
      It surely makes your Pope a knave,
      To pretend a pow’r beyond the grave:
      Had his apostolic pow’r been true,
      Thou wou’dst been King of Britain now.
      Wert thou a Protestant in heart,
      I’d wish thee very well in part;
      But the last wish thoul’t get from me,
      Is, God keep our land of Pop’ry free!
      May the throne continue in Protestant race,
      And ne’er a Papist fill his place.
      Thus saith to thee an honest Quaker,
      Thou ne’er shalt here be a partaker:
      For all Rome’s plots and magic spell,
      ’Tis seldom now they prosper well,
      Her days of witchcraft are near run,
      Few _Ave’s_ or _Te Deum’s_ sung,
      A Mass that’s mumbled o’er in haste,
      Spoke in the language of the beast,
      Which but by few is understood,
      Poor chaff instead of sp’ritual food:
      But ignorance, the Papists say,
      Is unto heaven the nearest way:
      But, O ye wretches, this I doubt,
      While you the sp’ritual light keep out,
      And teach so freely, and off hand,
      To break the very Lord’s command,
      And on no other things lay hold;
      But trust the priest, and give him gold.
      All sins by them are pardoned,
      So by the nose the poor are led;
      Not blinded nations or ideots,
      But the rich, learned reprobates,
      Who will not from sinning hold,
      As long’s they have one bit of gold.
      Wo will be to such priests, I say:
      For hell’s prepar’d for such as they.

  NATHAN NOMORE.

*** The Impeachments against Lord GEORGE MURRAY, and JOHN MURRAY
Secretary, accused of treachery by the Public, are here omitted,
thought in some respects to be groundless, at least of Lord GEORGE:
For there is never a Battle lost, but the Commander gets the Blame,
and when one is won, the Commander gets all the Praise, as if the
Soldiers had done nothing: And it is further observed, after the
loss of a Battle, it is the cry of the Public and the run-away
Soldiers, WE ARE SOLD, WE ARE SOLD.

THE following COPY, mentioned by Lords Kilmarnock and Balmerino,
on the day of their execution, is here inserted _verbatim_.----The
Public are left to judge whether it is spurious or not, as the
Author does not pretend to judge in the affair: Only it was judged
spurious by Duke William himself, and several officers, who knew
the order of war.

  Copy _of the_ REBELS’ ORDERS before the BATTLE of CULLODEN,
  (_said to be_) found in the Pocket of one of the Prisoners.

Parole, _Roy Jaques_.

“IT is his ROYAL HIGHNESS’ positive orders, that every person
attach himself to some Corps of the Army, and remain with the
Corps night and day, until the Battle and Pursuit be finally over:
And to give no Quarters to the ELECTOR’S Troops, on any account
whatsoever.----This regards the Foot, as well as the Horse.----The
Order of Battle is to be given to every General Officer and
Commander of a Regiment or Squadron.

“IT is required and expected of each Individual in the Army,
as well Officer as Soldier, that he keep the Post he shall be
allotted: And if any man turn his back to run away, the next behind
such man is to shoot him.

“NO body, upon pain of death, is to strip the slain, or plunder,
until the battle is over.----The Highlanders to be in Kilts, and no
body to throw away their Guns.”

  (_Signed_)

  GEORGE MURRAY, _Lt. Gen._

_Miss FLORA’S Lament._ A SONG.

Tune. _Woes my heart that we should sunder._

        When that I from my darling pass’d,
      My love increas’d like young Leander,
      With the parting kiss, the tears fell fast,
      Crying, woes my heart that we should sunder.

        O’er mountains, glens, and raging seas,
      When wind and waves did roar like thunder,
      Them I’d encounter again with ease,
      That we were ne’er at all to sunder.

        O yet I did to Malton go,
      And left my darling Swain to wander;
      Where was one friend, were fifty foe;
      And I myself was then brought under.

        By a rude band of bloody hue,
      Because I lov’d a young Pretender;
      If it were undone, I would it do,
      O’er hills and dales, with him I’d wander.

        From ship to ship, was toss’d about,
      And to the Nore did me surrender;
      Crouds of rude hands, I stood them out,
      And lov’d none like my young Pretender.[42]

        To great London, I came at last,
      And still avow’d my passion tender;
      Thinking for death I would be cast,
      For serving of my young Pretender.

        But thanks be to the Georgian race,
      And the English laws, I judg’d untender;
      For they thought nought of all my case,
      Although I lov’d a young Pretender.

        They charg’d me to the Highlands go,
      For womens’ wit, and strength was slender;
      As I ne’er in arms appear’d as foe,
      In defence of a young Pretender.

        O were my Swain at Malton gate,
      Or yet at Sky I’d be his lover;
      In spite of all the laws of late,
      I would call him sweet darling Rover.

_The AUTHOR’S Address to all in general._

      Now gentle readers, I have let you ken,
      My very thoughts, from heart and pen,
      ’Tis needless now for to conten,
                          Or yet controule,
      For there’s not a word o’t I can men’,
                          So ye must thole.

        For on both sides, some were not good,
      I saw them murd’ring in cold blood,
      Not th’ gentlemen, but wild and rude,
                          The baser sort,
      Who to the wounded had no mood,
                          But murd’ring sport.

        Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk,
      That fatal night ere it grew mirk,
      Piercing the wounded with their durk,
                          Caus’d many cry,
      Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk,
                          As peace to die.

        A woe be to such a hot zeal,
      To smite the wounded on the fiel’,
      It’s just they get such groats in kail,
                          Who do the same,
      It only teaches cruelty’s real,
                          To them again.

        I’ve seen the men call’d Highland Rogues,
      With Lowland men, make _shange_ a brogs,
      Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs
                          Out at the door,
      Take cocks, hens, sheep and hogs,
                          And pay nought for.

        I see’d a Highlander, ’twas right drole,
      With a string of puddings, hung on a pole,
      Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipp’d like a fole,
                          Caus’d Maggy bann,
      Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole,
                          And aff he ran.

        When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye,
      Indeed _her nainsel’s_ a tume belly.
      You’ll no gi’et wanting bought, nor sell me,
                          _Hersel_ will haet,
      Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie,
                           I’ll hae a meat.

        I see’d the soldiers at Linton-brig,
      Because the man was not a Whig,
      Of meat and drink, leave not a skig
                          Within his door,
      They burnt his very hat and wig,
                          And thumpt him sore.

        And thro’ the Highlands they were so rude,
      As leave them neither clothes nor food,
      Then burnt their houses to conclude,
                          ’Twas tit for tat,
      How can _her nainsel’_ ere be good,
                          To think on that.

        And after all, O shame and grief,
      To use some worse than murd’ring thief,
      Their very gentlemen and chief,
                          Unhumanly,
      Like Popish tortures, I belief,
                          Such cruelty.

        Ev’n what was act on open stage,
      At Carlisle in the hottest rage,
      When mercy was clapt in a cage,
                          And pity dead,
      Such cru’lty approv’d by every age,
                          I shook my head.

        So many to curse, so few to pray,
      And some aloud huzza did cry,
      They curs’d the Rebel Scots that day,
                          As they’d been nout
      Brought up for slaughter, as that way
                          Too many rowt.

        Therefore, Alas! dear countrymen,
      O never do the like again,
      To thirst for vengeance, never ben
                          Your guns nor pa’
      But with th’ English, e’en borrow and len,
                          Let anger fa’.

        Their boasts and bullyings, not worth a louse,
      As our king’s the best about the house,
      ’Tis ay good to be sober and douce,
                          To live in peace,
      For many I see, for being o’er crouse,
                          Gets broken face.

  _JOHN HIGHLANDMAN’S_

  _REMARKS ON GLASGOW._

[The following is what may be termed a ‘Chap-book Version’ of _John
Highlandman’s Remarks on Glasgow_. It is taken from a chap-book
published anonymously in Glasgow in 1823. In no material respect
does it differ from the other copies still to be found. M‘Vean
was the first to attribute the verses to Graham. The assumption
has generally been that in point of time this is one Graham’s
earliest productions, after his _History of the Rebellion_, and it
is certainly the most popular of his metrical pieces. It furnishes
an interesting description of Glasgow about the middle of last
century.]

JOHN HIGHLANDMAN’S REMARKS ON GLASGOW.

      Her nainsel into Glasgow went,
        An errand there to see’t,
      And she never saw a bonnier town
        Standing on her feet.

      For a’ the houses that be tere
        Was theekit wi’ blue stane,
      And a stane ladder to gang up,
        No fa’ to break her banes.

      I gang upon a stany road,
        A street they do him ca’,
      And when me seek the chapman’s house,
        His name be on the wa’.

      I gang to buy a snish tamback,
        And standing at the corse,
      And tere I see a dead man,
        Was riding on his horse.

      And O! he be a poor man,
        And no hae muny claes,
      Te brogues be worn aff his feet,
        And me see a’ his taes.[43]

      Te horse had up his muckle fit
        For to gie me a shap,
      And gaping wi’ his great mouth
        To grip me by the tap.

      He had a staff into his hand,
        To fight me an’ he coud,
      But hersel be rin awa frae him,
        His horse be unco proud.

      But I be rin around about,
        And stand about the guard,[44]
      Where I see the deil chap the hours,
        Tan me grew unco feared.[45]

      Ohon! Ohon! her nainsel said,
        And whare will me go rin?
      For yonder be the black man
        That bums the fouk for sin.

      I’ll no pe stay nae langer tere,
        But fast me rin awa,
      And see the man thrawin te rapes
        Aside te Broomielaw.[46]

      An’ O she pe a lang tedder,
        I spier’t what they’ll do wi’t,
      He said to hang the Highlandmen
        For stealing o’ their meat.

      Hout, hersel’s an honest shentleman,
        I never yet did steal,
      But when I meet a muckle purse,
        I like it unco weel.

      Tan fare ye weel ye saucy fellow,
        I fain your skin wad pay;
      I cam to your toun the morn but,
        An’ I’ll gang out yesterday.

      Fan I gang to my quarter-house,
        The door was unco braw,
      For here they had a cow’s husband,
        Was pricked on the wa’.[47]

      O tere me got a shapin ale,
        An’ ten me got a supper,
      A filthy choud o’ chappit meat
        Boiled amang a butter.

      It was a filthy dirt o’ beef,
        His banes was like te horn,
      She was a calf wanting the skin,
        Before that she was born.

      I gang awa into the kirk
        To hear a Lawland preach,
      And mony a bonny sang they sing,
        Tere books they did them teach.

      And tere I saw a bonny mattam,
        Wi’ feathers on her waim,
      I wonder an’ she be gaun to flee,
        Or what be in her myn.[48]

      Another mattams follow her,
        Wha’s arse was round like cogs!
      And clitter clatter cries her feet--
        She had on iron brogues.[49]

      And tere I saw another mattam
        Into a tarry seck,
      And twa mans pe carry her,
        Wi’ rapes about hims neck.

      She pe sae fou o’ vanity,
        As no gang on the grun,
      But twa poor mans pe carry her
        In a barrow covert aboon.[50]

      Some had a fish-tail to their mouth,[51]
        And some pe had a ponnet,
      But my Janet and Donald’s wife
        Wad rather hae a bannock.

_THE TURNIMSPIKE._

[_The Turnimspike_ has had more attention paid to it by literary
antiquaries than any of Graham’s other metrical productions,
excepting, of course, his _History of the Rebellion_. It has always
been regarded as being from Graham’s pen, and Sir Walter Scott
said it alone was sufficient to entitle him to immortality. Burns
admired it on account of its local humour. The verses appeared in
Herd’s Collection of 1769; and they have been here taken from the
edition of 1776.]

THE TURNIMSPIKE.

      Her sel pe Highland shentleman,
        Pe auld as Pothwell prig, man;
      And mony alterations seen
        Amang the Lawland whig, man.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      First when her to the Lowlands came,
        Nain sell was driving cows, man:
      There was nae laws about hims narse,
        About the breeks or trouse, man.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      Nain sell did wear the philapeg,
        The plaid prik’t on her shouder;
      The gude claymore hung pe her pelt,
        The pistol sharg’d wi’ pouder.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      But for whereas these cursed preeks,
        Wherewith mans narse be lockit,
      O hon, that ere she saw the day!
        For a’ her houghs pe prokit.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      Every thing in the Highlands now,
        Pe turn’t to alteration;
      The sodger dwal at our door cheek,
        And that’s te great vexation.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      Scotland be turn’t a Ningland now,
        And laws pring on the cadger:
      Nain sell wad durk him for hur deeds,
        But oh she fears the sodger.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      Another law came after that,
        Me never saw the like, man;
      They mak a lang road on the crund,
        And ca’ him turnimspike, man.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      And wow she pe a ponny road,
        Like Louden corn rigs, man;
      Whare twa carts may gang on her,
        And no break others legs, man.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      They sharge a penny for ilka hors,
        In troth they’l be nae sheaper,
      For nought but gaen upo’ the crund,
        And they gie me a paper.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      They tak the hors then pe the head,
        And there they mak them stand, man.
      I tell’d them that I seen the day
        They had na sic command, man,
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      Nae doubts nain-sell maun draw his purs,
        And pay them what him’s like, man:
      I’ll see a shudgement on his store,
        That filthy turnimspike, man.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

      But I’ll awa to the Highland hills,
        Where nere a ane sall turn her;
      And no come near your turnimspike,
        Unless it pe to purn her.
                    _Fal lal_, &c.

_TUGAL M‘TAGGER._

[This piece sometimes appears in old chap-books under the heading
of _Dugald M‘Taggart_, no doubt the proper name of the hero, but
it is one that scarcely fits the rhyme. The reading here used is
sustained by usage, and has the further advantage of being--shall
we say?--more euphonious. M‘Vean attributes the song to Graham. It
was probably composed about the year 1772, on the occasion of the
passing of the first Sequestration Act, 12 Geo. III., c. 72. The
following is reprinted from an old broadside version long popular
in Glasgow. The air is given as--‘The Hills of Glendoo.’]

TUGAL M‘TAGGER.

      Would you’ll know me, my name it is Tugal M‘Tagger,
      She’ll brought hersel’ down frae the braes o’ Lochaber,
      To learn her nainsel’ to be praw haberdabber,
        Or fine linen-draber, the tane or the twa.

      She’ll being a stranger, she’ll look very shy-like:
      She’s no weel acquaint wi’ your laigh kintra dialect;
      But hoogh! never heed, she’s got plenty o’ Gaelic--
        She comes frae ta house at the fit o’ Glendoo.

      [But her kilt she’ll exchange for ta praw tandy trowser,
      An’ she’ll learn to ta lady to scrap an’ to pow, sir,
      An’ say to ta shentlemans--How did you’ll do, sir?
        An’ ten she’ll forget her poor friens at Glendoo.

      An’ when she’ll pe spoket the laigh kintra jabber,
      She’ll gi’e hersel’ out for ta Laird o’ Lochaber,
      Shust come for amusements to turn haberdabber,
        For tat will pe prawer tan herding ta cow.][52]

      She’ll got a big shop, an’ she’ll turn’d a big dealer;
      She was caution hersel’, for they’ll no sought no bailer,
      But Tugal M‘Tagger hersel’ mak’s a failure--
        They’ll call her a bankrumpt, a trade she’ll not know.

      They’ll called a great meeting, she’ll look very quate now,
      She’ll fain win awa’, but they’ll tell her to wait now;
      They’ll spoket a lang time, ’pout a great estate now:
        She’ll thocht that they’ll thocht her the laird o’ Glendoo.

      They’ll wrote a long while about a trust deeder,
      She’ll no write a word, for hersel’ couldna read her,
      They’ll sought compongzition, hoogh, hoogh, never heed her--
        There’s no sic a word ’mang the hills o’ Glendoo.

      But had she her durk, hersel’ would devour them,
      They’ll put her in jail when she’ll stood there before them;
      But faith she’ll got out on a hashimanorum,[53]
        And now she’s as free as the win’s on Glendoo.

_HAD AWA FRAE ME, DONALD._

[Stenhouse, in his _Lyric Poetry and Music of Scotland_, suggests
that _Had Awa Frae Me, Donald_, was probably written by the same
hand as _Turnimspike_. In view of the strong likeness which exists
between the two pieces, and the fact that no author has been found
for the lines on the following pages, we have no hesitation in
admitting them among works probably written by Graham. The view
here given is reprinted from--‘The Black Bird: a choice collection
of the most celebrated songs. Few of which are to be found in any
collection. By William Hunter, Philo-Architectonicæ. Edinburgh:
Printed by J. Bruce and Company: And sold by John Moir, Book-Binder
in Bell’s Wynd. MDCCLXIV.’ It is also in Herd’s Collection of
1776.]

HAD AWA FRAE ME, DONALD.

      O will you hae the tartan plaid,
        Or will you hae ta ring, mattam,
      Or will you hae ta kiss o’ me,
        And dats ta pretty ting, mattam.
      Had awa’, bide awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      I’ll neither kiss, nor hae a ring,
        Nae tartan plaids for me, Donald.

      O see you not her ponny progues,
        Her fecket plaid, plew, creen, mattam,
      Her twa short hose, and her twa spiogs,
        And a shoulter pelt apoon, mattam.
      Had awa’, bide awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      Nae shoulder belts, nae trink abouts,
        Nae tartan hose for me, Donald.

      Hur can peshaw a petter hough
        Tan him wha wears the crown, mattam;
      Her sell hae pistol and claymore,
        Tae flie ti’ lallant loon, mattam.
      Had awa’, had awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      For a your houghs and warlike arms,
        You’re not a match for me, Donald.

      Hur sell hae a short coat pi pote,
        No trail my feets at rin, mattam,
      A cutty sark of guide harn sheet,
        My mitter he pe spin, mattam.
      Had awa’, had awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald;
      Gae hame and hap your naked houghs,
        And fash nae mair wi’ me, Donald.

      You’s ne’er pe pidden work a turn
        At ony kind o’ spin, mattam,
      But shug your lenno in a scull,
        And tidel highland sing, mattam.
      Had awa’, had awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      Your jogging sculls, and highland sang,
        Will sound but harsh wi’ me, Donald.

      In ta morning, when him rise,
        Ye’s get fresh whey for tea, mattam,
      Sweet milk an ream, as much you please,
        Far sheaper tan pohea, mattam.
      Had awa’, bide awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      I wadna quit my morning’s tea;
        Your whey will ne’er agree, Donald.

      Haper Gallick yes pe learn,
        An tats ta ponny speak, mattam,
      Ye’s get a cheese, and putter kirn,
        Come wi’ me kin ye like, mattam.
      Had awa’, had awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      Your Gallick, and your Highland chear,
        Will ne’er gae doun wi’ me, Donald.

      Fait yes pe ket a silder protch,
        Pe pigger as the moon, mattam,
      Ye’s ride in curroch stead o’ coach,
        And wow put ye’ll pe fine, mattam.
      Had awa’, had awa’,
        Had awa’ frae me, Donald,
      For all your Highland rarities,
        You’re not a match for me, Donald.

      What’s tis ta way tat ye’ll pe kind
        To a protty man like me, mattam,
      Sae lang claymore pe po my side,
        I’ll nefer marry thee, mattam.
      O come awa’, run awa’,
        O come awa’ wi’ me, Donald,
      I wadna quit my Highland man,
        Frae Lallands set me free, Donald.

END OF VOL. I.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Paisley Magazine_, December, 1828.

[2] _Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and Scenery of Scotland._
1811.

[3] Chambers’ _Illustrious Scotsmen_, vol. ii., p. 488.

[4] Strang’s _Glasgow and its Clubs_, 2nd edit., p. 77.

[5] _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, p. 184.

[6] Stenhouse’s _Lyric Poetry and Music of Scotland_ (edited by Dr.
David Laing), p. 112*.

[7] _Glasgow and its Clubs_, 2nd ed., p. 80.

[8] Fraser’s _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, p. 192.

[9] _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, p. 172.

[10] Stenhouse’s _Lyric Poetry and Music of Scotland_, p. 112*.

[11] _Glasgow and its Clubs_, 2nd Ed., p. 77.

[12] _History of Poetry in Scotland_, by Alex. Campbell. Edin.
1798, p. 307.

[13] _Hist. Glas._, 2nd ed., 1830, _appendix_.

[14] Strang’s _Glasgow and its Clubs_, p. 82, _note_.

[15] _Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland_, p. 297.

[16] Bell’s _Commentaries on the Law of Scotland_ (edited by John
M‘Laren, advocate), vol. ii. pp. 281-2.

[17] _A Pedlar’s Pack of Ballads and Songs_, by W. H. Logan, p. 442.

[18] _Paisley Magazine_, December 1828.

[19] _Paisley Magazine._

[20] _Ante_, p. 29.

[21] _Reliques of Robert Burns_, p. 434.

[22] The reference is to Burns. Cromek’s quotation is from
Grahame’s _Birds of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. iv.

[23] _Works of Robert Burns._ Kilmarnock edition, vol. ii. p. 286.

[24] _Works of Robert Burns._ Edinburgh, 1877-79, vol. i. p. 16.

[25] There were several chap-books with this title in circulation.
We have before us one bearing the same name, published in Edinburgh
in 1764; and another, _The Accomplished Courtier_, also issued in
Edinburgh in the same year, but they are both totally different
from the Stirling publication.

[26] _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, p. 151.

[27] _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, p. 151.

[28] Mr. John Ashton, in his _Chap-Books of the Eighteenth
Century_, a work dealing exclusively with the chap literature of
England, traces what appears to be an original edition of _Simple
Simon_, ‘printed and sold in Aldermary Church Yard, London.’ The
publishers there, he informs his readers in his introduction, were
William and Cluer Dicey, originally of Northampton, who started a
branch of their business in London subsequent to 1720.

[29] _The Glasgow Athenæum_, August 10, 1850 (No. 2), p. 18.

[30] _The Glasgow Athenæum_, p. 18.

[31] In the catalogue of the second portion of the library of the
late Dr. David Laing, sold two or three years ago, there was a
collection of chap-books (lot 795) in which this work is mentioned.
The lot was “passed,” probably because it had disappeared, and
consequently we have been unable to come across it. The fact is to
be regretted, as there is every reason to believe the copy would be
unique.

[32] _Glasgow and its Clubs_, 2nd ed., p. 82, _note_.

[33] _Paisley Magazine._

[34] _Glasgow and its Clubs_, 2nd ed., p. 77.

[35] _Humorous Chap-Books of Scotland_, pp. 215-16.

[36] _Chap-Books of the Eighteenth Century_, by John Ashton, p.
vii. _intro._

[37] _Works of Allan Ramsay_, Fullarton’s ed. vol. i. p. 17.

[38] Dr. Carlyle’s _Autobiography_, p. 89.

[39] _Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character_, 21st ed., p.
viii.

[40] _Ibid._ 21st ed., p. 249.

[41] _Pounds Sterling._

[42] The preceding five stanzas are all of this song given in the
Aberdeen (1850) edition. In the other editions it is given as in
the one of 1774, and, of course, as it is reproduced here.

[43] The equestrian statue of King William III., presented by
Governor Macrae to Glasgow, his native city, and erected opposite
the Tontine, at the Cross, in 1735. It was cast in Holland. The
classical style of dress, including primitive sandals, in which the
King is represented, gave rise to the idea in ‘John Highlandman’s’
mind that His Majesty was a ‘poor man.’

[44] The old guardhouse, in the Trongate, at the foot of the
Candleriggs. Like many of the houses in Glasgow at the time, it had
a colonnaded front, which projected into the street, and made it
a feature of the city. Here the citizens took duty by turns, for
these were the days when policemen were unknown.

[45] It is on record that a clockmaker in the Trongate had at that
time in his window a clock, on which a figure of the ‘Deil’ was
shown as ‘chapping’ the hours.

[46] There were several roperies in the vicinity of the Broomielaw.

[47] The reference is to the Black Bull Inn--‘the cow’s
husband’--situated at the West Port, which was then in the
Trongate, at the head of Stockwell Street. It was one of the most
famous hostleries in the west country.

[48] Rather an obscure reference, but it may probably find an
explanation in the following statement in Fairholt’s _Costume
in England_, p. 567:--‘Feather muffs are mentioned in Anstey’s
_New Bath Guide_, and became fashionable in George III.’s reign.’
Another alternative is that it may refer to what were then known as
Spanish fans.

[49] Probably pattens, then in common use.

[50] A long drawn out description of a sedan chair. Carriages had
not yet come into vogue. The first private carriage seen in Glasgow
belonged to Allan Dreghorn, a timber merchant and carpenter and
joiner, who built one for himself in 1752.

[51] Perhaps a reference to the ‘ties’ of the lady’s bonnet.

[52] The two stanzas within brackets are not in several chap-book
copies. The many verbal differences indicate that attempts have
been made to touch up the song, but the absence of any very early
copy of it, makes it impossible to obtain an absolutely pure text.
These alterations, however, in no way affect the narrative.

[53] A wonderful rendering of ‘_cessio bonorum_.’

  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained. The spelling
  of all Scottish dialect words has been left unchanged.

  Pg 15: ‘is a concensus’ replaced by ‘is a consensus’.
  Pg 42: ‘most charateristic’ replaced by ‘most characteristic’.
  Pg 58: ‘gave then forth’ replaced by ‘gave them forth’.
  Pg 61: “bear-to be ‘printed” replaced by “bears ‘to be printed”.
  Pg 61: ‘duodesimo pages’ replaced by ‘duodecimo pages’.
  Pg 63: ‘Turnamspike’ should probably be ‘Turnimspike’ and
  “Jockie and Maggie’s” should probably be “Jocky and Maggy’s” but
  they have been left unchanged since they are quotations from
  other books.
  Pg 64: ‘Dougald’ should be ‘Dougal’ but also has been left unchanged.
  Pg 251 Footnote [42]: ‘of course, as as it is’ replaced by
  ‘of course, as it is’.

  In the poetry the only word changes are:
  Pg 134: “But all disper’d” replaced by “But all dispers’d”.
  Pg 142: ‘But the Higlanders’ replaced by ‘But the Highlanders’.