TALES OF THE COVENANTERS

CONTENTS.

A Tale of Bothwell Bridge
The Laird of Culzean
Peden's Stone
The Murder of Inchdarnie
The Laird of Lag
The Sutor's Seat

INTRODUCTION.

The kings of old have shrine and tomb

In many a minster's haughty gloom;

And green along the ocean's side

The mounds arise where heroes died;

But show me on thy flowery breast.

Earth! where thy nameless martyrs rest!

The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise,

Have made one offering of their days;

For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake.

Resigned the bitter cup to take;

And silently, in fearless faith,

Bowing their noble souls to death.

Where sleep they, Earth?—by no proud stone

Their narrow couch of rest is known;

The still, sad glory of their name

Hallows no mountain into fame.

No—not a tree the record bears

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers.

Yet haply all around lie strew'd

The ashes of that multitude.

It may be that each day we tread

Where thus devoted hearts have bled;

And the young flowers our children sow

Take root in holy dust below.

O, that the many rustling leaves,

Which round our home the summer weaves,

Or that the streams, in whose glad voice

Our own familiar paths rejoice,

Might whisper through the starry sky,

To tell where those blest slumberers lie

Would not our inmost Hearts be thrill'd

With notice of their presence fill'd,

And by its breathings taught to prize

The meekness of self-sacrifice?—

But the old woods and sounding waves

Are silent of these hidden graves.

Yet, what if no light footstep there

In pilgrim love and awe repair.

So let it be!—like him whose clay,

Deep buried by his Maker lay.

They sleep in secret—but their sod,

Unknown to man, is marked of God!

Mrs. Hemans.

Scotland is indeed a land of romance. Her mouldering ruins are linked with legends and historical associations which must ever enhance their interest in the eyes of those who love to gaze on these the

Standing mementos of another age;

and the pages of her history teem with deeds of chivalry and renown that have won for Scotland a mighty name. Thus, while the annals of our country are emblazoned with the deathless names of those mighty heroes who fought and bled in defence of her freedom from spiritual bondage, the nameless mound, or simple cairn of stones, still to be met with on the solitary heath or sequestered dell, marks the spot where rests some humble champion of her religious liberties.

Although three hundred years have passed away—marked in their flight by great and startling events—since the reign of persecution in Scotland, yet the hearts of her peasantry cling with fondness to the remembrance of those hallowed days sealed by the blood of her faithful martyrs. Still is the name of Claverhouse execrated by them, and the story of "John Brown" is related from children to children while seated around the cottage hearth, in illustration of the lawless doings of the Covenanters' foes.

It must strike the mind of every unprejudiced observer, who reads the various histories of that stirring time, that the shocking and barbarous cruelties practised on the defenders of the Covenant by their relentless enemies, will ever remain a stain on the memories of those who countenanced or took an active part in such proceedings. Scarcely is there a churchyard extant in Scotland, laying claim to antiquity, that does not contain one or more stones, the half-obliterated inscriptions of which attest the fact, that underneath lies some poor victim of persecuting zeal.

Having lately visited different parts of Scotland intimately connected with many of the events which took place at that memorable time, I experienced an inexpressible satisfaction in the reception I met with at the different