CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
Life ebbs from such old age, unmarked and silent, As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded galley .-- Late she rocked merrily at the least impulse That wind or wave could give; but now her keel Is settling on the sand, her mast has ta'en An angle with the sky, from which it shifts not.
Each wave receding shakes her less and less, Till, bedded on the strand, she shall remain Useless as motionless.
Old Play.
As the Antiquary lifted the latch of the hut, he was surprised to hear the shrill tremulous voice of Elspeth chanting forth an old ballad in a wild and doleful recitative.
"The herring loves the merry moonlight, The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang, For they come of a gentle kind." A diligent collector of these legendary scraps of ancient poetry, his foot refused to cross the threshold when his ear was thus arrested, and his hand instinctively took pencil and memorandum-book.

From time to time the old woman spoke as if to the children--"Oh ay, hinnies, whisht! whisht! and I'll begin a bonnier ane than that-- "Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, And listen, great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw.
"The cronach's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a', And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw .-- I dinna mind the neist verse weel--my memory's failed, and theres unco thoughts come ower me--God keep us frae temptation!" Here her voice sunk in indistinct muttering.
"It's a historical ballad," said Oldbuck, eagerly, "a genuine and undoubted fragment of minstrelsy! Percy would admire its simplicity-- Ritson could not impugn its authenticity." "Ay, but it's a sad thing," said Ochiltree, "to see human nature sae far owertaen as to be skirling at auld sangs on the back of a loss like hers." "Hush! hush!" said the Antiquary--"she has gotten the thread of the story again.

"-- And as he spoke, she sung-- "They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head, And a good knight upon his back.

"-- "Chafron!" exclaimed the Antiquary,--"equivalent, perhaps, to cheveron;--the word's worth a dollar,"-- and down it went in his red book.
"They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile, but barely ten, When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men.
"Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, Their pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear.
"The great Earl in his stirrups stood That Highland host to see: Now here a knight that's stout and good May prove a jeopardie: "What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne?
"To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril, What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl ?' Ye maun ken, hinnies, that this Roland Cheyne, for as poor and auld as I sit in the chimney-neuk, was my forbear, and an awfu' man he was that dayin the fight, but specially after the Earl had fa'en, for he blamed himsell for the counsel he gave, to fight before Mar came up wi' Mearns, and Aberdeen, and Angus." Her voice rose and became more animated as she recited the warlike counsel of her ancestor-- "Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane.
"If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men.
"My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, Then neer let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne.'" "Do you hear that, nephew ?" said Oldbuck;--"you observe your Gaelic ancestors were not held in high repute formerly by the Lowland warriors." "I hear," said Hector, "a silly old woman sing a silly old song.

I am surprised, sir, that you, who will not listen to Ossian's songs of Selma, can be pleased with such trash.