John Græme of Claverhouse, whose title of Viscount Dundee had been given him in reward for his cruelties to the Western Covenanters, was the instigator and leader of a revolt of the Highland clans against the government of William III. in Scotland. General Mackay, with his loyal Scotch regiments, was sent out to suppress the uprising. But as they climbed the pass of Killiecrankie, on the 27th of July, 1689, Dundee charged them at the head of three thousand clansmen, and swept them in headlong rout down the glen. His death in the moment of victory broke, however, the only bond which held the Highlanders together, and in a few weeks the host which had spread terror through the Lowlands melted helplessly away.
The Græmes, or Grahams, were among the most noted of Scottish families, and included some of the most distinguished men of the country. Among them were Sir John the Græme, the faithful aid of Sir William Wallace, who fell in the battle of Falkirk, 1298, and the celebrated Marquis of Montrose, who died in 1650, and whose exploits are immortalized in Scott’s “Legend of Montrose.”
In the following stirring verses from “The Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers,” by W. E. Aytoun, the fight at Killiecrankie is described, presumably, by one of the adherents of Dundee. The title of the poem in its complete form is “The Burial March of Dundee.” Our selection includes only so much as relates to the conflict in the pass.
On the heights of KilliecrankieYester-morn our army lay:Slowly rose the mist in columnsFrom the river’s broken way;Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,And the pass was wrapt in gloom,When the clansmen rose togetherFrom their lair amidst the broom.Then we belted on our tartans,And our bonnets down we drew,And we felt our broadswords’ edges,And we proved them to be true;And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,And we cried the gathering cry,And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,And we swore to do or die!Then our leader rode before usOn his war horse black as night—Well the Cameronian rebelsKnew that charger in the fight!—And a cry of exultationFrom the bearded warriors rose;For we loved the house of Claver’se,And we thought of good Montrose,But he raised his hand for silence—”Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:Ere the evening star shall glistenOn Schehallion’s lofty brow,Either we shall rest in triumph,Or another of the Græmes Shall have died in battle harnessFor his country and King James!Think upon the Royal Martyr—Think of what his race endure—Think of him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir:—By his sacred blood I charge ye,By the ruined hearth and shrine—By the blighted hopes of Scotland,By your injuries and mine—Strike this day as if the anvilLay beneath your blows the while,Be they Covenanting traitors,Or the brood of false Argyle!Strike! and drive the trembling rebelsBackwards o’er the stormy Forth;Let them tell their pale ConventionHow they fared within the North.Let them tell that Highland honorIs not to be bought or sold,That we scorn their prince’s angerAs we loathe his foreign gold.Strike! and when the fight is over,If ye look in vain for me,Where the dead are lying thickest,Search for him that was Dundee!”Loudly then the hills reëchoedWith our answer to his call,But a deeper echo soundedIn the bosoms of us all.[ For the lands of wide BreadalbaneNot a man who heard him speakWould that day have left the battle.Burning eye and flushing cheekTold the clansmen’s fierce emotion,And they harder drew their breath;For their souls were strong within them,Stronger than the grasp of death.Soon we heard a challenge trumpetSounding in the pass below,And the distant tramp of horses,And the voices of the foe:Down we crouched amid the bracken,Till the Lowland ranks drew near,Panting like the hounds in summer,When they scent the stately deer.From the dark defile emerging,Next we saw the squadrons come,Leslie’s foot and Leven’s troopersMarching to the tuck of drum;Through the scattered wood of birches,O’er the broken ground and heath,Wound the long battalion slowly,Till they gained the field beneath;Then we bounded from our covert.—Judge how looked the Saxons then,When they saw the rugged mountainStart to life with armèd men!Like a tempest down the ridgesSwept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald,—Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell!Vainly sped the withering volley’Mongst the foremost of our band—On we poured until we met them,Foot to foot, and hand to hand.Horse and man went down like driftwoodWhen the floods are black at Yule,And their carcasses are whirlingIn the Garry’s deepest pool.Horse and man went down before us—Living foe there tarried noneOn the field of Killiecrankie,When that stubborn fight was done!And the evening star was shiningOn Schehallion’s distant head,When we wiped our bloody broadswords,And returned to count the dead.There we found him gashed and gory,Stretched upon the cumbered plain,As he told us where to seek him,In the thickest of the slain.And a smile was on his visage,For within his dying earPealed the joyful note of triumph,And the clansmen’s clamorous cheer:So, amidst the battle’s thunder,Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,In the glory of his manhoodPassed the spirit of the Græme!
