his grave, finds somewhere the shade of a horse that, in its day, could
gallop with the best, and rides again across the Border, to meet once
more his "auld enemies" of England, and, to the joyous accompaniment of
the lowing of cattle and the jingle of spurs, returns to his lodging as
the first cock crows, and grey morning breaks?

"O, they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane,
In the rain and the wind and the lave;
They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill,
But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave."




IN THE DAYS OF THE '15


Close on two hundred years back from the present time there stood far up
the South Tyne, beyond Haltwhistle, on the road--then little better than
a bridle-track--running over the Cumberland border by Brampton, an inn
which in those days was a house of no little importance in that wild and
remote country.

If its old walls could speak, what, for instance, might they not have
told of Jacobite plottings? Beneath its roof was held many a meeting of
the supporters of the King "over the water," James the Eighth; and here,
riding up from Dilston, not seldom came the unfortunate Earl of
Derwentwater, to take part in the Jacobite deliberations. The young lord
and the horse he usually rode were figures familiar and welcome to the
country folk around, and at the inn they were as well known as was the