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Nay," said her father, "at eight o'clock
The morrow morn thou hanged shall be."

Out and spoke Johnie's uncle then,

And he spak bitterlie;

Before that we see fair Johnie hanged,

We'll a' fight till we dee."

"But is there e'er a Tailliant 2 about your court,
That will fight duels three?

For before that I be hanged," Johnie said,
"On the Tailliant's sword I'll dee."

"Say on, say on then," said the King,
"It is well spoken of thee;

For there is a Tailliant in my court,
Shall fight you three by three."

O some is to the good green wood,
And some is to the plain;

The queen with all her ladies fair,

The King with his merry men:
Either to see fair Johnie flee,

Or else to see him slain.

They fought on, and Johnie fought on,

Wi' swords o' tempered steel;

Until the draps o' red red blood

Ran trinkling down the field.

They fought on, and Johnie fought on,
They fought right manfullie;

Till they left not alive in a' the king's court
A man only but three.

And they began at eight in the morn,

And they fought on till three ;

1 Motherwell does not know what to make of this word, but thinks it means a Champion, and may be derived from the French verb Taillader. Is it not merely a corruption of the word "Italian?" Early English ballad literature swarmed with Translations, and Adaptations of Italian tales of Chivalry and Romance, and Italian may have been used by the Author, as synonimous with Hero, Warrior, or Champion ; just as at the present day, we frequently hear the words Jew, Goth and Turk, used to designate particular individuals.

When the Tailliant like a swallow swift, O'er Johnie's head did flee.

But Johnie being a clever young man,
He wheeled him round about;

And on the point of Johnie's broad sword,
The Tailliant he slew out.

"A priest, a priest," fair Johnie cried, "To wed my love and me."

"A clerk, a clerk," her father cried, To sum her dower free."

"I'll ha' none of y' gold," Johnie cried, "Na none of y' other gear; But I will have my own fair bride, For this day I've won her dear."

He's ta'en his true love by the hand,
He led her up the plain;

"Have ye any more of y' English Dogs You want for to have slain ?"

He put a little horn to his mouth,
He blew it baith loud and shrill;
And Honour is unto Scotland gone
In spite of England's skill.

He put his little horn to his mouth,
He blew it o'er again;

And aye the sound that horn cried
Was "Johnie and his men."

SIR EDWARD WALPOLE

AND THE

POSTMASTER OF DARLINGTON'S DAUGHTER.

66

FROM FLOWERS OF ANECDOTE."

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BOUT the year 1730, Mr. Edward Walpole (afterwards sir Edward, knight of the Bath) returned from his travels on the continent, where the magnificence of his father the famous Sir Robert, who was then prime minister to George II., had enabled him to make a brilliant figure; and so very engaging was he found by the ladies, that he had no other appellation in Italy than that of "the handsome Englishman." Mr. Walpole had lodgings taken for him on his return at a Mrs. Rennie's, a child's coat-maker, at the bottom of Pall Mall. On returning from visits, or public places, he often passed a quarter of an hour in chat with the young women of the shop. Among them was one who had it in her power to make him forget the Italians, and all the beauties of the English court. Her name was Clement: her father was at that time, or soon after, postmaster at Darlington, a place of fifty pounds per annum, on which he supported a large family. This young woman had been bound apprentice to Mrs. Rennie, and was employed in the usual duties of such a situation, which she discharged (as the old lady used to say) honestly and soberly. Her parents, however, from their poverty, could supply her but very scantily with clothes or money, Mr. Walpole observed her wants, and had the address to make her little presents, in a way not to alarm the vigilance of her mistress, who exacted the strictest morality from the young persons under her care. Miss Clement was as beautiful as an angel, with good, though uncultivated parts. Mrs. Rennie had begun to suspect that a connection was forming, which would not be to the honour of her apprentice. She apprised Mr. Clement of her suspicions, who immediately came up to town, to carry her out of the vortex of temptation. The good old man met his daughter with tears: he told her his suspicions; and that he should carry her home, where, by living with sobriety and prudence, she might chance to be married to some decent tradesman. The girl, in appearance, acquiesced, but whilst

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her father and mistress were discoursing in a little dark parlour behind the shop, the object of their cares slipped out, and without hat or cloak ran directly through Pall-Mall to Sir Edward's house, at the top of it (that lately inhabited by Mrs. Kepple) where, the porter knowing her, she was admitted, although his master was absent. She went into the parlour, where the table was covered for dinner, and impatiently waited his return. The moment came; Sir Edward entered, and was heard to exclaim with great joy,—“ You here!" What explanations took place were of course in private; but the fair fugitive sat down that day at the head of his table, and never after left it. The fruits of this connection were the late Mrs. Keppel; Maria, afterwards Lady Waldegrave, and subsequently Duchess of Gloucester, the second; Lady Dysart, the third; and Colonel Walpole, the fourth; in the birth of whom, or soon after, the mother died. Never could fondness exceed that which Sir Edward always cherished for the mother of his children; nor was it confined to her or them only, but extended itself to her relations, for all of whom he some way or other provided. His grief at her loss was proportioned to his affection: he constantly declined all overtures of marriage, and gave up his life to the education of his children. He had often been prompted to unite himself to Miss Clement by legal ties; but the threats of his father, Sir Robert, prevented his marriage; who avowed, that if he married Miss Clement, he would not only deprive him of his political interest, but exert it against him. It was, however, always said, by those who had opportunity of knowing, that had Miss Clement survived Sir Robert, she would then have been Lady Walpole.

In the year 1758, his eldest daughter, Laura, became the wife of the hon. Frederick Keppel, brother to the Earl of Albemarle, and afterwards Bishop of Exeter. The Miss Walpoles now took a rank in society in which they had never before moved. The sisters of the Earl of Albemarle were their constant companions, and introduced them to persons of quality and fashion; they constantly appeared at the first routes and balls; and, in a word, were received every where but at court. The shade attending their birth shut them out from the drawing-room, till marriage (as in the case of Mrs. Keppel) had covered the defect, and given them the rank of another family. No one watched their progress upwards with more anxiety than the earl of Waldegrave. This nobleman (one of the proudest in the kingdom) had long cherished a passion for Maria. The struggle between his passion and his pride was not a short one, and having conquered his own difficulties, it now only remained to attack the lady's who had prepossessions; and Lord Waldegrave, though

not young, was not disagreeable. Her very amiable conduct through the whole life of her Lord, added respect and esteem to the warmest admiration. About five years after their marriage, the small-pox attacked his lordship, and proved fatal. His lady found herself a young widow, of rank and beauty. Had Lord Waldegrave possessed every advantage of youth and person, his death could not have been more sincerely regretted by his amiable relict. At length she emerged again into the world, and love and admiration every where followed her. She refused many offers; amongst others, the Duke of Portland loudly proclaimed his discontent at her refusal. But the daughter of Mary Clement was destined to royalty! The Duke of Gloucester was not to be resisted, and two children, a prince and a princess, were the fruits of their marriage; and hence it came within the bounds of probability that the descendants of the postmaster of Darlington might one day have swayed the British sceptre.

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