but himself; he
could not believe that he had come so far from home only to die, and
he joined the revellers at the camp fire. He said to kindly
enquirers that he felt quite well, and would soon regain his
strength. Before that terrible journey over the mountains he had
been the life and soul of the Port. He could play on the violin, on
the bagpipes--both Scotch and Irish--and he was always so
pleasant and cheerful, looking as innocent as a child, that no one
could be long dispirited in his company, and the most impatient
growler became ashamed of himself.

McClure was persuaded to bring out his violin once more--it had
been long silent--and he began playing the liveliest of tunes,
strathspeys, jigs, and reels, until some of the men could hardly keep
their heels still, but it is hard to dance on loose sand, and they
had to be contented with expressing their feelings in song. Davy
sang "Ye Mariners of England," and other songs of the sea; and
Pateley Jim gave the "Angel's Whisper," followed by an old ballad of
the days of Robin Hood called "The Wedding of Aythur O'Braidley," the
violin accompanying the airs and putting the very soul of music into
every song.

But by degrees the musician grew weary, and began to play odds and
ends of old tunes, sacred and profane. He dwelt some time on an
ancient "Kyrie Eleeson," and at last glided, unconsciously as it
were, into the "Land o' the Leal."

I'm wearin' away, Jean,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa, Jean,
To the Land o' the Leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's nae caul or care, Jean,
The days aye fair, Jean,
I' the Land of the Leal.

At last McClure rose from his seat, and said, "I'll pit awa the
fiddle, and bid ye a good nicht. I think I'll be going hame to my
mither the morn."

He went into his tent. It was high tide, and there was a gentle
swish of long low waves lapping the sandy beach. The night wind
sighed a soothing lullaby through the spines of the she-oak, and his
spirit passed peacefully away with the ebb. He was the first man who
died at the Old Port, and he was buried on the bank of the river
where Friday first saw its waters flowing towards the mountain.

Thirty years afterwards I saw two old men, Campbell and Montgomery,
pulling up the long grass which had covered his neglected grave.

GLENGARRY IN GIPPSLAND.

Jack Shay was not sorry to leave the Old Port. The nocturnal feast
made to celebrate the repulse of