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The country in this part is filled with traditions that record, and ballads that celebrate anecdotes of the predatory warfare then so general. The following ballad was communicated to me by a friend, who has the usual vivid memory of childhood on subjects connected with its early impressions. Not only has it never been published, but it is so curious and quaint, that I cannot resist its insertion here. At least, it is illustrative of the wild scenery haunted by yet wilder memories.

lord said to his ladie, As he mounted his horse, Beware of Long Lonkin That lies in the moss.

The lord said to his ladie As he rode away, Beware of Long Lonkin, That lies in the clay.

What care I for Lonkin, Or any of his gang, My doors are all shut, And my windows penn'd in?

There were six little windows, And they were all shut, But one little window, And that was forgot.