My athletic days and my fighting days are over. But ever my blood will quicken with the thought that I have played my part and done my service and shed my blood in the ranks of the Black Watch, fighting for Right and for the Freedom of Mankind. The pain of old wounds will ever vanish, the regrets for departed comrades will ever fade into forgetfulness when I read, again, the verses which paraphrase the title conferred by the bodies upon the Black watch—upon us!

There’s a toss o’ th’ sporran,
A swing o’ th’ kilt,
A screech frae th’ pipers
In blood-stirrin’ lilt;
They step out together
As pibroch notes swell—
Oh, they’re bonny, braw fighters,
“The ladies from Hell.”

They’re far frae th’ heather
An’ far frae th’ moor;
As th’ rocks o’ their hillsides
Their faces are dour.
Oh, Th’ Campbells are Comin’
Frae corrie an’ fell—
What a thrill to their slogan!
These “Ladies from Hell.”
As they charged at Culloden
Like fire o’er th’ brae,
Their brothers are charging
In Flanders to-day.
One lesson in manners
The boche has learned well:
’Tis: Make way for the ladies—
“The Ladies from Hell.”

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

Footnotes:

[1] Since my discharge and residence here in America, I have heard several other cases of this kind, but the one narrated above is the only one I actually came in contact with. The Author.

[2] This was Ned’s individual experience. Prisoners in other hospitals and prison camps may have been allowed to write home even at that time. In talking to others I have learned that the prison camps in Germany vary a great deal.—The Author.