POETRY.

THE GREYS.

[1706.]

Yesterday Lord John Hay, Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Scots Dragoons, died of a lingering fever, after about tweet, days' illness, lasing generally regretted through the whole army."—The Delo of Marlborough to me. Secretary &eh. August 21th, 1705.

WHEN we ga'ed marchin' up the German Rhine Wi' my Lord Duke o' Marlborough, one gallant an' fine, An the big beer-maidens bustled out for to see A' the brew, Scottish laddies ridin' knee by knee, Our coats they were scarlet, our chargers they were grey, Au' the Colonel o' the Regiment was the Lord John Hay.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, An' wed they ken the music that our kettle-drummer plays; An' they run like stags At the rustlin' o' our flags, An' the champin' au' the stampin' o' our bonnie, dappled nags.

Up the Schellenberg scour, like guid dragoons, We straddled in our boots wi' our big musketoons ; We steadied the line, an' we stepped the runaways, An' ilka body rallied on the Lord John Hay's ; But we stood to our horses when the Germans* broke, An' a sair an' waefu' judgment frae our 'trumpets spoke.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, &c.

Thirty French squadrons scattered then an' there, When we splashed through Blenheim water wi' lang swords bare ; They plumped into the Danube, an' we watched 'em droon, An' twenty-eight battalions laid their firelocks doun; They were breakin' clean awn' through the smoke an' blaze, But they found the back-door bolted by the Lord John Hay's.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, &o Then in auld Brabant, when the lines were burst, We rode on the richt, an' we rode aiming the first ; It was, "Steady, the Scots Dragoons! Steady, left wheel!" An' up we rolled the Germans* in their coats o' steel; They left us a' their cannon an' their standards gay, Au' their General, he was taken by the Lord John Hay.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, Sm.

Ac Ramillies wi' tln•ee squadrons alone We captured twa battalions o' the French "King's Own"; Their blasphemies were awfu', but they went their• ways in charge o' sax-an'-twenty o the Lord John Hay's, While the rest o'-the lads rode a huntin' the foe A' the moonlit, summer nicht wee big tally-ho.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, &c.

To Paris we gang, to show the puir loons The prodigious fine slat o' the bauld Scots Dragoons; WV my Lord Duke o Marlborough we a' shall be there, But the chiel that should lead us will lead us nae mair; For he's dead o' a fever, he's dead at Courtrai,— \We shall never see anitber like the Lord John Hay.

We are the Greys, The Lord John Hay's, An' weel they ken the music. that our kettle-drummer plays; An' they run like stags At the rustlin' o' our flags, An' the champin' an' the stampin' o' our bonnie, dappled nage.

FRANK TAYLOR.

[A signed manuscript of this poem was found amongst the papers of the late Mr. Frank Taylor, and we are informed by his executor that it was his intention, if he had lived, to Bend it to the Spectator. We gladly publish this last contri- bution from one whose patriotic verse has been familiar to our readers for 'many years.—En. Spectator.] • Tho soldiers of the Elector of Bavaria, who was in alliance witanossa.