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Updated: June 3, 2025
The achievement of Robert Oig, or young Rob Roy, as the Lowlanders called him, was celebrated in a ballad, of which there are twenty different and various editions. The tune is lively and wild, and we select the following words from memory: Rob Roy is frae the Hielands come, Down to the Lowland border; And he has stolen that lady away, To haud his house in order.
It is difficult to say how Harry Wakefield and Robin Oig first became intimates, but it is certain a close acquaintance had taken place betwixt them, although they had apparently few common subjects of conversation or of interest, so soon as their talk ceased to be of bullocks.
While those present expected that the wound, which had so lately flooded the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig replaced the covering with the brief exclamation, "He was a pretty man!" My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate Highlander stood his trial at Carlisle.
Robin Oig had just given the preliminary "Hoo-hoo!" to urge forward the loiterers of the drove, when there was a cry behind him. "Stay, Robin bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tomahourich auld Janet, your father's sister." "Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife," said a farmer from the Carse of Stirling; "she'll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle."
So let me walk the DEASIL round you, that you may go safe out into the far foreign land, and come safe home." Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, and signing to those around that he only complied with the old woman to soothe her humour.
"Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man," said the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability of his country; "shake hands, and we will be better friends than ever." "Friends!" exclaimed Robin Oig with strong emphasis "friends! Never. Look to yourself, Harry Waakfelt."
The ruddy cheek, red lips, and white teeth set off a countenance which had gained by exposure to the weather a healthful and hardy rather than a rugged hue. If Robin Oig did not laugh, or even smile frequently as, indeed, is not the practice among his countrymen his bright eyes usually gleamed from under his bonnet with an expression of cheerfulness ready to be turned into mirth.
"She canna do that," said another sapient of the same profession "Robin Oig is no the lad to leave any of them, without tying Saint Mungo's knot on their tails, and that will put to her speed the best witch that ever flew over Dimayet upon a broomstick."
While MacGregor wrote in this disconsolate manner, Death, the sad but sure remedy for mortal evils, and decider of all doubts and uncertainties, was hovering near him. A memorandum on the back of the letter says the writer died about a week after, in October 1754. It now remains to mention the fate of Robin Oig for the other sons of Rob Roy seem to have been no way distinguished.
Drummond MacGregor had kindred connections with the slain Glenure; and, besides, the MacGregors and Campbells had been friends of late, while the former clan and the Stewarts had, as we have seen, been recently at feud; lastly, Robert Oig was now in custody at Edinburgh, and James was desirous to do some service by which his brother might be saved.
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