They took the son and bound him,
    Neck and heels in a thong,
  And a lad took him and swung him,
    And flung him far and strong,
  And the sea swallowed his body,
    Like that of a child of ten;—­
  And there on the cliff stood the father,
    Last of the dwarfish men.

  “True as the word I told you: 
    Only my son I feared;
  For I doubt the sapling courage
    That goes without the beard. 
  But now in vain is the torture,
    Fire shall never avail: 
  Here dies in my bosom
    The secret of Heather Ale.”

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

* * * * *

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.

[James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21, 1650, for an attempt to overthrow the Commonwealth and restore Charles II.]

  Come hither, Evan Cameron! 
    Come, stand behind my knee—­
  I hear the river roaring down
    Toward the wintry sea. 
  There’s shouting on the mountain-side,
    There’s war within the blast—­
  Old faces look upon me,
    Old forms go trooping past. 
  I hear the pibroch wailing
    Amidst the din of fight,
  And my dim spirit wakes again
    Upon the verge of night.

  ’Twas I that led the Highland host
    Through wild Lochaber’s snows,
  What time the plaided clans came down
    To battle with Montrose. 
  I’ve told thee how the Southrons fell
    Beneath the broad claymore,
  And how we smote the Campbell clan
    By Inverlochy’s shore. 
  I’ve told thee how we swept Dundee,
    And tamed the Lindsays’ pride;
  But never have I told thee yet
    How the great Marquis died.

  A traitor sold him to his foes;—­
    O deed of deathless shame! 
  I charge thee, boy, if e’er thou meet
    With one of Assynt’s name—­
  Be it upon the mountain’s side,
    Or yet within the glen,
  Stand he in martial gear alone,
    Or backed by armed men—­
  Face him as thou wouldst face the man
    Who wronged thy sire’s renown;
  Remember of what blood thou art,
    And strike the caitiff down!

  They brought him to the Watergate,
    Hard bound with hempen span. 
  As though they held a lion there,
    And not a ’fenceless man. 
  They set him high upon a cart—­
    The hangman rode below—­
  They drew his hands behind his back,
    And bared his noble brow. 
  Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
    They cheered the common throng,
  And blew the note with yell and shout,
    And bade him pass along.

  It would have made a brave man’s heart
    Grow sad and sick that day. 
  To watch the keen, malignant eyes
    Bent down on that array. 
  There stood the Whig west-country lords
    In balcony and bow;
  There sat their gaunt and withered dames,
    And their daughters all a-row. 
  And every open window
    Was full as full might be
  With black-robed Covenanting carles,
    That goodly sport to see!