But when he came, though pale and wan,
    He looked so great and high,
  So noble was his manly front,
    So calm his steadfast eye;—­
  The rabble rout forbore to shout,
    And each man held his breath,
  For well they knew the hero’s soul
    Was face to face with death. 
  And then a mournful shudder
    Through all the people crept,
  And some that came to scoff at him
    Now turned aside and wept.

  But onward—­always onward,
    In silence and in gloom,
  The dreary pageant labored,
    Till it reached the house of doom. 
  Then first a woman’s voice was heard
    In jeer and laughter loud,
  And an angry cry and a hiss arose
    From the heart of the tossing crowd: 
  Then, as the Graeme looked upward,
    He saw the ugly smile
  Of him who sold his king for gold—­
    The master-fiend Argyle!

  The Marquis gazed a moment,
    And nothing did he say,
  But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,
    And he turned his eyes away. 
  The painted harlot by his side,
    She shook through every limb,
  For a roar like thunder swept the street,
    And hands were clenched at him;
  And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
    “Back, coward, from thy place! 
  For seven long years thou hast not dared
    To look him in the face.”

  Had I been there with sword in hand,
    And fifty Camerons by,
  That day through high Dunedin’s streets
    Had pealed the slogan-cry. 
  Not all their troops of trampling horse,
    Nor might of mailed men—­
  Not all the rebels in the south
    Had borne us backward then! 
  Once more his foot on Highland heath
    Had trod as free as air,
  Or I, and all who bore my name,
    Been laid around him there!

  It might not be.  They placed him next
    Within the solemn hall,
  Where once the Scottish kings were throned
    Amidst their nobles all. 
  But there was dust of vulgar feet
    On that polluted floor,
  And perjured traitors filled the place
    Where good men sate before. 
  With savage glee came Warriston
    To read the murderous doom;
  And then uprose the great Montrose
    In the middle of the room: 

  “Now, by my faith as belted knight
    And by the name I bear,
  And by the bright St. Andrew’s cross
    That waves above us there—­
  Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—­
    And O that such should be!—­
  By that dark stream of royal blood
    That lies ’twixt you and me—­
  I have not sought in battle-field
    A wreath of such renown,
  Nor dared I hope on my dying day
    To win the martyr’s crown!

  “There is a chamber far away
    Where sleep the good and brave,
  But a better place ye have named for me
    Than by my father’s grave. 
  For truth and right, ’gainst treason’s might,
    This hand has always striven,
  And ye raise it up for a witness still
    In the eye of earth and heaven. 
  Then nail my head on yonder tower—­
    Give every town a limb—­
  And God who made shall gather them: 
    I go from you to Him!”