V

     Open wide the vaults of Athol,
       Where the bones of heroes rest—­
     Open wide the hallowed portals
       To receive another guest! 
     Last of Scots, and last of freemen—­
       Last of all that dauntless race
     Who would rather die unsullied,
       Than outlive the land’s disgrace! 
     O thou lion-hearted warrior! 
       Reck not of the after-time: 
     Honor may be deemed dishonor,
       Loyalty be called a crime. 
     Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
       Of the noble and the true,
     Hands that never failed their country,
       Hearts that never baseness knew. 
     Sleep!—­and till the latest trumpet
       Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
     Scotland shall not boast a braver
       Chieftain than our own Dundee!

     THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

     From ‘Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers’

     Come hither, Evan Cameron! 
       Come, stand beside 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;—­
       A 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.