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 arow. 
     And every open window
       Was full as full might be
     With black-robed Covenanting carles,
       That goodly sport to see!

     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 onwards—­always onwards,
       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 hiss arose
       From the heart of the tossing crowd;
     Then, as the Graeme looked upwards,
       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.