“Now, by my faith as belted knight,
       And by the name I bear,
     And by the bright Saint Andrew’s cross
       That waves above us there,—­
     Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—­
       And oh, that such should be!—­By
     that dark stream of royal blood
       That lies ’twixt you and me,—­
     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 hath 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!”

     The morning dawned full darkly,
       The rain came flashing down,
     And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
       Lit up the gloomy town. 
     The thunder crashed across the heaven,
       The fatal hour was come;
     Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,
       The larum of the drum. 
     There was madness on the earth below
       And anger in the sky,
     And young and old, and rich and poor,
       Come forth to see him die.

     Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet! 
       How dismal ’tis to see
     The great tall spectral skeleton,
       The ladder and the tree! 
     Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms—­
       The bells begin to toll—­
     “He is coming! he is coming! 
       God’s mercy on his soul!”
     One long last peal of thunder—­
       The clouds are cleared away,
     And the glorious sun once more looks down
       Amidst the dazzling day.

     “He is coming! he is coming!”
       Like a bridegroom from his room,
     Came the hero from his prison,
       To the scaffold and the doom. 
     There was glory on his forehead,
       There was lustre in his eye,
     And he never walked to battle
       More proudly than to die;
     There was color in his visage,
       Though the cheeks of all were wan,
     And they marveled as they saw him pass,
       That great and goodly man!

     He mounted up the scaffold,
       And he turned him to the crowd;
     But they dared not trust the people,
       So he might not speak aloud. 
     But looked upon the heavens
       And they were clear and blue,
     And in the liquid ether
       The eye of God shone through: 
     Yet a black and murky battlement
       Lay resting on the hill,
     As though the thunder slept within—­
       All else was calm and still.