II.

  ’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 Lindsay’s pride;
  But never have I told thee yet
    How the Great Marquis died!

  III.

  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!

  IV.

  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.

  V.

  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!

  VI.

  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 forebore 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 turn’d aside and wept.

  VII.

  But onwards—­always onwards,
    In silence and in gloom,
  The dreary pageant laboured,
    Till it reach’d 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 upwards,
    He met the ugly smile
  Of him who sold his King for gold—­
    The master-fiend Argyle!

  VIII.