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.

  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 lord
  In Balcony and Bow;
  There sat three gaunt and withered Dames
  And daughters in a row,
  And every open window
  Was full, as full might be,
  With black robed covenanting carles,
  That goodly sport to see.

  And when he came, so 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 shuddering
  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,
  An angry cry and hiss arose,
  From the lips of the angry crowd. 
  Then as the Graeme looked upward
  He saw the bitter smile
  Of him who sold his king for gold,
  The master fiend Argyle.

  The Marquis gazed a moment
  And nothing did he say;
  But Argyle’s cheek grew deadly pale,
  And he turned his eyes away. 
  The painted frail one by his side,
  She shook through every limb,
  For warlike thunder swept the streets,
  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 Cameron’s by,
  That day, through high Dunadin’s streets,
  Had pealed the Slogan cry
  Not all their troops of trampling horse,
  Nor might of mailed men;
  Nor all the rebels of 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 sat before. 
  With savage glee came there,
  To read the murderous doom
  And then up rose the great Montrose
  In the middle of the room,—­