'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 South'rons fell Beneath his broad claymore, And how he smote the Campbell clan By Inverlocky'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.
A traitor sold him to his foes: Oh, deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name, Be it upon the mountain side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed men; Face him as thou wouldst face a man That 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.
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 Græme looked upward He saw the bitter smile Of him who sold his king for gold, The master fiend Argyle.