They brought him to the Watergate{B} 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 lordly brow. Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash, They cheer'd 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 wither'd 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 look'd so great and high,{C} 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 turn'd aside and wept. VII. But onwards--always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labour'd, Till it reach'd the house of doom: But first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud,{D} And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd: Then, as the Græme look'd upwards, He caught the ugly smile Of him who sold his King for gold-- The master-fiend Argyle! VIII. The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turn'd his eyes away. The painted harlot at his side, She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clench'd 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."{E} IX. Had I been there with sword in hand And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets Had peal'd the slogan cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailéd men-- Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backwards then! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had stepp'd as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there! X.