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 fill'd the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warristoun{F} To read the murderous doom, And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. XI. "Now by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear, And by the red Saint Andrew's cross That waves above us there-- Ay, by a greater, mightier oath-- And oh, that such should be!-- By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me-- I 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! XII. "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 has 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!"{G} XIII. The morning dawn'd full darkly, The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town: The heavens were speaking out their wrath, The fatal hour was come, Yet ever sounded sullenly The trumpet and the drum. There was madness on the earth below, And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die. XIV. 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 last long peal of thunder-- The clouds are clear'd away, And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. XV. He is coming! he is coming! Like a bridegroom from his room,{H} 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 walk'd to battle More proudly than to die: There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man! XVI.