And they brought to the heading-hill, His hounds intill a leish; And they brought till the heading-hill, His gos-hawk in a jess. King James he then rade up the hill, 85 And mony a man him wi', And called on his trusty page, To come right speedilie. "Ye'll do' ye to the Earl o' Mar, For he sits on yon hill; 90 Bid him loose the brand frae his bodie, Young Waters for to kill." "O gude forbid," the Earl he said, "The like su'd e'er fa' me, My bodie e'er su'd wear the brand 95 That gars young Waters die." Then he has loos'd his trusty brand, And casten't in the sea; Says, "Never lat them get a brand, Till it come back to me." 100 The scaffold it prepared was, And he did mount it hie; And a' spectators that were there, The saut tears blint their e'e. "O had your tongues, my brethren dear, 105 And mourn nae mair for me; Ye're seeking grace frae a graceless face, For there is nane to gie. "Ye'll tak' a bit o' canvas claith, And pit it ower my ee; 110 And Jack, my man, ye'll be at hand, The hour that I su'd die. "Syne aff ye'll tak' my bluidy sark, Gie it fair Margaret Grahame; For she may curse the dowie dell 115 That brought King James him hame. "Ye'll bid her mak' her bed narrow, And mak' it naeways wide; For a brawer man than young Waters Will ne'er streek by her side. 120 "Bid her do weel to my young son, And gie him nurses three; For gin he live to be a man, King James will gar him die." He call'd upon the headsman then, 125 A purse o' gowd him gae; Says, "Do your office, headsman, boy, And mak' nae mair delay." "O head me soon, O head me clean, And pit me out o' pine; 130 For it is by the king's command; Gang head me till his min'. "Tho' by him I'm condemn'd to die, I'm lieve to his ain kin; And for the truth, I'll plainly tell, 135 I am his sister's son." "Gin ye're my sister's son," he said, "It is unkent to me." "O mindna ye on your sister Bess, That lives in the French countrie?" 140 "Gin Bess then be your mither dear, As I trust well she be, Gae hame, gae hame, young Waters, Ye'se ne'er be slain by me." But he lay by his napkin fine, 145 Was saft as ony silk, And on the block he laid his neck, Was whiter than the milk.