But onwards-always onwards, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant laboured, Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd: Of him who sold his king for gold— The Marquis gazed a moment, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, For a roar like thunder swept the street, "Back, coward, from thy place! Had I been there with sword in hand, That day, through high Dunedin's streets, Had pealed the slogan-cry. Nor might of mailèd men Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backwards 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 Where once the Scottish kings were throned And perjured traitors filled the place "Now, by my faith as belted knight, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross I have not sought in battlefield But a better place ye have named for me For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, And God who made shall gather them : The morning dawned full darkly, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt The thunder crashed across the heaven, Yet aye broke in with muffled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below, And young and old, and rich and poor, 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 cleared away, And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. "He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, 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 walked to battle More proudly than to die: There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man! He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd; The eye of God shone through! Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within- The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace And cast his cloak away; For he had ta'en his latest look A beam of light fell o'er him, MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. A.D. 1692. Oн tell me, harper, wherefore flow Where none may list their melody? Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, |