The Execution of Montrose

   [James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, was executed in Edinburgh, May 21, 1650, for an attempt to overthrow the Commonwealth and restore Charles II.] COME hither, Evan Cameron!   Come, stand behind my knee— I hear the river roaring down   Toward the wintry sea. There ’s shouting on the mountain-side,   There ’s war within the blast— Old faces look upon me,   Old forms go trooping past. I hear the pibroch wailing   Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again   Upon the verge of night. ’T was 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 Southrons fell   Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan   By Inverlochy’s shore. I ’ve told thee how we swept Dundee,   And tamed the Lindsays’ pride; But never have I told thee yet   How the great Marquis died. A traitor sold him to his foes;—   O deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e’er thou meet   With one of Assynt’s name— Be it upon the mountain’s side,   Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone,   Or backed by armèd men— Face him as thou wouldst face the man   Who 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 lords   In balcony and bow; There sat their gaunt and withered 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! But when he came, though 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 shudder   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, And an angry cry and a hiss arose   From the heart of the tossing crowd: Then, as the Græme looked upward,   He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold—   The master-fiend Argyle! The Marquis gazed a moment,   And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,   And he turned his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side,   She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street,   And hands were clenched 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.” Had I been there with sword in hand,   And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin’s streets   Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse,   Nor might of mailèd men— Not all the rebels in the south   Had borne us backward 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   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 filled the place   Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warriston   To read the murderous doom; And then uprose the great Montrose   In the middle of the room: “Now, by my faith as belted knight   And by the name I bear, And by the bright St. Andrew’s cross   That waves above us there— Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—   And O 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! “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!” The morning dawned full darkly,   The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin bolt   Lit up the gloomy town. The thunder crashed across the heaven,   The fatal hour was come; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat,   The ’larum of 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. Ah God! that ghastly gibbet!   How dismal ’t is 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 color 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; But they dared not trust the people,   So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens,   And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether   The eye of God shone through: Yet a black and murky battlement   Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within,—   All else was calm and still. 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,   But alone he bent the knee; And veiled his face for Christ’s dear grace   Beneath the gallows-tree. Then, radiant and serene, he rose,   And cast his cloak away; For he had ta’en his latest look   Of earth and sun and day. A beam of light fell o’er him,   Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder   As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud,   And a stunning thunder-roll; And no man dared to look aloft,—   Fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound,   A hush, and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky,—   The work of death was done!