It is not in a prison drear 
Where all around is gloom, 
That I would end life's wild career, 
And sink into the tomb, 
For though my spirit's ever bold 
Each tyrant to defy; 
Still, still, within a dungeon cold,
I could not calmly die. 

It is not that my cheek would pale 
Within a lonely cell; 
It is not that my heart would quail 
To bid this world farewell. 
For if oppressed by tyrant foe 
I'd freely be the first 
To give my life, and strike the blow 
To lay him in the dust.

But place me in a forest glen 
Unfettered, wild and free, 
Wtih fifty tried and chosen men 
A bandit chief to be. 
'Tis there, when fighting with my foes 
Amid my trusty band, 
I'd freely leave this world of woes, 
And die with sword in hand.