COME hither, Evan Cameron! 
 Come, stand beside my knee: 
I hear the river roaring down 
 Towards 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 tam?d 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 back?d by armed men? 
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man 
 Who wrong?d 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 bar?d his noble brow. 
Then, as a hound is slipp?d from leash,
 They cheer?d 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 wither?d dames, 
 And their daughters all a-row. 
And every open window 
 Was full as full might be 
With black-rob?d Covenanting carles, 
 That goodly sport to see!
 
But when he came, though pale and wan, 
 He look?d 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 turn?d aside and wept. 
 
But onwards?always onwards, 
 In silence and in gloom, 
The dreary pageant labor?d, 
 Till it reach?d 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 Graeme look?d upwards, 
 He saw the ugly smile 
Of him who sold his king for gold, 
 The master-fiend Argyle! 
 
The Marquis gaz?d a moment,
 And nothing did he say, 
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale 
 And he turn?d 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 clench?d at him; 
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, 
 ?Back, coward, from thy place! 
For seven long years thou hast not dar?d 
 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 peal?d the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse, 
 Nor might of mailed 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 
 Within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were thron?d 
 Amidst their nobles all. 
But there was dust of vulgar feet 
 On that polluted floor, 
And perju?d traitors fill?d the place 
 Where good men sate before. 
With savage glee came Warristoun 
 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 Saint Andrew?s cross 
 That waves above us there, 
Yea, 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 dar?d 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 nam?d for me
 Than by my father?s grave. 
For truth and right, ?gainst treason?s might, 
 This hand hath always striven, 
And ye raise it up for a witness still