And nothing did he say;
But Argyle's cheek grew deadly pale,
And he turned his eyes away.
The painted frail one by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For warlike thunder swept the streets,
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 Cameron's by,
That day, through high Dunadin's streets,
Had pealed the Slogan cry
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men;
Nor all the rebels of 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