They’re curs’d who’re guilty of such deed:
Yet here was Tullibardine gripped,
When from the roaring guns escaped,
And prisoner to London led;
Yet dy’d there quietly in his bed.
Duke William still camp’d in the north,
All was in stir beyond the Forth,
Ports, pass, and ferries guarded,
Who catch’d a rebel was well rewarded.
Few but preachers, at this day,