For a righteous man one’ll hardly die:
But for me, indeed, I’se no regard;
For I doubt he’ll hardly be preferr’d.
When to the scaffold he was born,
He looked round the croud with scorn:
Preserve me Sirs, then did he say,
What’s brought a thir fowk here the day?
To see an auld grey head cut aff,
That canna gang, no wi’ a staff,
But maun be born here by men,