The sun comes glinting thro’ the reek
And gilds my galling chain;
Oh, our lives are sold for fairy-gold,
And glamour is a’ our gain!
Oh, I’d give my heart fra’ out of my breast,
Or the fell fra’ my flesh, to see
One little star of a’ the stars
That shine on mine own countrie!
The wheels they groan on the paving stone—
And I dream that their dreary din
Is the song o’ the burn afar in the fern,
Or the wind that wails in the whin.
Oh, the rat to his hole, and the bird to his nest,
And the deer to the hills so free!—
But I that drew sword at my king’s own word
Must hang on a gallows-tree!
BALLAD OF THE TRAITOR’S HEAD
(1746)
Wasted and wan, under sun and star,
Stares the head of the traitor on Temple Bar.
Sere are his sunken cheeks, and grim
Is the leering laugh on the lips of him.
The lights are out; the silent street
Echoes to the watchman’s feet.
Ho, cold comrade! sure the time
Passes slow till morning-chime.
There are none but we that watch so late,
I in my garret, thou on thy gate.