Mourn not my end, though ’tis severe,
For death awaits the murderer.
Now in a dismal cell I lie,
For murder I’m condemn’d to die;
Some may pity when they read,
Oppression drove me to the deed.
My friends and home to me were dear,
The trees and flowers that blossom’d near;
The sweet loved spot where youth began
Is dear to every Englishman.