I.

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! Macpherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, Below the gallows-tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword; And there's no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be.