Fareweel, ye dungeons dark and strong,|
Fareweel, Fareweel tae thee.
MacPherson's time will nae be lang
On yonder gallows tree.
Sae rantin'ly, sae wantonly
Sae dauntin'ly gaed he
He played a sprig and danced a jig
Below the gallows tree.
Oh! what is death but parting breath?
On mony a bloody plain
I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
'Twas by a woman's treacherous hand
That I was condemned to dee.
Below a ledge at a window she stood
And a blanket she threw o'er me.
The Laird o' Grant, that hieland sant
That first laid hands on me,
He played the cause on Peter Broon
Tae let MacPherson free.
Untie these bands frae off my hands
And gie to me my sword.
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.
There's some come here tae see me hanged
And some to buy my fiddle.
But before I do part wi' her
I'll brak her thro' the middle.
He took the fiddle in both of his hands
And he broke it o'er a stone.
Says,"There's nae ither hand shall play on thee
When I am dead and gone."
O little did my mother think
When first she cradled me,
That I would turn a rovin' boy
And die on the gallows tree.
Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame disdain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
The reprieve was comin' o'er the brig o' Banf
Tae let MacPherson free,
But they pit the clock a quarter before
And hanged him tae the tree.