Sae our Scottish lads fell even down,
An' they lay slain on every know.

"O, hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd,
"Gie quarters to yon men for me!"
But wicked Claver'se swore an oath,
His cornet's death reveng'd sud be.

"O hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd,
"If ony thing you'll do for me;
"Hold up your hand, you cursed Graeme,
"Else a rebel to our king ye'll be."

Then wicked Claver'se turn'd about,
I wot an angry man was he;
And he has lifted up his hat,
And cry'd, "God bless his majesty!"

Then he's awa to London town,
Ay e'en as fast as he can dree;
Fause witnesses he has wi' him ta'en.
An' ta'en Monmouth's head f'rae his body.

Alang the brae, beyond the brig,
Mony brave man lies cauld and still;
But lang we'll mind, and sair we'll rue,
The bloody battle of Bothwell Hill.

[Footnote A: _Waly!_ an interjection.]