THE SCOTIAD - damowords

Wallace brought to SmithfieldLocked up in damp & dreary cellThe hour of day he could not tell,A single winnock block'd the gloom,One lone crow flutter'd thro the room,Knowing when mortal men will die,He fixed him with his beady eye& from an ochre-colour'd beakWhat host of hellish sounds did shriek!Til silenced by the turning lock,Gruff warders rush’d in rumgunshoch& dragg’d Wallace, one final timeHe watches sunbeams shine sublime,Sweet moment interrupted rudeBy kicks & punches plenty crude,WALLACE TORTUREDAll Ingland stood there with a friendTo see the rebel meet his end,For there is little standing roomWhen rebels meet a rebel doom.Around his neck a rope was slung& by the gallows he was hung,But his was not a dangle deathThey cut the rope, he gasp’d for breath,Then his limbs tied to four horsesRaging in seperate courses,Breaking bones from burning sockets,As they strain, from concealed pocketsThe cardinal draws sharpen'd knives,The ending blades of many lives!