As Wallace lay on wood and blood,
His own, his care he did not heed,
Thoughts of moors and springtime flood,
Purple glens, the heather's bud,
The truth he knew had been his deed.
The court had called him traitor thee,
Sentenced him, like pawn, an object,
Against all England, no dignity,
A traitor to Edward?
He was never his subject.
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