It is not in a prison drear Where all around is gloom, That I would end life's wild career, And sink into the tomb, For though my spirit's ever bold Each tyrant to defy; Still, still, within a dungeon cold, I could not calmly die. It is not that my cheek would pale Within a lonely cell; It is not that my heart would quail To bid this world farewell. For if oppressed by tyrant foe I'd freely be the first To give my life, and strike the blow To lay him in the dust. But place me in a forest glen Unfettered, wild and free, Wtih fifty tried and chosen men A bandit chief to be. 'Tis there, when fighting with my foes Amid my trusty band, I'd freely leave this world of woes, And die with sword in hand.