AS I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the waflower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruind was,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fas.
The cauld blae North was streaming forth
Her lights, wi hissing, eerie din;
Athwart the lift they start and shift,
Like Fortunes favors, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turnd mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attird as Minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o stane,
His daring look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet gravd was plain,
The sacred posyLIBERTIE!
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rousd the slumbring Dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Britons ear!
He sang wi joy his former day,
He, weeping, wailed his latter times;
But what he saidit was nae play,
I winna venturet in my rhymes.
