Page:Mary of Glenkilloch.pdf/3

 Mirk an’ rainy is the night, ne’er a starn keeks thro’ the carry, Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, an’ winds drive wi’ winter’s fury.

Fearfu’ soughs the boor-tree bank, the rifted wood roars wild an’ dreary! Loud the iron yate does clank, an’ cry o’ howlets maks me eerie.

Aboon my breath I daurna ſpeak, for fear I rouse your waukriſe daddy; Canld’sCauld's [sic] the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise my bonny laddy.

She op’d the door, she lot me in, I cuist aside my dreepin’ plaidie; Blaw your warst ye win’s an’ rain, since Maggie now I’m in aside ye.

Now since ye’re wauken Maggie, Now since ye’re wauken Maggie, What care I for howlets cry. For boor-tree bank, or warloch craigie.