Page:Murderit mynstrell.pdf/5

 Though his voice it was broken and trembelled fu‘ sore, He sung Caledonia's battles of yore ; Her mountains sae wild and her sweet smiling plains, And the graces and loves of her nymphs and her swains. He brushed the wire wi’ muckle glee; He lilted his notes right merily, As if nae dolour he might dree. The Lady of Dun she rang her bell—, What noise is this, pray quickly tell; What means this lilting and deray ? A bonny-like rippet this, by my fay,. A Minstrel, madam, aged and poor, Quoth the damsel, is harping at the door; And oh, my Lady, I’m wae to see him, And wish I had only something to gi’e him, For his doublet is ragid his hewit is bare, And the wind whistles through his thin white hair; Albeit his lays be blythesomecand sweet, He hasna a bachel to cover his feet. “ Harping at this time of the morn, Upon my life it canna be borne ; Y e manseless woman, gae tell my men To fling the catyff o’er the den, And let him perish in the deep, For raising the lady o’ Dun frae her sleep.'1