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 But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

“O haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,

“Though tempests round us gather;

I’ll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—

When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o’er her.

And still they row’d amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismay’d, thro’ storm and shade,

His child he did discover:—

One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,

And one was round her lover.

“Come back! come back!” he cried in grief,

“Across this stormy water:

And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,—

My daughter! O my daughter!”

Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,

Return or aid preventing:—

The waters wild went o’er his child,

And he was left lamenting.