LORD GREGORY. O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonie Irwine-side, I lang, lang had denied? How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for ay be mine; And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou dart of Heav'n that flashest by, Ye mustering thunders from above, But spare, and pardon my fause love, THE wintry west extends his blast, While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And pass the heartless day. The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast ',' Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, My griefs it seems to join ; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! "Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil; Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.' 1 Dr. Young. |