This page has been validated.
(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’s 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.
