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
