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8

The lady o' Dun could never mair sleep;
But aye the moment she winket an e'e,
She saw before her as plain as might be,
The Minstrel wide gaping and wreathin in pain.
And sueing for mercy he couldna obtain,
And wringing his hands in wild despair,
And wagging his head and his thin white hair
While vieve in her fancy wad she see,
The ghaistly glower of his dead-set e'e.
And his clay-cold hand wad press her cheek;
Oh then wad she start frae her bed and shriek
"Hand aff that hand! oh, withdraw that e'e
For heaven's sake, tak him away frae me!
His beard seems smeared over with feame,
Oh, I wish it were, but it's nae—a dream!
For he looks sae wildly in my face
That I wish to God he had met wi' grace!
Lord, send to my soul the balsam of peace!
"Oh, when shall I find it! Never, never!
It has fled this bosom for ever and ever!"