6
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
I'll go, my chief— I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for you winsome lady!
'And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So—though the wavcs are raging white—
I'll row you o'er the ferry!'—
By this the storm grew loud арасе,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men!
Their trampling sounded nearer!
'Oh! 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 gather'd o'er her—
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was change'd to wailing—
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover!—
One lovely arm was stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
