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Slow the bard departed sighing,
Wounded worth forbade replying,
One last feeble effort trying,
Faint he sunk—no more to rise.
Through his harp the breeze sharp ringing,
Wild his dying dirge was singing,
While his soul, from insult springing,
Sought its mansion in the skies.

Now, though the wintry winds be blowing,
Night be foul, with raining, snowing,
Still the traveller, that way going,
Shuns the inn upon the moor.
Though within 'tis warm and cheery,
Though without 'tis cold and dreary,
Still he minds the minstrel, weary,
Spurn'd from that unfriendly door.

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Tam Glen.

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';
To anger them a' is a pity;
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen!