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And loot him perish in the deep,
For raising the lady o‘ Dun frae her sleep.
He prigget for mercy he prayed for grace,
While the tears ran down his aged face.
He vowed to heaven he meant nae offence,
And beggit the men to let him gae hence—
To hirple his wa's to the cot house door,
And cheer wi' his lays the simple and poor;
For though his comforts here were but few,
His bosom beat to nature true.
Nae mercy here, quoth the men can be given,
But we hope, auld man, you’ll meet it in heaven,
Our lady's behests we are bound to obey,
Albeit we hae danced to your roundelay,
Then strike on your harp the last sound o woe,
Before that you sleep in your cauld bed below,
The Laird o‘ Dun had power of the law
The Minstrel was flung in harp an a‘,
The Minstrel he groaned and his harp it rung
And mute for aye was his tunefu’ tongue.
A waesome sight it was to see,
Him launched sae quick to eternity.
Ance kythit o’er the stream his beard sae hoars—
Syne his spirit winged its way to gloare,
And never mair was that minstrel seen;
But aye and anon, at morn and een,
His harp it sounded to the breeze,
And his figure was seen to glide through the tree,
And groans were heard sae loud and sae deep
For raising the lady o‘ Dun frae her sleep.
He prigget for mercy he prayed for grace,
While the tears ran down his aged face.
He vowed to heaven he meant nae offence,
And beggit the men to let him gae hence—
To hirple his wa's to the cot house door,
And cheer wi' his lays the simple and poor;
For though his comforts here were but few,
His bosom beat to nature true.
Nae mercy here, quoth the men can be given,
But we hope, auld man, you’ll meet it in heaven,
Our lady's behests we are bound to obey,
Albeit we hae danced to your roundelay,
Then strike on your harp the last sound o woe,
Before that you sleep in your cauld bed below,
The Laird o‘ Dun had power of the law
The Minstrel was flung in harp an a‘,
The Minstrel he groaned and his harp it rung
And mute for aye was his tunefu’ tongue.
A waesome sight it was to see,
Him launched sae quick to eternity.
Ance kythit o’er the stream his beard sae hoars—
Syne his spirit winged its way to gloare,
And never mair was that minstrel seen;
But aye and anon, at morn and een,
His harp it sounded to the breeze,
And his figure was seen to glide through the tree,
And groans were heard sae loud and sae deep
