398. Lord Gregory: A Ballad by Robert Burns
O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempestâ€™s roar;
A waefuâ€™ wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her fatherâ€™s haâ€™,
And aâ€™ for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mindâ€™st thou not the grove
By bonie Irwine side,
Where first I ownâ€™d that virgin love
I lang, lang had denied.
How aften didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for aye be mine!
And my fond heart, itselâ€™ sae true,
It neâ€™er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:
Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by,
O, wilt thou bring me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my fause Love,
His wrangs to Heaven and me.