Outspoke the hardy Highland wight

'I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:

It is not for your silver bright;

In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, 'I'll row you o'er the ferry.'—

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;2

And in the scowl of heav'n each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

2 The evil spirit of the waters.

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 row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was chang'd to wailing.

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade

His child he did discover :

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,

Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

'My daughter!-oh my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child

And he was left lamenting.

LINES

ON THE

GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

By strangers left upon a lonely shore,

Unknown, unhonour'd, was the friendless dead:

For child to weep, or widow to deplore,

There never came to his unburied head

All from his dreary habitation fled,