O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar:
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
Lord Gregory ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shae,
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,
By bonie Irwine-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied.
How aften didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of Heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above
Your willing victim see!
But spare, and pardon my fause Love,
His wrangs to Heaven and me!