Their capon craws an’ queer “ha, ha’s,” They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and fyke, Till we were wae and weary, O: But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d, A prisoner, aughteen year awa’, He fir’d a Fiddler in the North, That dang them tapsalteerie, O. The Minstrel At Lincluden Tune—“Cumnock Psalms.” As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’flow’r scents the dery air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. Chorus—A lassie all alone, was making her moan, Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: In the bluidy wars they fa’, and our honour’s gane an’ a’, And broken-hearted we maun die. The winds were laid, the air was till, The stars they shot along the sky; The tod was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. A lassie all alone, &c. The burn, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase roarings seem’d to rise and fa’. A lassie all alone, &c. The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din, Athort the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune’s favours, tint as win. A lassie all alone, &c. Now, looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear’d, When lo! in form of Minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear’d. A lassie all alone, &c. And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous’d the slumbering Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton’s ear! A lassie all alone, &c. He sang wi’ joy his former day, He, weeping, wail’d his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture’t in my rhymes. A lassie all alone, &c. A Vision As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa’s. The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din; Athwart the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune’s favors, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir’d as Minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o’ stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav’d was plain, The sacred posy—“Libertie!”