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, 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!' |