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 the sake o' thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,
By bonny Irwine-side,
Where first I owned that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied.

How often didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou wad for aye be mine;
And fond my 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!