Robert Burns

Lord Gregory

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,
  And loud the tempest’s roar;
A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tow’;
  Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father’s ha’,
  And a’ for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
  If love it mayna be.

Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove,
  By bonnie 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 aye 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 bolt 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!