Barbara Allan

'Twas at the hour of dark midnight,

Before the first cock's crowing,

When westland winds shook Stirling's tow'rs,

With hollow murmurs blowing;

When Fanny fair, all woe begone,

Sad on her bed was lying,

And from the ruin'd tow'rs she heard

The boding screech-owl crying.

"O dismal night!" she said, and wept,

"O night presaging sorrow,

"O dismal night!" she said, and wept,

"But more I dread tomorrow.

"For now the bloody hour draws nigh,

"Each host to Preston bending;

"At morn shall sons their fathers slay,

"With deadly hate contending.

Aghast, she started from her bed,

The fatal tidings dreading;

"O speak," she cry'd, "my father's slain!

"I see, I see him bleeding!" --

'A pale corpse on the sullen shore,

'At morn, fair maid, I left him;

'Even at the thresh-hold of his gate,

'The foe of life bereft him.

Sad was the sight, and sad the news,

And sad was our complaining;

But oh! for thee, my native land,

What woes are still remaining!

But why complain? the hero's soul

Is high in heaven shining:

May Providence defend our isle

From all our foes designing.