| |
| A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, | |
| Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry! | |
| And I’ll give thee a silver pound | |
| To row us o’er the ferry.’ | |
| |
| ‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, | 5 |
| This dark and stormy water?’ | |
| ‘O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s Isle, | |
| And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter. | |
| |
| ‘And fast before her father’s men | |
| Three days we’ve fled together, | 10 |
| For should he find us in the glen, | |
| My blood would stain the heather. | |
| |
| ‘His horsemen hard behind us ride; | |
| Should they our steps discover, | |
| Then who will cheer my bonny bride | 15 |
| When they have slain her lover?’ | |
| |
| Outspoke the hardy Highland wight: | |
| ‘I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready; | |
| It is not for your silver bright, | |
| But for your winsome lady. | 20 |
| |
| ‘And by my word! the bonny bird | |
| 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, | 25 |
| The water-wraith was shrieking; | |
| And in the scowl of heaven each face | |
| Grew dark as they were speaking. | |
| |
| But still as wilder blew the wind, | |
| And as the night grew drearer, | 30 |
| Adown the glen rode armed men— | |
| Their trampling sounded nearer. | |
| |
| ‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries, | |
| ‘Though tempests round us gather; | |
| I’ll meet the raging of the skies, | 35 |
| 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 gathered o’er her. | 40 |
| |
| And still they rowed amidst the roar | |
| Of waters fast prevailing: | |
| Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore— | |
| His wrath was changed to wailing. | |
| |
| For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, | 45 |
| His child he did discover: | |
| One lovely hand she stretched for aid, | |
| And one was round her lover. | |
| |
| ‘Come back! come back!’ he cried in grief, | |
| ‘Across this stormy water; | 50 |
| And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, | |
| My daughter!—oh, my daughter!’ | |
| |
| ’Twas vain:—the loud waves lashed the shore, | |
| Return or aid preventing;— | |
| The waters wild went o’er his child, | 55 |
| And he was left lamenting. | |
| |
