a vision
as i stood by yon roofless tower,
where the wa'flower sts the dewy air,
where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
and tells the midnight moon her care.
the winds were id, the air was still,
the stars they shot ang the sky;
the fox was howling on the hill,
and the distant eg glens reply.
the stream, adown its hazelly path,
was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
hasting to join the sweeping nith,
whase distant r swells and fa's.
the cauld be north was streaming forth
her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din;
athwart the lift they start and shift,
like fortune's favors, tint as win.
by heedless ce i turn'd mine eyes,
and, by the moonbeam, shook to see
a stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
had i a statue been o' stane,
his daring look had daunted me;
and on his bo grav'd in,
the sacred posy—“libertie!”
and frae his harp sic strains did flow,
might rous'd the slumb&# dead to hear;
but oh, it was a tale of woe,
as ever met a briton's ear!
he sang wi' joy his former day,
he, weeping, wailed his tter times;
but what he said—it was nae py,
i winure't in my rhymes.