Роберт БёрнсLORD GREGORYЛОРД ГРЕГОРИ

Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
⁠And loud the tempests roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
⁠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 may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
⁠By bonnie Irvine side,
⁠Where first I own'd that virgin love
⁠I lang lang had denied?

How aften didst thou pledge the 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 dart of heaven that flashes by,
⁠Oh, wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above,
⁠Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my false love
⁠His wrongs to heaven and me!