by heedless chance 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 bon grav'd was in,

the sacred posy—“libertie!”

and frae his harp sic strains did flow,

might rous'd the slumb'ring 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 histter times;

but what he said—it was nae y,

i winna venture't in my rhymes.