Lord Gregory.

A poem by Robert Burns


O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
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 Irwin-side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love
I lang, lang had denied?


How often didst thou pledge and vow
Thou wad for ay 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 flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!


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

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