Colonel Gardener
'Twas at the hour of dark midnight,
Before the first cock's crowing,
When westland winds shook Stirling's towers,
With hollow murmurs blowing;
When Fanny fair, all woebegone,
Sad on her bed was lying,
And from the ruin'd towers she heard
The boding screech owl crying.
O dismal night! she said, and wept,
O night presaging sorrow,
I dismal night! she said, and wept,
But more I dread tomorrow.
For now the bloody hour draws nigh,
Each host to Preston bending;
At morn shall sons their fathers slay,
With deadly hate contending.
Even in the visions of the night,
I saw fell death wide sweeping;
And all the matrons of the land,
And all the virgins, weeping.
And now she heard the massy gates
Harsh on their hinges turning;
And now through all the castle heard
The woeful voice of mourning.
Aghast, she started from her bed,
The fatal tidings dreading;
O speak, she cry'd, my father's slain!
I see, I see him bleeding!
A pale corpse on the sullen shore,
At morn, fair maid, I left him;
Even at the thresh-hold of his gate,
The foe of life bereft him.
Bold, in the battle's front, he fell,
With many a wound deformed;
A braver Knight, nor better man,
This fair isle ne'er adorned.
While thus he spoke, the grief-struck maid
A deadly swoon invaded;
Lost was the lustre of her eyes,
And all her beauty faded.
Sad was the sight, and sad the news,
And sad was our complaining;
But oh! for thee, my native land
What woes are still remaining.
But why complain, the hero's soul
Is high in heaven shining:
May providence defend our isle
From all our foes designing.
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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin