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 bonnet grav'd was plain,
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 his latter times;
but what he said—it was nae play,
i winna venture't in my rhymes.