| A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound | |
| Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! | |
| And I'll give thee a silver pound | |
| To row us o'er the ferry!" | |
| |
| "Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, | 5 |
| This dark and stormy water?" | |
| "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, | |
| And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. | |
| |
| "And fast before her father's men | |
| Three days we've fled together; | 10 |
| For should he find us in the glen, | |
| My blood would stain the heather. | |
| |
| "His horsemen hard behind us ride— | |
| Should they our steps discover, | |
| Then who will cheer my bonnie bride, | 15 |
| When they have slain her lover?" | |
| |
| Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, | |
| "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: | |
| It is not for your silver bright, | |
| But for your winsome lady:— | 20 |
| |
| "And by my word! the bonnie bird | |
| In danger shall not tarry; | |
| So though the waves are raging white | |
| I'll row you o'er the ferry." | |
| |
| By this the storm grew loud apace, | 25 |
| The water-wraith was shrieking; | |
| And in the scowl of heaven each face | |
| Grew dark as they were speaking. | |
| |
| But still as wilder blew the wind, | |
| And as the night grew drearer, | 30 |
| Adown the glen rode armèd men, | |
| Their trampling sounded nearer. | |
| |
| "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, | |
| "Though tempests round us gather; | |
| I'll meet the raging of the skies, | 35 |
| But not an angry father." | |
| |
| The boat has left a stormy land, | |
| A stormy sea before her,— | |
| When, oh! too strong for human hand | |
| The tempest gather'd o'er her. | 40 |
| |
| And still they row'd amidst the roar | |
| Of waters fast prevailing: | |
| Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,— | |
| His wrath was changed to wailing. | |
| |
| For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade | 45 |
| His child he did discover;— | |
| One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, | |
| And one was round her lover. | |
| |
| "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief | |
| "Across this stormy water; | 50 |
| And I'll forgive your Highland chief, | |
| My daughter! O my daughter!" | |
| |
| 'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, | |
| Return or aid preventing: | |
| The waters wild went o'er his child, | 55 |
| And he was left lamenting. | |
| |
