Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe’s her delight,
But for the crooning o’ her wheel
She disna care a mite. 
The weary pund, etc.

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,
Made o’ your linkum twine,
But, ah!  I fear our bonny burn
Will ne’er lave web o’ thine. 
The weary pund, etc.

Nay, smile again, my winsome mate;
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I’ll lo’e and bless thee still. 
The weary pund, etc.

FROM ‘DE MONTFORT’:  A TRAGEDY

ACT V—­SCENE III

Moonlight.  A wild path in a wood, shaded with trees.  Enter De Montfort_, with a strong expression of disquiet, mixed with fear, upon his face, looking behind him, and bending his ear to the ground, as if he listened to something._

     De Montfort—­How hollow groans the earth beneath my tread: 
     Is there an echo here?  Methinks it sounds
     As though some heavy footsteps followed me. 
     I will advance no farther. 
     Deep settled shadows rest across the path,
     And thickly-tangled boughs o’erhang this spot. 
     O that a tenfold gloom did cover it,
     That ’mid the murky darkness I might strike! 
     As in the wild confusion of a dream,
     Things horrid, bloody, terrible do pass,
     As though they passed not; nor impress the mind
     With the fixed clearness of reality.

[An owl is heard screaming near him.]

[Starting.] What sound is that?

[Listens, and the owl cries again.]

It is the screech-owl’s cry. 
Foul bird of night!  What spirit guides thee here? 
Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horror? 
I’ve heard of this.
[Pauses and listens.]
How those fallen leaves so rustle on the path,
With whispering noise, as though the earth around me
Did utter secret things. 
The distant river, too, bears to mine ear
A dismal wailing.  O mysterious night! 
Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou. 
A distant gathering blast sounds through the wood,
And dark clouds fleetly hasten o’er the sky;
Oh that a storm would rise, a raging storm;
Amidst the roar of warring elements
I’d lift my hand and strike! but this pale light,
The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,
Is terrible.—­[Starting.] Footsteps, and near me, too! 
He comes! he comes!  I’ll watch him farther on—­
I cannot do it here.
[Exit.]

Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly from the bottom of the stage; as he advances to the front, the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again.