O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar: A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory ope thy door. An exile frae her father's ha', And a' for loving thee; At least some pity on me shae, If love it may na be. Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonie Irwine-side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied. How aften 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!