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lord gregory

o irk, irk is this idnight hour,

and loud the tepest&039;s roar;

a waefu&039; wanderer seeks thy tower,

lord gregory, ope thy door

an exile frae her father&039;s ha&039;,

and a&039; for lovg thee;

at least pity on shaw,

if love it ay na be

lord gregory, d&039;st thou not the grove

by bonie ire side,

where first i own&039;d that virg love

i ng, ng had denied

how aften didst thou pled and vow

thou wad for aye be e!

and y fond heart, itsel&039; sae true,

it ne&039;er istrted the

hard is thy heart, lord gregory,

and flty is thy breast:

thou bolt of heaven that fshest by,

o, wilt thou brg rest!

ye terg thunders fro above,

your willg victi see;

but spare and pardon y fae love,

his wrangs to heaven and