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There's a lonely dame in a gudely bouir,
She nevir lifts an ee—
That dame was ance the Rose sae red,
She is now a pale Lilye.
A Knicht aft looks frae his turret tall,
Where the kirk-yaird grass grows green;
He wonne the weed and lost the flouir,
And grief aye dims his een:
At noon of nicht, in the moonshine bricht,
The warrior kneels in prayer—
He prays wi' his face to the auld kirk-yaird,
And wishes he were there!
