The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you mysel, I got a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight
Wi’ waving sough.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch stour, ‘quaick! quaick!’
Among the springs
Awa’ ye squattered, like a drake,