The wind had risen rapidly and the old beech tree was shrieking and groaning overhead as its branches strove like maniac arms with the tempest. The Ayr could be plainly heard roaring its diapason on its rocky banks in the darkness below, while the thunder crashed overhead and the lurid glare of lightning ever and again lit up the yard.
Unheeding its warning he continued, his melancholy sonorous voice, with its mournful cadences, floating out with passionate longing, filling his listener with unutterable sadness:
“Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves.
Farewell my friends, farewell my foes,
My peace with thee, my love with those;
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.”