Swing—swing in the hail and snow,
Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht,
Creak—creak to the hoodie crow
From rising sun to grey moonlicht.
A lark soars blithe frae the sands o' Leith,
"Life's but a braw claymore," sang he.
"Death is nought but an empty sheath"
Creak, creak, creak, groans the Gibbet Tree.
The waves gang jinkin' ower the shore,
A seagull laughs as he skims the sea,
But a feckless loon will laugh nae more
While he swings to and fro on the Gibbet Tree.
The nicht creeps back o'er the cold grey tide,
The wind sighs over the barren lea,
Oh wad that the dark could for ever hide
The feckless loon on the Gibbet Tree.
There comes a lad at the turn o' nicht,
"It's hereabouts that he said he'd be—
There's a ship at sea with a golden licht,
But no Muckle John 'neath the Gibbet Tree."
Swing—swing in the hail and snow,
Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht,
Creak—creak to the hoodie crow
From rising sun to grey moonlicht.
It was above them up in the air or they were going mad.
Suddenly the song ceased and with a great rattle of chains the gibbet's burden dropped with a clatter, and at that Mrs. Fraser came dangerously near to swooning for the first and last time in her life.
