As the ladye strolls, at the witching hour,
To the glen adown the lea.
The maiden draws her mantle close,
For the night is dark an’ drear,
An’ now that she nears the trysting-tree
Her heart it quails wi’ fear.
O, louder and hoarser blaws the blast,
An’ darker grows the sky,
An’ the clattering tramp of a courser’s hoof
Grows nigh, an’ yet more nigh!