The stour, borne alang wi’ the wind strong and gusty,
Gar’d the minister look like a miller sae gray;
And the sweat on his face, mixed wi’ dust, grew as crusty
As if he were modelled in common brick-clay.
And sometimes he haltit, and sometimes he ran,
And sometime he sat himsel down in despair;
And sometimes he grew angry, and sometimes began
To lighten his sair-burdened heart wi’ a prayer.
But madly the rider o’er hill and o’er dale,
Wi’ the minister’s mare like a fire-flaught he flew;