That dreary hour he mounts his beast in,
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast,
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d,
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:
That night a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,