As borne upon the passing gale;
Yet none could say from whom it came,
Far less divine the reason why;
And Superstition, with her dream,
Could only whisper mystery--
Unholy spirits haunting nigh,
And screaming in the midnight hour,
Presage of vengeance from on high
For deeds done in Craigullan's tower.

If Superstition has her dream,
She also has her waking hour;
Nor ever man, howe'er supreme,
Can free him from her mystic power.
And it was told, in whispering way,
That once Craigullan led his hounds
Out forth upon a Sabbath day
Within the church bells' sacred sounds;
And as he rode, by fury fired,
A woman, pregnant, overthrown
Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired,
And, dying, shrieked this malison:
_From this day forth, till time shall cease,
May madness haunt Craigullan's race_!

The words struck on a sceptic's ear:
Would woman's curse his pleasure stay?
He blew his horn both loud and clear,
And with his hounds he hied away.
He conned no more the weird reve