"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

"And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this, the storm grew loud apace,
The water wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder grew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh I haste thee, haste!" the lady cries
"Though tempest round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her;
When, oh I too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed, amid the roar