In the pitch-black, roaring midnight, a desperate woman stands outside Lord Gregory’s tower, begging to be let in. Cast out by her father for loving him, she is now an exile with nowhere else to go. Anguish and disbelief soak every line. She reminds him of their tender, secret moments by the River Irvine, where he swore he would be hers forever, and her trusting heart never once doubted. Now his silence feels harder than flint. The mood is one of wild loneliness — the storm thrashes around her, mirroring her inner chaos. She even calls on the lightning to strike her down, so deep is the hurt, yet she still cannot bring herself to curse him. Instead, she asks the heavens to spare her false lover, mixing raw pain with a stubborn, broken tenderness. It is a haunting snapshot of betrayal, where love refuses to turn to hate despite everything.
398. Lord Gregory: A Ballad — Summary
O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest’s roar; A waefu’ wanderer seeks thy tower, Lord Gregory, ope thy door. An exile frae her father’s ha’, And a’ for loving thee; At least some pity on me shaw, If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind’st thou not the grove By bonie Irwine side, Where first I own’d that virgin love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel’ sae true, It ne’er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, And flinty is thy breast: Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by, O, wilt thou bring me rest! Ye mustering thunders from above, Your willing victim see; But spare and pardon my fause Love, His wrangs to Heaven and me.