'Twas at the hour of dark midnight,
Before the first cock's crowing,
When westland winds shook Stirling's tow'rs,
With hollow murmurs blowing;
When Fanny fair, all woe begone,
Sad on her bed was lying,
And from the ruin'd tow'rs she heard
The boding screech-owl crying.

"O dismal night!" she said, and wept,
"O night presaging sorrow,
"O dismal night!" she said, and wept,
"But more I dread tomorrow.
"For now the bloody hour draws nigh,
"Each host to Preston bending;
"At morn shall sons their fathers slay,
"With deadly hate contending.

Aghast, she started from her bed,
The fatal tidings dreading;
"O speak," she cry'd, "my father's slain!
"I see, I see him bleeding!" --
'A pale corpse on the sullen shore,
'At morn, fair maid, I left him;
'Even at the thresh-hold of his gate,
'The foe of life bereft him.

Sad was the sight, and sad the news,
And sad was our complaining;
But oh! for thee, my native land,
What woes are still remaining!
But why complain? the hero's soul
Is high in heaven shining:
May Providence defend our isle
From all our foes designing.