'Twas at the fearful midnight hour
When all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her sable shroud.

 ... 

"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.

"This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead
To haunt the faithless swain.

 ... 

"But hark! the cock has warned me hence;
A long and late adieu!
Come, see, false man, how low she lies,
that died for love of you."

The lark sung out; the morning smiled,
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William quaked in every limb,
then, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay:
And stretched him o'er the green grass turf
That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spoke never more.