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 heav'n each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.—

Oh haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,

'I'll meet the raging of the skies;

'But not an angry father.'—

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,—

When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.—

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was chang'd to wailing.—

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade

His child he did discover:

Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child

And he was left lamenting.

T. Bensley, Printer,

Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London.

THE END.