An old man sat anent a clough,1
A grizzed2 old man an’ weird,3
Deep were the wrinks in his aged brow,
An’ hoar his snowy beard,
All tremmed4 before his glance, I trow,5
Sae savagely he leared.
The rain cloud cam frae out the west,
An’ spread athwart6 the sky,
The crow has cowered7 in her nest,
She kens the storm is nigh,
He folds his arms across his breast,
Thunder an’ lightning do your best!
“I will not flinch nor fly!”
Draggles8 with wet the tall oak tree,
Beneath the dashing rain,
The old man sat, an’ gloomily
He gazed athwart the plain,
Down on the wild and heaving sea,
Where heavily an’ toilsomely
Yon vessel ploughs the main.
Above the thunder cloud frowns black,
The dark waves howl below,
Scarce can she hold along her track,
Fast rocking to an’ fro,
And oft the billow drives her back,
And oft her straining timbers crack,
Yet onward she doth go.
The old man gazed without a wink,
An’ with a deadly9 grin:
“I laid a wager she would sink,
“Strong hopes had I to win;
“’Twas ten to one, but now I think,
“That Bob will sack the tin.10”
Then from the precipice’s brink
He plunged headforemost in.11