If Superstition has her dream,
She also has her waking hour;
Nor ever man, howe'er supreme,
Can free him from her mystic power.
And it was told, in whispering way,
That once Craigullan led his hounds
Out forth upon a Sabbath day
Within the church bells' sacred sounds;
And as he rode, by fury fired,
A woman, pregnant, overthrown
Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired,
And, dying, shrieked this malison:
_From this day forth, till time shall cease,
May madness haunt Craigullan's race_!
The words struck on a sceptic's ear:
Would woman's curse his pleasure stay?
He blew his horn both loud and clear,
And with his hounds he hied away.
He conned no more the weird reve
Which all conspired to prove untrue,
For he had healthy daughters five,
Who up in maiden beauty grew--
Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane--
Such was the order of their birth--
And Florabel and Clementine,
All lovely, gay, and full of mirth.
But man is blind, with all his power,
And gropes through life his darksome way;
Nor ever thinks the evil hour
May come within the brightest day.
As custom went, a noble throng
Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall,
Amidst th' inspiring dance and song,
Clorinda is admired of all.
The sun with his enlivening light
Brings out the viper and the rose,
And joy that cheers will oft excite
Dark Mania from her long repose.
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