“The night is mirk, and its very mirk,
  And by candle light I canna weel see;
  The night is mirk, and its very pit mirk,
  And there will never a nail ca’ right for me.”

  “Shame fa’ you and your trade baith,
  Canna beet[187] a gude fellow by your myster[188]
  But leez me on thee, my little black mare,
  Thou’s worth thy weight in gold to me.”

  There was horsing, horsing in haste,
  And there was marching upon the lee;
  Until they cam to Dumfries port,
  And they lighted there right speedilie.

  “There’s five of us will hold the horse,
  And other five will watchmen be: 
  But wha’s the man, amang ye a’,
  Will gae to the Tolbooth door wi’ me?”

  O up then spak him mettled John Hall,
  (Frae the laigh Tiviotdale was he)
  “If it should cost my life this very night,
  I’ll gae to the Tolbooth door wi’ thee.”

  “Be of gude cheir, now, Archie, lad! 
  Be of gude cheir, now, dear billie! 
  Work thou within, and we without,
  And the mom thou’se dine at Ca’field wi’ me.”

  O Jockie Hall stepped to the door,
  And he bended low back his knee;
  And he made the bolts, the door hang on,
  Loup frae the wa’ right wantonlie.

  He took the prisoner on his back,
  And down the Tolbooth stair cam he;
  The black mare stood ready at the door,
  I wot a foot ne’er stirred she.

  They laid the links out ower her neck,
  And that was her gold twist to be;[189]
  And they cam down thro’ Dumfries toun,
  And wow but they cam speedilie.

  The live long night these twelve men rade,
  And aye till they were right wearie,
  Until they cam to the Murraywhate,
  And they lighted there right speedilie.

  “A smith! a smith!” then Dickie he cries;
  “A smith, a smith, right speedilie,
  To file the irons frae my dear brither! 
  For forward, forward we wad be,”

  They had na filed a shackle of iron,
  A shackle of iron but barely thrie,
  When out and spak young Simon brave,
  “O dinna ye see what I do see?

  “Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon,
  Wi’ a hundred men in his cumpanie;
  This night will be our lyke-wake night,
  The morn the day we a’ maun die,”

  O there was mounting, mounting in haste,
  And there was marching upon the lee;
  Until they cam to Annan water,
  And it was flowing like the sea.

  “My mare is young and very skeigh,[190]
  And in o’ the weil[191] she will drown me;
  But ye’ll take mine, and I’ll take thine,
  And sune through the water we sall be.”

  Then up and spak him, coarse Ca’field,
  (I wot and little gude worth was he)
  “We had better lose are than lose a’ the lave;
  We’ll lose the prisoner, we’ll gae free.”

  “Shame fa’ you and your lands baith! 
  Wad ye e’en[192] your lands to your born billy? 
  But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare,
  And yet thro’ the water we sall be.”