midnight
too-hoo ! The lazy burn-clock drones around , The wing-mouse flaps the choking air , The croaking frog hops on the ground , For weird fate is working there . Each wing had once a goodly tower Of stately beild , both broad and high ; In every tower a lady 's bower , Bedecked with silken tapestry ; In every bower a lovely maid , Her youth and beauty all in vain ; And with each maid a keeper staid To watch the wanderings of her brain . 'T was said that those who went that way Would hear some shrill and piercing wail Come from these towers , and die away As borne upon the passing gale ; Yet none could say from whom it came , Far less divine the reason why ; And Superstition , with her dream , Could only whisper mystery -- Unholy spirits haunting nigh , And screaming in the midnight hour , Presage of vengeance from on high For deeds done in Craigullan 's tower . 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 ?