The murmur of the mourning ghost br That keeps the shadowy kine, br 'O Keith of Ravelston, br The sorrows of thy line!' br br Ravelston, Ravelston, br The merry path that leads br Down the golden morning hill, br And thro' the silver meads; br br Ravelston, Ravelston, br The stile beneath the tree, br The maid that kept her mother's kine, br The song that sang she! br br She sang her song, she kept her kine, br She sat beneath the thorn, br When Andrew Keith of Ravelston br Rode thro' the Monday morn. br br His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring, br His belted jewels shine; br O Keith of Ravelston, br The sorrows of thy line! br br Year after year, where Andrew came, br Comes evening down the glade, br And still there sits a moonshine ghost br Where sat the sunshine maid. br br Her misty hair is faint and fair, br She keeps the shadowy kine; br O Keith of Ravelston, br The sorrows of thy line! br br I lay my hand upon the stile, br The stile is lone and cold, br The burnie that goes babbling by br Says naught that can be told.