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Te cannon an' te pluff trakoon,
As Cot shall answer me, man.
Pig Satan sent te plan frae hell,
pase artillery's ee, man.
Had dyed te Cherman sea, man.
She fought for all she loved or had, And for te right; put Heavin forpade, And mony a bonny Heelant lad
Lay pleeding on te prae, man. Fat could she too, fat could she say? Te crand M‘Tonald was away, And her nown chief tat luckless tay
Pe far peyond Dunvey, man.
MʻPherson and M'Gregor poth,
All absent from te field, man.
Though laith she pe to yield, man.
When Sharles first wi' the flighters met,
We'll conquer, or we'll tee, man!”
And hanging on te tree, man.
Fie, ploody Tuke, fat ail't her ten,
She had no hate at tee, man.
yours, will yet pe klad To trust te honest Heelant lad; Te ponnit plue and pelted plaid
Will stand te last of tree, man.
HYMN TO THE EVENING STAR.
WRITTEN in 1811. All the pieces which I wrote at that age have a melody in them, which, since that period, I have never been able to reach ; but they are often deficient in real stamina.
Arise, arise, thou queen of Love,
Thy bed is chill'd with evening dew
And rear'd thy canopy of blue.
Thy amber halo o'er the hill,
Thy coronal with glory fill.
O, come—the evening colours fade,
Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lee; And beauty in the greenwood shade,
Uplifts a longing eye for thee. Thy temple be this silvan bower,
Where wounded lovers kneel confest; Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower,
Thy tabernacle, beauty's breast.
Be this thy dearest, holiest shrine,
Thy breviary two beaming eyes;
Beloved star, arise, arise!
Thy light pavilion down the sky;
The softest love-sick melody.
And here, on thy beloved shrine,
Where fragrant flowers of incense glow, Pure as that heavenly breast of thine,
And fairer than the virgin snow ;