Page:Ayrshire melodist, or, The muses' delight.pdf/12



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The claymore for over in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the tyrant and slave, The hoof of the horse and the foot of the proud, Have trode o'er the plame of the bonnet of blue; Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true. Fareweel my young hero, the gallant and good, The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow.

—o —

When the Rose-Bud of Summer.

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When the rose bed of summer its beauties bestowing, On winter's rude banks all its sweetness shall pour; And the sunshine of day in night's dark- ness be glowing, Oh! then dearest Ellen, I'll loye you no                      more.