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The snow-white feathers of the high-coped hearse Move slowly. Woe the day! oh, woe the day! How changed her state! She was on milk-white steed Mounted right gallantly, with cap and plume, When I beheld her last.

Make way, good folks, and let the ladies pass.

None can pass here on horseback.

It is the Provost's family: make way.

An 'twere the king's, they must dismount, I trow, Or wait till the procession be gone by.

What makes so great a concourse? and those bells To toll so dismally? Whose funeral Are ye convened to see?

Ah, Sir! the fairest lady of the place. I warrant you have seen her many a time; They call'd her Emma Graham.