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 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But nothing he'll reekreck [sic], if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done, When the eloekclock [sic] toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We earvedcarved [sic] not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory! Wolfe

to the Highlands bound, Gries, 'Boatman, do not tarry, And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry!'—

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter:—

And fast before her father's men, Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather—

'His horseman hard behind us ride— Should they our steps discover, Then—who would cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?—