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 Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow: But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of to-morrow,

We thought, as we hallowed his narrow bed, Aud smoothed down his lonely pillow, How the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head And we far away on the billow!

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

But half our heavy task was done, When the clock 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 carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But left him alone in his glory!

to the Highlands hound, Cries, “Boatman do not tarry And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry!”—

“Now, who he ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O I’m the chief of Ulvas’ isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter:—