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 My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,

As through the moorland fern, Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude

Grow cauld for Highland kerne.'

��LXI FAREWELL

FAREWELL ! Farewell ! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you;

Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check,

Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise,

The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase,

Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear,

Honour or own, a long adieu ! To all that life has soft and dear,

Farewell ! save memory of you !

�� �