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Then mercy on us all! if wind thou mean'st, There is within that sturdy trunk of thine, Old as it is, a still exhaustless store. A Lapland witch's bag could scarcely match it. Thou could'st, I doubt not, belly out the sails Of a thrice-masted vessel with thy mouth: But be thy mercy equal to thy might! I pray thee now give o'er: in faith the Earl Has pass'd a sleepless night.

Thinkst thou I am a Lowland, day-hired minstrel, To play or stop at bidding? Is Argyll The lord and chieftain of our ancient clan, More certainly than I to him, as such, The high hereditary piper am? A sleepless night, forsooth! He's slept full oft On the hard heath, with fifty harness'd steeds Champing their fodder round him;—soundly too.— I'll do mine office, loon, chafe as thou wilt.

Nay, thou the chafer art, red-crested cock!