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Where hast thou been, my Rosa? with my boy? Have they with wild-flowers deck'd his cradle round? And peeps he through them like a little nestling— A little heath-cock broken from its shell, That through the bloom puts forth its tender beak, As steals some rustling footstep on his nest? Come, let me go and look upon him. Soon, Ere two months more go by, he'll look again In answer to my looks, as though he knew The wistful face that looks so oft upon him, And smiles so dearly, is his mother's. Think'st thou He'll soon give heed and notice to my love?

I doubt it not: he is a lively infant, And moves his little limbs with vigour, spreading His fingers forth, as if in time they would A good claymore clench bravely.

A good claymore clench bravely!—O! to see him A man!—a valiant youth!—a noble chieftain! And laying on his plaided shoulder, thus, A mother's hand, say proudly, "This is mine!" I shall not then a lonely stranger be