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Becomes thy gen'rous nature. But for me, More fierce and wilful, sorely was I chafed To see thy faithful heart robb'd of its hope, All for the propping up a hollow peace Between two warlike clans, who will, as long As bagpipes sound, and blades flash to the sun, Delighting in the noble sport of war, Some fierce opponents find. What doth it boot, If men in fields must fight, and blood be shed, What clans are in the ceaseless strife opposed?

Ah, John of Lorne! too keenly is thy soul To war inclined—to wasteful, ruthless war.

The warlike minstrel's rousing lay thou lov'st: Shall bards i' the hall sing of our fathers' deeds To lull their sons to sleep? Vain simple wish! I love to hear the sound of holy bell, And peaceful men their praises lift to heaven: I love to see around their blazing fire The peasant and his cheerful family set, Eating their fearless meal. But, when the roar Of battle rises, and the closing clans, Dark'ning the sun-gleam'd heath, in dread affray Are mingled; blade with blade, and limb with limb, Nerve-strain'd, in terrible strength; yea, soul with soul