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My fiery youth allow'd an open field, The name of every gallant ancestor A bond upon my soul against disgrace, My name had been as stainless as my crest. But, nursed in poverty, my infant ears Listening to curses, how must wrongs have changed A mother's nature, when the first lisp'd words Her child's young lips were taught, were oaths and threats Of deep revenge! Brought up to scorn my state, Yet shut out from all other, while the blood Of my bold forefathers stirr'd in my veins, What have they made me? Robber—murderer! One of the ready sword and reckless hand, Who values blood by gold. Where art thou now, Spirit of enterprise, that urged me on—