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The huntsman's pleasure is no more,

His joys were in the chase.

Alike the gen'rous sportsman burns,

To win the blooming fair,

But yet he honours each by turns,

They each become his care.

With a hey, ho, &c.

OSCAR’s GHOST.

O see that form that faintly gleams,

'Tis Oscar come to cheer my dreams:

On wings of wind he flies away,

O stay, my lovely Oscar, stay.

Wake, Ossian, last of Fingal’s line,

And mix thy tears and sighs with mine;

Awake thy harp to doleful lays,

And soothe my soul with Oscar’s praise.

The shell is ceas’d in Oscar’s hall,

Since gloomy Cairbar wrought his fall,

The roe on Morven lightly bounds,

Nor hears the cry Of Oscar’s hounds.

FINIS.