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May give the slumberer's lowly bier An envying glance—but not a tear. But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, formed to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear, or weak despair, Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams, on yon red field, O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, Glitters not there alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead, But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave, Flows near that death-bed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.