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If shed for her, my blood shall stain The field or scaffold not in vain. Its voice, to efforts more sublime, Shall rouse the spirit of her clime, And, in the noontide of her lot, My country shall forget me not!"

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory passed from earth?— Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song, Chartered our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul: Thine, Wallace while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill,