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She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking:

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died;
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

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Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

From her own loved island of sorrow!



She is gone far away to where Seraphs shall sing
Her welcome to bowers of bliss!

And the harps of the blest shall sweetly ring
For her flight from a world like this!

She has gone to the home of the gentle heart,
With spirits of light around her-

Where the glow of that innocence ne'er shall depart
In which heaven's messenger found her.

Then weep not for her who brightly came
To beam round her path delight,

And ere earth sullied the soul's pure flame,
Has fled with an angel's flight.

Thou blossoming virtue ! thou could'st not die !
But a brighter clime is o'er thee,

And it is not thy fate that demands a sigh,
But the desolate hearts that deplore thee!



They lighted a taper at dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;

But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright—
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!

And the Lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,

When a death-watch beat in her lonely room, When her curtain had shook of its own accord, And the raven had flapped at her window-board, To tell of her warrior's doom!

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;

And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here;
For nightmare rides on my strangled sleep :

The lord of my bosom is doomed to die ;
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep
For Wallace of Elderslie!

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Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin-bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon-light looked dim and red

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping there was when his bosom bled-
And his heart was rent in twain!

Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn,

And hosts of a thousand were scattered, like deer

At the blast of the hunter's horn;

When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field
With the yellow-haired chiefs of his native land ;
For his lance was not shivered on helmet or shield-
And the sword that seemed fit for Archangel to wield
Was light in his terrible hand!

Yet bleeding and bound, tho' the Wallace wight
For his long-loved country die,

The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than William of Elderslie !

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But the day of his glory shall never depart;

His head unentombed shall with glory be palmed;
From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;
Tho' the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,
A nobler was never embalmed!



To me, my sweet Kathleen, the Benshee has cried,
And I die-ere to-morrow I die,-

This rose thou hast gathered, and laid by my side,
Will live, my child, longer than I.

My days they are gone, like a tale that is told,

Let me bless thee, and bid thee adieu;

For never to father, when feeble and old,

Was daughter so kind and so true.

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Thou hast walked by my side, and my board thou hast spread,

For my chair the warm corner hast found;

And told my dull ear what the visitor said,
When I saw that the laughter went round.

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