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That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe;

47

And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung:
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame.
His was a song beloved in youth—
A tale of weir—a tale of truth.