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“Thou lord of that romantic land,
The winged isle, of steep and strand;
And all the creeks of brake and fern,
Those pathless piles, so dark and dern,
That stretch from Sunart's sombre dell,
To Duich's heights of moor and fell;
Thou stem of royal seed—nay, more,
Son of an hundred kings of yore!
Unto thy servant deign regard;
Woe to the chief that slights his bard!