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The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace | ||
XVII.
The ladye retir'd when his lordship fell,Within her bower to weave a spell;
Nor over her husband's bloodless bier,
Strew'd one fair flower, or dropp'd one tear.
Vengeance deep brooding o'er the blow,
Had lock'd the source of softer woe.
And burning pride and high disdain,
Forbade the rising tear to flow;
Until smid the kitchen train,
Her son lisp'd from his nurse's knee,
“And if I live to be a man,
“That caitiff blow reveng'd shall be.
O! then the ladye heav'd a sigh,
And flow'd her tears no one knew why.
The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace | ||