 | The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace
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XXIV.
The waning flame is waxing low,
'Tis all one smoking ruin now.
The blacken'd walls, the charred pine,
No more in blazing splendour shine;
And the once animated scene,
Is now, as if it ne'er had been.
Where late the passing trav'ller view'd,
A little nest of houses strew'd,
Was nothing now, but mouldering wall,
Already nodding to its fall;
As it old time in wrathful spite,
Had silent come that fatal night,
And did, to shew his wondrous power,
The work of years, in one sad hour.
| The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace
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