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Rob Roy had never lingered here,

To these few meagre Vales confined;

But thought how wide the world, the times How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said, "Do Thou my sovereign will enact "From land to land through half the earth! Judge thou of law and fact!

""Tis fit that we should do our part;

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Becoming, that mankind should learn

"That we are not to be surpassed

"In fatherly concern.

"Of old things all are over old,

"Of good things none are good enough:"We'll shew that we can help to frame "A world of other stuff.

"I, too, will have my Kings that take "From me the sign of life and death: "" Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, "Obedient to my breath."

And, if the word had been fulfilled,
As might have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast;


And we our brave Rob Roy!

say not so; compare

them not;

I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee no where; least of all
Here standing by thy Grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts, Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!

Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love

The liberty of Man.

And, had it been thy lot to live

With us who now behold the light,

Thou would'st have nobly stirred thyself,
And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor Man's stay, The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength, Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh

Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays Alone upon Loch Veol's Heights,

And by Loch Lomond's Braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill, Are faces that attest the same;

And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,

At sound of ROB ROY's name.





ART thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then mayst thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near:
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome! but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece

O turn aside,—and take, I pray,

That he below may rest in


That abject thing, thy soul, away!

-A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And He has neither eyes nor ears;

Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling

Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

An intellectual All in All!

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