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LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. CANTO SIXTH.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
This is my own, my native land!
From wandering on a foreign strand!
High though his titles, proud his name,
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Not scorned like me! to Branksome Hall
But now, for every merry mate,
Rose the portcullis' iron grate;
They sound the pipe, they strike the string,
They dance, they revel, and they sing,
Till the rude turrets shake and ring.
Me lists not at this tide declare
How mustered in the chapel fair
Both maid and matron, squire and knight;
Me lists not tell of owches rare,
Of mantles green, and braided hair,
And kirtles furred with miniver;
What plumage waved the altar round,
How spurs, and ringing chainlets, sound;
And hard it were for bard to speak
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek;
That lovely hue which comes and flies.
As awe and shame alternate rise!