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Now seems some mountain side to sweep,
After due pause, they bade him teU, Why he, who touched the harp so well, Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, Wander a poor and thankless soil, When the more generous southern land Would well requite his skilful hand.
The Aged Harper, howsoe'er
Less liked he still, that scornful jeer Misprised the land he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain.
LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
This is my own, my native land!
From wandering on a foreign strand!