Chapter 118 A JACOBITE IN EXILE

The weary day rins down and dies,

The weary night wears through:

And never an hour is fair wi' flower,

And never a flower wi' dew.

I would the day were night for me,

I would the night were day:

For then would I stand in my ain fair land,

As now in dreams I may.

O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,

And loud the dark Durance: