Chapter 71 No.71

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,

The air he chose was wild and sad;

Such have I heard, in Scottish land,

Rise from the busy harvest band,

When falls before the mountaineer,

On Lowland plains, the ripened ear.

Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,

Now a wild chorus swells the song:

Oft have I listened, and stood still,

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