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Thy vows are | all broken,
And light is | thy fame, I hear thy | name spoken,
And share in | its shame.
This is perhaps better scanned as follows :
Macgregor, | Macgregor, | remember | our foemen ! The morn ri | ses broad from | the brow of | Ben Lomond ; The clans are | impatient | and chide thy | delay. Arise, let | us bound to | Glenlyon | away.
In the extracts which follow, all of which are full of melody, the rhythm is so varied that it is difficult to pronounce with certainty which of the measures predominates.
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, Like the spirit of Charity brooding o'er pain ; Now gliding with pinion all silently furled, Like an angel descending to comfort the world.
Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains,
We crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow. Around his waist are forests braced,
The av'lanche in his hand ; But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command.