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THE COW CHACE. |
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And some within a dungeon's gloom,
By mock tribunals laid; Had waited long a cruel doom
Impending o'er each head.
Here one bewails a brother's fate, There one a sire demands,
Cut off, alas ! before their date, By ignominious hands.
And silver'd grandsires here appear'd
In deep distress serene, Of reverent manners that declar'd
The better days they'd seen.
Oh, curs'd rebellion, these are thine, Thine are these tales of woe ;
Shall at thy dire insatiate shine, Blood never cease to flow ?
And now the foe began to lead His forces to the attack;
Balls whistling unto balls succeed, And make the block-house crack. 17 |
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