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So he would march with morning tide,
To fair Saint Andrew's bound,
Sung to the billows' sound; Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel,
And the crazed brain restore :Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring Could back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more !"
And now the midnight draught of sleep,
In massive bowl of silver deep,
The page presents on knee.
Who drained it merrily;
This was the sign the feast was o'er;
The minstrels ceased to sound.
Pacing his sober round.
Then, after morning rites were done,
Then loudly rung the trumpet-call;
And shook the Scottish shore;
And hid its turrets hoar;
Till they rolled forth upon the air, And met the river breezes there, Which gave again the prospect fair.
END OF CANTO FIRST.