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Sing ye aloud; while I the feast shall seek,
And to her ear my warmer welcome speak.

Bards:
'Boll, streamy Carun! roll thy waves so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled.
Their steeds no more are seen upon our fields;
No more the sun beholds their crowding shields;
To other lands their flashing pride hath spread;
No more we hear the stamping warrior's tread!
The sun will rise in peace, the shades descend,
And peace shall still her sweetest blessing lend.
The voices of the joyous chase again
Shall spread their echoes o'er our native plain;
The shield shall hang within the peaceful hall,
Or to the ocean war again may call;
Then with delight our hands in blood shall lave
On the far Locklin's cold and stormy wave!
Roll, streamy Carun, roll they wave so red;
Afar the sons of battle now are fled!

Alas! Comala heareth not their song;
No sounds which to this changeful world belong
Shall reach her ear again: she faints, she dies,
E'en as on Fingal rests her weary eyes.
Love beams as light'ning from a drooping cloud,
Then fades, as darkness doth its splendour shroud.