I.
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t morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,All Nature's children feel the matin springOf life reviving, with reviving day;And while yon little bark glides down the bay,Wafting the stranger on his way again,Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel gray,And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy strain,Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!
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