Exhibition Dialogues: Consisting of Dramatic Dialogues and Easy Plays, Excellently Adapted for Amateurs in Parlor and Exhibition Performances, with Hints and Instructions for Their Successful Performance

Dick and Fitzgerald, 1882 - 166 sider

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Side 164 - Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.
Side 62 - Who ill deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair...
Side 61 - Well, let it pass ; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow, To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride : Twice have I sought...
Side 164 - Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat. With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale— Lochiel.
Side 163 - Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Side 63 - Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown ; — Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast.
Side 164 - Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors: Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn. Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah no!
Side 162 - LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead' rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
Side 163 - Lochiel, False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan: Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one. They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock...
Side 164 - Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

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