Last went himself, then sheath’d his sword,
Regretted sore, he was so kind,
So many suff’rers left behind.
[CHAP. XIII.]
Arrives at France. Reception there.
Thus on September the twenti’th day,
He from Loch-Moidart sail’d away,
The wind was low, the waves were kind,
To clear the land they much inclin’d,