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THE RHYME OF SIR LAUNCELOT BOGLE.
A LEGEND OF GLASGOW.
There's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of the West,
Where its bravest and its best find their grave.
Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep
In the waters still and deep,
Not a wave!
And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed and grey and tall.
Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond;
And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well,
Makes a kind of tidal swell
On the pond!
And there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day,
With the odour of the hay floating by;
And I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring,
Chime by chime, ting by ting,
Droppingly.
Then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten
track,
To the confine deep and black of the tomb;
And I wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the
grass,
Where the dandelion has
Such a bloom.
Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye,
A carvèd stone hard by, somewhat worn;
And I read in letters cold
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