The fisher’s glorious spoils are in the deep.
Day sinks—but twilight owes the traveller soon,
To reach his bourne, a round unclouded moon,
Bespeaking long undarkened hours of time;
False hope—the Scots are stedfast—not their clime.
A war-worn soldier from the western land,
Seeks Cona’s vale by Ballihoula’s strand;
The vale by eagle-haunted cliffs o’erhung,
Where Fingal fought and Ossian’s harp was strung.—
Our veteran’s forehead, bronzed on sultry plains,