From Tweed to Spey[96]—what marvel, then,
At times, unbidden notes should rise,
Confusedly bound in memory’s ties,
Entangling, as they rush along,
The war march with the funeral song?—
Small ground is now for boding fear;
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here.
My sire, in native virtue great,
Resigning lordship, lands, and state,
Not then to fortune more resign’d,