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Ye are a race of other lands; your sires Profaned their soil; and ne'er the invader's yoke Was easy never in the vassal's heart Languished the hope of sweet revenge; our sway Not rooted in a people's love, but owns Allegiance from their fears; with secret joy For conquest's ruthless sword, and thraldom's chains From age to age, they wait the atoning hour Of princes' downfall; thus their bards awake The patriot strain, and thus from sire to son Rehearsed, the old traditionary tale Beguiles the winter's night.
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