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Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine To waste life's longest term away, Would change that glorious dawn of thine, Though darken'd ere its noontide day! Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, No holy knell thy requiem rung; Thy mourners were the plaided Gael; Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine, To waste life's longest term away, Would change that glorious dawn of thine, Though darkened ere its noontide day? Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom!
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine To waste life's longest term away, Would change that glorious dawn of thine, Though darken'd ere its noontide day! Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine To waste life's longest term away, Would change that glorious dawn of thine, Though darken'd ere its noontide day! Be thine the tree whose dauntless boughs Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom. Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
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