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Poem by James McIntyre
A lad, brought up in Highland vale, Who did believe each fairy tale Which his granney oft to him told, And of witches and of warlocks bold, And he himself would often pore For hours reading wizard lore. One night his mother to the town In a hurry sent him down, So o'er his poney he did stride, And to the town did fearful ride; He thought that demons they would rush On him from every rock and bush, And as he went through the quarry It did great increase his flurry ; He felt that fiends with fiercest hate Would surely there seal fast his fate. But town he reached, and neath his vest He parcel pressed beneath his vest ; The poney now he mounts once more For to pass quarry as before, But, alas ! at that fatal spot He heard a gun-he was elf shot; He felt that from his breast a flood Was pouring down off his heart's blood, But he clung fast to pony's back, Though loss of blood his frame did rack ; But in spite of his alarms He resolved to die in mother's arms; And when he reached his own door He said that he was drenched in gore From bullet hole all in his breast ; His father opened up his vest, And he did sadly fear the worst, But found yeast bottle had but burst.
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