The Lady of the Lake

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,
     ’T is morning prompts the linnet’s blithest lay,
All Nature’s children feel the matin spring
     Of life reviving, with reviving day;
And while yon little bark glides down the bay,
     Wafting the stranger on his way again,
Morn’s genial influence roused a minstrel gray,
     And sweetly o’er the lake was heard thy strain,
Mixed with the sounding harp, O white-haired Allan-bane!