The Last of the Peshwas, a Tale of the Third Maratha War (Classic Reprint)

Our ship, as swift as the lightning flash, Clove with her prow the waves that dash Tumultuously with thunderous roar At midnight on an Indian shore, And those whereunder buried lie Busiris1 Memphian chivalry. Then oer the midland wavelets blue ToC alpe scannoned steep we flew, And in a moment southward far St. Vincent left and Trafalgar. A h! joy to feel the northern blast That on our brows the snowflake cast, Till loomed a land of hodden gray Half-hidden by the Atlantic spray, Behind whose misty canopy Was heard the peewits eerie cry. What magic ship thus bore my soul Like flash of lightning to her goal A cross the seas that lay between? A dream of days that once had been. And what that land of hodden gray? The bonnie hills of Galloway, On which my steps no more may stray, For ever and aye.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)

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