The Lost Pibroch. day is my story, for they have not the Lost Pibroch. It is of the three best, who were not bad, in a place I ken - Half Town that stands in the wood. You may rove for a thousand years on league-long brogues, or hurry on fairy wings from isle to isle and deep to deep, and find no equal to that same Half Town. It is not the splendour of it, nor the riches of its folk; it is not any great routh of field or sheep-fank, but the scented...
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Poetry