A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry!”– “Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy weather?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.– “And fast before her father’s men Three …

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When you reach out far enough, You will touch my soul. Your mind will intertwine with mine, And darkness will turn to gold. Keep reaching.