“Since the Frenchmen have been here They have called it Sault-Marie; But that is a name for priests, And not for you and me. It went by another word,” Quoth he of the shaven head: “It was called Ticonderoga In the days of the great dead.” And it fell on the morrow’s morning, In the fiercest of the fight, That the Cameron bit the dust As he foretold at night; And far from the hills of heather, Far from the isles of the sea, He sleeps in the place of the name As it was doomed to be.
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