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Bonn, November 23—We are still walking in sleep here. I keep thinking of this old poem:
Quhen Alexandre our kynge was dede
That Scotland lede in lauch and le,
Away was sons of alle and brede,
Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle.
Our golde was changit into lede.
Crist, borne into virgynitie,
Succoure Scotlande and ramede
That is stade in perplexite.
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