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But the day-står attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fervor of youth's warm emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of ERIN GO BRAGH !

“Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger:

“The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger :

A home and a country remain not to me! Never again, in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet

hours : Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH!

“Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas ! in a far, foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more ! Oh, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me In a 'mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me:

They died to defend me — or live to deplore.

“Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood ?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure !
Why didst thou dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;

But rapture and beauty they can not recall !

“Yet --- all its sad recollections suppressing

One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee — his blessing!

Land of my forefathers !- ERIN GO BRAGH! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,



can'o-py, the covering of smoke.
chiv'al-ry (shiv'al-ry), horsemen.
Franks, the French.
Huns, the Austrians.

l'ser (o'zer), a river of Germany. Lin'den, for Hohenlinden, in Ger

many. Mu'nich (mū'nik), capital of Bavaria.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden spow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ; And, louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow,
And bloodier yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.


Loch-gyle' (lok-gile'), a lake in Scot | wa'ter-wraith (-răth), water-spirit. land.

wight (wit), man, person. sore, greatly.

win'some, winning, attractive.

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 water ?”. “Oh, I am chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

“ And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together;
For, should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“His horsemen hard behind us ride :

Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy island wight,

“I'll go, my chief; I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady;

And, by my word, the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew


apace, The water-wraith was shrieking, And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arméd men,

Their tramping sounded nearer.

“Oh, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries;

'Though tempests round us gather : I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."


The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her, -
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing.
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore:

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:

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