hush thee, my babie, thy sire was… Thy mother a lady, both lovely and… The woods and the glens, from the… They all are belonging, dear babie… O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,

Take these flowers which, purple w… On the ruin’d rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving… Rome’s imperial standards flew. Warriors from the breach of danger

The scenes are desert now, and bar… Where flourished once a forest fai… When these waste glens with copse… And peopled with the hart and hind… Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly…

O young Lochinvar is come out of… Through all the wide Border his s… And save his good broadsword he we… He rode all unarm’d, and he rode a… So faithful in love, and so dauntl…

November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so… With your mule so fair, and your m… But ride you through valley, or ri… There is one that has warrant to w… Back, back,

The Pope he was saying the high,… All on Saint Peter’s day, With the power, to him given, by t… To wash men’s sins away. The Pope he was saying the blesse…

BREATHES there the man with so… Who never to himself hath said,    'This is my own, my native land… Whose heart hath ne’er within him… As home his footsteps he hath turn…

The train has left the hills of B… The barrier guard have open made (So Lindesay bade) the palisade, That closed the tented ground; Their men the warders backward dre…

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the… To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

‘O, open the door, some pity to sh… Keen blows the northern wind! The glen is white with the drifted… And the path is hard to find. ’No outlaw seeks your castle gate,

When the heathen trumpet’s clang Round beleaguer’d Chester rang, Veiled nun and friar grey March’d from Bangor’s fair Abbaye… High their holy anthem sounds,

And said I that my limbs were old… And said I that my blood was cold… And that my kindly fire was fled, And my poor wither’d heart was dea… And that I might not sing of love…

Whet the bright steel, Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch, Daughter of Hengist! The steel glimmers not for the car…

“Have, then, thy wish!”—he whistle… And he was answer’d from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath,