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His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear the bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys ;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in paradise ;
How in the grave she lies ;
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes ;
Each evening sees it close :
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
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'm the 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 will 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 spake the highland 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 armed men,
Their trampling 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,
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover,
And one was round her lover.
“Come back ! come back !” he cried in grief,
Across this stormy water ;
“My daughter, oh! my daughter !"
'Twas vain! the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing
CEUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS
TORCHES were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevraud.