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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.
Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done,
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!
7.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, "This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
"And fast before her father's men
"For should he find us in the glen,
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
"Should they our steps discover, "Then who will cheer my bonny bride
"When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy 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 loud apace,
And in the scowl of Heaven each face
But still as wilder blew the wind,
Adown the glen rode armed men
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"I'll meet the raging of the skies, "But not an angry father."
The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd, 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: "And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
"My daughter! oh, my daughter!"
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
And he was left lamenting.
-THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT
Half A League, half a league,
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Cannon to right of them,
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Cannon to right of them,
Volley'd and thunder'd;
When can their glory fade?
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,3
How rich the hawthorn's blossom
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
i slopes. 2 muddy. 8 birch-tree.