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He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the Tillage choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

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!



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?"

"O, 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 would stain the heather.

"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,
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.

"O 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 the stormy land,

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

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore;

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:
One lovely hand was stretch'd for aid,

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;
The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.



Half A League, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns! " he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not though the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
"Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Bode the six hundred. ,

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd;
Then they rode back, but not—
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.


Ye banks and braes1 and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!a
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the longest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

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.

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