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So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and

plume; And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “'Twere better by

far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochin

var.

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger

stood near: So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

Lochinvar.

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There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby

clan;

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Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and

they ran : There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY

AMERICA, 1780–1843

The Star-Spangled Banner

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last

gleaming Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the

clouds of the fight O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly

streaming ! 5 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still

there. O! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ?

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On that shore dimly see through the mists of the deep Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence

reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

The song is taken as it appears in Stedman and Hutchinson's Library of American Literature, vol. iv. p. 419. The text, slightly different from the common one, corresponds to the facsimile of a copy made by Mr. Key in 1840.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

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In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps'

pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 10 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and war's desolation ! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued

land Praise the power that hath made and preserved us

a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto In God is our trust :' And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

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THOMAS CAMPBELL

SCOTLAND, 1777–1844

Hohenlinden

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

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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

The darkness of her scenery.

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By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery.

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But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainéd snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

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THE HARP THAT ONCE

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'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.

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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!

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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.

THOMAS MOORE

IRELAND, 1779–1852

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls

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The harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

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