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So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

'Mong bride'smen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"

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I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

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 whispered, ""Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young
Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near,

So light to the croupe 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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But the grave-yard lies between them, Mary,
And my step might break your rest—
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride :

There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arms' young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' then,
And you hid it for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darlin'!
In the land I'm goin' to;

There was mounting 'mong Grames of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, 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 ?

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.— Mrs. Blackwood.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago
When first you were my bride :

The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between them, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-

For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,

The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride :

There's nothin' left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arms' young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' then,
And you hid it for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore―
Oh! I am thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true !

But I'll not forget you, darlin'!
In the land I'm goin' to;

LONDON:

LONGMAN & CO., and by order of all

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