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The sails were fill’d, and fair the light winds blew,
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
But when the sun was sinking in the sea
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
1. “ADIEU, adieu!
And shrieks the wild seamew.
My native Land-Good Night!
“A few short hours and He will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
But not my mother Earth.
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows rage,
Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fiy
More merrily along.”
4. Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee-and one above.
5. “My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.'“Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.
6. « Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or shiver at the gale?”
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
7. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make? -
Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.
8. « For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
We late saw streaming o'er.
Nor perils gathering near;
No thing that claims a tear.
“And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
When none will sigh for me?
Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again,
He'd tear me where he stands.
Athwart the foaming brine;
So not again to mine.
my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!
My native Land-Good Night!"
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.