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I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary
In a valley, centuries ago
In form and feature, face and limb
In good King Charles's golden days
In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay
In Thee, thou Son of God, in Thee I rest
In their ragged regimentals
I said to sorrow's awful storm
I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden
It is not time that flies
It matters little where I was born
It was the calm and silent night
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile
I wish I were where Helen lies
I would not live alway, I ask not to stay

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Kacelyevo's slope still felt

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Last night among his fellow roughs
Life, I know not what thou art
Like as the damask rose you see
Likeness of heaven, agent of power
Lovely river, lovely river
Love me little, love me long
Love still has something of the sea

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Many a year is in its grave
Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning
Methinks it is good to be here
Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square
Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
My dear and only love, I pray
My life is like the summer rose
My mind to me a kingdom is
My prime of youth is but a frost of care
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew

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Nay, wait me here--I'll not be long
Nearer, my God, to thee
Nigh to a grave that was newly made
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note

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0, a dainty plant is the ivy green
0, blithely shines the bonny sun
Of all the girls that are so smart
Oft has it been my lot to mark
Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man
O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet
O may I join the choir invisible
On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billow
Only a baby small
Only waiting till the shadows
On the coast of Yucatan
O say can you see, by the dawn's early light
0, the charge at Balaklava !
O then tell me, Shawn O'Ferral?
Our camp-fires shone bright on the mountain
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass
Over the river they beckon to me
O, waly, waly up the bank
0, where will be the birds that sing
0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ?

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The bairpies cuddle doon at nicht
The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore

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The breezes went steadily through the tall pines

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The chill November day was done

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The dawn went up the sky

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The despot's heel is thy shore
The dews of summer night did fall

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The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine

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The glories of our birth and state

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The groves of Blarney, they look so charming

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The guests are come, all silent they have waited . 297
The maid, and thereby hangs a tale

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The modest water saw its God, and blushed

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The moon had climbed the highest hill

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The muffled drum's sad roll has beat

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The se, disgusted at an age and clir

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The nautilus and the ammonite

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The night has a thousand eyes

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The Orient day was fresh and fair

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There is a happy land

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There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot 189
There sat an old man on a rock

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The scene was more beautiful far to the eye

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The stream that hurries by your fixed shore

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The tears I shed must ever fall

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The tree of deepest root is found

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The weather leech of the topsail shivers

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The wind blows over the Yukon

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The winds that once the Argo bore

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They leaped in the rocking shallops

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This winter weather, it waxeth cold

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Thou too hast travelled, little fluttering thing

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'T is midnight's holy hour,-and silence now

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To drum-beat and heart-beat

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'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago

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'T was in aven pronounced, and 't was muttered 109
'T was the night before Christmas, when all through. 102
’T was on the night of Michaelmas

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'T was when the wan leaf frae the birk tree wus fa'in' 105

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Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain
Two Yankee wags, one summer day

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Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town
We hail this morn
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter
We parted in silence, we parted by night
What constitutes a state
What dreaming drone was ever blest
When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
When another life is added.
Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill
When shall we three meet again ?
When the humid shadows hover over all the
When the lessons and tasks are all ended
When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye
Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep .
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing
Wild was the night, yet a wilder night
Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair
With deep affection
Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng

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Ye gentlemen of England
“You bave heard,” said a youth to his sweetheart,
You knew-who knew not Astrophel ?
You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier
You may sing of the Blue and the Gray

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THE END

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