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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there!

COLLINS. [Written in the year 1746.]

De Mariners of England.

E mariners of England,

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

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Robin Hood.

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O! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and grey,

And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen north, and chilling east,
Sounded tempests to the feast

Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more,
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time in June
You may go with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But
you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;

ROBIN HOOD.

For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone the merry morris din ;
Gone the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "greenè shawe;
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his tufted grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest-days,
She would

weep

and he would craze,

He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes,

Have rotted on the briny seas:
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!

Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln-green!

Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!

Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.

KEATS.

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