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 Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, The hunter is winding blythe sounds on his horn, The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, 'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit; For what are the joys that in waking we prove, Compared with these visions, O Tybalt, my love? Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill, Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill, Softer sounds, softer pleasures in slumber I prove,— But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love.

"A dainty song," said Wamba, when they had finished their carol; "and I swear by my bauble, a pretty moral—I used to sing it with Gurth, once my play-fellow, and now, by the grace of God and his master, no less than a free man; and we once came by the cudgel for being so entranced by the melody, that we lay in bed two hours after sun-rise, singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking—my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since. Nevertheless,