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 146 ELLIOTT

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore !

Campbell.

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BATTLE SONG

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;

What then? 'Tisday! We sleep no more; the cock crows hark!

To arms ! away ! They come ! they come ! the knell is rung

Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung

Of gold and gem. What collared hound of lav/less sway,

To famine dear, What pensioned slave of Attila,

Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar

Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar?

They do his will. Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette,

Nor plume, nor torse No splendour gilds, all sternly met,

Our foot and horse.

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