Page:National Lyrics.pdf/193

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How should'st thou battle With storm and with spray? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!

Or art thou seeking Some brighter land, Where by the south-wind Vine leaves are fanned? Midst the wild billows Why then delay? Bird of the greenwood! Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering    Where storms are dark; A hand that hath nursed me    Is in the bark;