Page:National Lyrics.pdf/46

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"By the house e'en here o'erthrown,   On my brethren's native spot; Hence! with his dark renown,    Cumber our birth-place not!

"Will my sire's unransomed field,   O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield    Soft slumbers in the grave?

"The tree before him fell,   Which we cherished many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell,    And heave against his bier.

"The land that I have tilled   Hath yet its brooding breast With my home's white ashes filled,    And it shall not give him rest!