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Rh And in the winter, when the fire bums dim, And garrulous guests have lost their wonted glee, And the long night, far sloping to its rim, Grows lone and awesome, mixing melancholy With every breath, the peasant old and grey, His heart fear palsied as his palsied limb, Will tell, with the due meed of gaunt and grim That makes a tale a tale–the flickering ray And the weird silence all assisting him– Such ghastly tragedies, that even fear Itself exceeding, will itself o’erbrim, Easing itself with the unbidden tear, That at such times in listeners’ eyes will swim. But there are others of a softer frame, Which deep in Cumbria’s heart lie fast and sweet– Tales of true love and trust and woman’s name, Which told, make winter hours as summer’s fleet. These are for female hearts and female tongues, For household gatherings where the gentle meet– Sweet ditties sweetly sung in Cumbria’s songs, With simple truth and trust and love replete; Tales unto which the virtue still belongs To make the heart with genuine pleasure beat.
 * So art thou girt about, strong on each hand

In Border lore and Border bravery; Thy sons, as any in this Border land. Valiant and hopeful, resolute and free. And in the coming time, the time of peace– The time hope paints, which yet in truth shall be– Their virtues firm, their scorn of fireside ease, Their swift decision, and their energy Shall be thy strength again, and thy old might