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In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers, With harps and lays; Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, —Ay! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise!

Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping, Rests in its cave! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming, On the dark wave!