Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/60

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Where the deer o'er the hills bound, as fleet and as free As the shaft from the bow, as the wave of the sea; Where the heather is sweet as the sleep that is found By the hunter who makes it his bed on the ground; Where the might of the chieftain goes down to his son, In numbers as wild as the deeds that are done; Where the harp has notes caught from the storm and the flood, When foemen are gathering together in blood; Yet has others that whisper the maiden, of love, In tones that re-echo the linnet and dove; Where the mountain ash guards us from elfin and fay; Where the broom, spendthrift-like, flings its gold wreath away; And the harebell shines blue in the depth of the vale. Oh! dear country of mine, of thee be my tale.