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10 I leave the mad squirrel to clamber and climb, ’Mid brushwood, and brambles, and branches sublime: The squirrel may scramble so high up the tree That he cannot come down—but no climbing for me! I leave the rash sailor the ocean to sweep, With a puny inch plank between him and the deep: Let him rove till he tires o’er his perilous track, A proverb of luck if he ever comes back. The archer who aims at the target his blow, Flings the dust from his arrow, the dust from his bow; And rarely he poises his arrow in vain, If he aim but aright—if he shoot but with pain. But, poor bard! if one maiden but fall to his lot In a thousand—alas, ’tis a mere random shot! Thou girl with the eye-brow so auburn and thin, Thrice happy the man who thy beauty shall win; Thou wilt not be mine for abundance of song— I know that thou wilt not, while thou art yet young; But still I despair not, enchantress divine! When nobody’ll have thee, thou then shalt be mine!

No hand shall flay thee; thou shalt live in health and joy; Thy skin shall not be possessed by an old Saxon;